Can I be honest? Can this be like a 4th grade sleepover? You know, where we discuss for an hour whether it's "safe" or not to play Truth or Dare, (oh, you don't even know the dangers that come with playing Truth or Dare) and then once the "black sheep" of the ten-year-olds finally bullies the other lambchops into playing (I was always that bad ass. Yes, I'm bragging. 2000 was a good year for me.), then no one chooses Dare. (except me, of course, the rebel of the tattoo-choker fashionistas). I mean, no one. And they always pretend they're actually contemplating choosing Dare, sitting there for ten minutes,
"Should I choose Dare?"
"YES!"
"Well, what are you going to Dare me?"
"You can't know! That's the point of Dare, STUPID."
"Don't call me Stupid!"
"If you choose Dare then I won't call you Stupid."
"Well I wassssss gonna choose Dare, but now that you called me Stupid I'm not going to. I choose TRUTH."
"Stupid."
So that's what this is going to be like. It's going to be Truth, where, if you haven't figured it out already, means I will be telling the Truth, since this is the game of Truth. Here, you ask me:
"Are you excited about college?"
And here's my answer:
"No."
There. That's it. That's the truth. Now, we'll play the game of Blab, where I will now blab on and on about why I'm a little pussy.
It's been too built up! I mean, for crying out loud how many MORE times can I be told that college is the best, most amazing, most kick-ass years of my LIFE? Is that even what I want? HELL NO! I can't have half of the 4 years that will be the best years of my life to occur before I even turn 21! I mean good god! I'll have 70 more years to live after that! That's 70 years of never living up to those 4 years I got wasted and hit on by beer-bellied gonads every night? Living up to those 4 years I washed my own clothes and cleaned my own dishes? Living up to those 4 years I wasn't allowed to sleep in the nude because there was a girl I barely knew sleeping beside me? WHAT THE HELL, MAN. If those 4 years are the best of my life then what the hell will the years be like after that? My expectations have been set way too high way too early, and now I'm just way too nervous.
I'm looking forward to it a lot. Like flashing frat boys my middle finger and my middle finger only. Convincing all of my roommates that I'm mentally ill so they all move out. Stealing their drinks from the fridge then accusing them of stealing mine. Consuming deadly amounts of caffeine without being told I'm consuming deadly amounts of caffeine. (Death By Red Bull? I plan to test it.) Parties. Professors. (Professors at parties? Hmmm...)
Look, believe me, I'm stoked. Don't mistake me for, I don't know, some kind of antisocial freakazoid. But who the hell is going to introduce themselves to a girl who uses the word "freakazoid" in the first place? The only reason I got the heebie jeebies in the first place is because of Orientation. Yeah, I went, and yeah, what kind of expectations did I have? HIGH ONES, THAT'S WHAT KIND. And then what happens?
"Hey! I'm Natasha!"
"Hey. I'm bi. Don't worry though, I won't hit on you."
Am I supposed to feel relieved or offended here?
"Hey! I'm Natasha!"
"Oh, no need to introduce yourself. I'm just going here until my boyfriend moves to LA and pays for my plane ticket to get me out of this fuckhole."
Fuckhole. New word...
"Hey! I'm Natasha!"
"I'm Betsy."
"Betsy! Cool! You know, you're the first person who's told me their---"
"My friend's waiting for me. Bye."
What a fuckhole.
These people are RUDE. And AWKWARD. And STUPID. And why the hell won't they be my friend? I'm cool! I'm hip! I sound like a mother with a teenage daughter! Shit. I'm really not even worried, actually. I just know I'm too cool for anyone on this planet and therefore will have to settle for those who wish they were me. Yeah. That's it. Just toooooo cooool for schoooool...and for friendsssss...and for any type of social interactionnnnn...I suck at this Truth stuff anyway. Game over.
"Natasha Ferrier is absolutely HILARIOUS." - Natasha Ferrier, self-quoter
Wednesday, August 5, 2009
Tuesday, August 4, 2009
Breaking Up Is Hard To Do?
A million people said it. A million people sang it. Breaking up is what? Hard to do.
Bull. SHIT!
Little Eva obviously had never had a boyfriend. At least not one in high school. Here's how the typical break-up goes for the teenage female and teenage male:
"Fuck you."
"NO, FUCK YOU!"
Ahem. Does that seem hard, Carpenters? Maybe it's just me, but I found that to appear incredibly easy. I've been putting someone's needs before my own while also soothing the rug burns on my knees for the past 2 years, and all I had to do this entire time to bring it to a halt was to say two words? Fuck? You? That's it? If only I had known that from the beginning!
Instead of the:
"I'm sorry, I just don't want a boyfriend anymore. It's been a really long time since I've been single and I just want to feel what it's like again; I can't deal with commitment. I don't know how; I'm just not ready for it yet."
A.K.A. "I'm a big slut and one penis just doesn't satisfy me. I need them all!"
Easy Way Out: "Fuck you!"
Instead of the:
"I've met someone else. I'm sorry. I do love you, and I've always loved you, but with this other person...it's more than love, it's fate. It's a connection me and you will never have. We'll be happy together, but something will always be missing. I'm sorry, you will find your soul mate one day, too."
A.K.A. "I'm not only a dick for breaking up with you and being honest about it, I'm also a dick for going on and on and on about some other chick who I'll have in the sack by tomorrow."
Easy Way Out: "Fuck you!"
The best part about the "fuck you" approach is that you can always add some personal flair to it to make it you own.
Examples:
1. Fuck you fucker.
2. Fuck you wait I won't be doing that anymore.
3. Fuck you one last time? Please?
4. Fuck you and your dad! Wait...that came out wrong...I'm just really angry right now...fuck.
5. Fuck who? YOU.
And, from my own personal experience,
"Fuck you and your movies."
Ahhh. Classic. For any of you wondering, no, I did not fuck my movies. I watched my movies. They were wonderful. And, thanks to me, still virgins.
Breaking up really isn't that hard to do. It's us teenagers, man. We didn't learn how to call it quits in Anatomy class, all we learned to do was check our breasts for giant lumps. To us, all it takes is an exclamation of profanity, or you could just stop answering the bitch's phone calls, or name your balls Louis and Clark and go explore a jungle or two. Everyone's break-up stories seem to be exactly the same. And the ones who have been together forever are always asked the same things.
"How long have you been together?"
A.K.A. Have you done it yet?
"Wow, you're been together a long time!"
A.K.A. Which only means they're gonna break up sooner!
"Oh, you wanna marry each other?"
"FUCK YOU."
"Oh, I'm not invited to the wedding?"
"FUCK YOU."
"Oh, you want me to leave?"
"YEAH WELL FUCK YOU."
The "F-you" approach doesn't work in all situations kiddoes, so don't try this at home. Only try it if you've been stuck with the same dude/chick for the past few months/years and you don't know how the hell to end it. You're happy, but you could be happier. You're IN love, but you don't LOVE them. Shit, or is it the other way around? I just want to know when exactly we all start maturing. I mean at what age will, "It's not you, it's me" be unacceptable? Or is that still being used? Is there some 57-year-old knitting in a corn field as her husband plows shit or whatever it is old people are doin' these days, and she's turning to him and saying, "FUCK YOU!" and then walking out on him? Poor man. Poor woman. Who wants to knit in this heat? I don't think that's how break-up's should be when we're older. We want the truth. We want the clean mouths. We want the word "fuck" to be associated with the beginning of a relationship, not the end. I JUST NEED ANSWERS, PEOPLE. I need to know if break-up's stay the same. And if that's what the song means, "breaking up is hard to do," then how much harder do they get? Sure, they're easy now, but they're also annoying as hell and don't really resolve anything except letting you know all those things you doubted doing in the first place should have never been done. Little fuckhead. In my opinion, it doesn't matter how you go about doing it. It's about the big picture, the end. You want the end and as long as you reach it who the hell cares what train you took to get to it. As long as you get your movies back.
Bull. SHIT!
Little Eva obviously had never had a boyfriend. At least not one in high school. Here's how the typical break-up goes for the teenage female and teenage male:
"Fuck you."
"NO, FUCK YOU!"
Ahem. Does that seem hard, Carpenters? Maybe it's just me, but I found that to appear incredibly easy. I've been putting someone's needs before my own while also soothing the rug burns on my knees for the past 2 years, and all I had to do this entire time to bring it to a halt was to say two words? Fuck? You? That's it? If only I had known that from the beginning!
Instead of the:
"I'm sorry, I just don't want a boyfriend anymore. It's been a really long time since I've been single and I just want to feel what it's like again; I can't deal with commitment. I don't know how; I'm just not ready for it yet."
A.K.A. "I'm a big slut and one penis just doesn't satisfy me. I need them all!"
Easy Way Out: "Fuck you!"
Instead of the:
"I've met someone else. I'm sorry. I do love you, and I've always loved you, but with this other person...it's more than love, it's fate. It's a connection me and you will never have. We'll be happy together, but something will always be missing. I'm sorry, you will find your soul mate one day, too."
A.K.A. "I'm not only a dick for breaking up with you and being honest about it, I'm also a dick for going on and on and on about some other chick who I'll have in the sack by tomorrow."
Easy Way Out: "Fuck you!"
The best part about the "fuck you" approach is that you can always add some personal flair to it to make it you own.
Examples:
1. Fuck you fucker.
2. Fuck you wait I won't be doing that anymore.
3. Fuck you one last time? Please?
4. Fuck you and your dad! Wait...that came out wrong...I'm just really angry right now...fuck.
5. Fuck who? YOU.
And, from my own personal experience,
"Fuck you and your movies."
Ahhh. Classic. For any of you wondering, no, I did not fuck my movies. I watched my movies. They were wonderful. And, thanks to me, still virgins.
Breaking up really isn't that hard to do. It's us teenagers, man. We didn't learn how to call it quits in Anatomy class, all we learned to do was check our breasts for giant lumps. To us, all it takes is an exclamation of profanity, or you could just stop answering the bitch's phone calls, or name your balls Louis and Clark and go explore a jungle or two. Everyone's break-up stories seem to be exactly the same. And the ones who have been together forever are always asked the same things.
"How long have you been together?"
A.K.A. Have you done it yet?
"Wow, you're been together a long time!"
A.K.A. Which only means they're gonna break up sooner!
"Oh, you wanna marry each other?"
"FUCK YOU."
"Oh, I'm not invited to the wedding?"
"FUCK YOU."
"Oh, you want me to leave?"
"YEAH WELL FUCK YOU."
The "F-you" approach doesn't work in all situations kiddoes, so don't try this at home. Only try it if you've been stuck with the same dude/chick for the past few months/years and you don't know how the hell to end it. You're happy, but you could be happier. You're IN love, but you don't LOVE them. Shit, or is it the other way around? I just want to know when exactly we all start maturing. I mean at what age will, "It's not you, it's me" be unacceptable? Or is that still being used? Is there some 57-year-old knitting in a corn field as her husband plows shit or whatever it is old people are doin' these days, and she's turning to him and saying, "FUCK YOU!" and then walking out on him? Poor man. Poor woman. Who wants to knit in this heat? I don't think that's how break-up's should be when we're older. We want the truth. We want the clean mouths. We want the word "fuck" to be associated with the beginning of a relationship, not the end. I JUST NEED ANSWERS, PEOPLE. I need to know if break-up's stay the same. And if that's what the song means, "breaking up is hard to do," then how much harder do they get? Sure, they're easy now, but they're also annoying as hell and don't really resolve anything except letting you know all those things you doubted doing in the first place should have never been done. Little fuckhead. In my opinion, it doesn't matter how you go about doing it. It's about the big picture, the end. You want the end and as long as you reach it who the hell cares what train you took to get to it. As long as you get your movies back.
FanDON'Tgo
I don't understand the traditional "first dates." Not only do I not understand them, I think they are stupid. Not only do I think they are stupid, but I plan to never take part in them unless I want my future relationship with said person to be doomed for life. For instance, if I met a guy who I didn't particularly like, and he asked me out on a date, and I couldn't say no because another guy I particularly did like was standing two feet away and therefore could hear me and Lame-O's conversation, I would have to say yes, but after saying yes, I would say something like, "How about bowling?"
Bowling
So you've both decided to go bowling. Bowling is fun, right? You toss a ball into some pins while at the same time giving your date a good look at your ass. Seems too good to be true. OH, BUT WAIT! Have you forgotten why people go on dates? To get to know each other, that's why. To scope someone out to see if you like them enough to ask them out again. So what happens after you bowl? You walk back, and as you're sitting down, what does your date do? HE gets up to bowl. And he does. And then after he bowls, what do you do? YOU get up to bowl, while he's what? WHILE HE'S TAKING A SEAT. And once you've taken another turn, does he stay seated? Oh no. There he goes again, getting up to bowl. And this happens how many times? TEN! Ten out of how many? TEN! And what if you play two games? THAT'S TWENTY TIMES! Twenty times of up/down, up/down, hey/bye, strike?/yep!, how/are/you?/good!. I mean, seriously? I haven't even mentioned the awkwardness of you going up to bowl and bowling straight into the gutter. The gutter part isn't awkward; it happens to the best of us, but after that? After you deemed that ball one of the gutter? You have to turn around, make some kind of "oh well" gesture to your date, or laugh at yourself when really you want to cry, or pretend it never happened and walk back, but then you have 20-something feet to walk back! You just made an ass of yourself and then not only do you have to immediately face your date, you have to walk...and walk...and walk...and walk back towards him. Do you make eye contact the whole time you're walking back? Do you make it once then look down? Do you look him in the eye then pretend like you saw something really interesting to the left, then when he turns to look at what you're looking at, you run to your seat to end the torture faster? Or do you do something sexual, like stare him in the eye and lick your lips so he forgets all about the gutter ball? Then maybe he'll forget about bowling entirely and you can get the hell outta there. I DON'T KNOW! I DON'T KNOW WHAT YOU'RE SUPPOSED TO DO IN THAT SITUATION! THAT'S WHY I'M TELLING YOU: BOWLING IS A BAD, BAD, BAD FIRST DATE.
The Movies
Ahhh, yet another outing that somehow made it to be prime first date rib and I don't know how the hell it did. The movies. I won't even mention the fact that movies cost more than if I had bought the date to go to the movies with. Shit, I did just mention it, didn't I? Well, might as well mention it again! MOVIES ARE EXPENSIVE AS FUCK WE NEED TO ORGANIZE A SIT-IN AND DO IT PRONTO FUCK THE CINEMA AND ITS KERNEL-COVERED FLOORS. So you pay for a movie, you walk in, and he asks you if you want popcorn. And you think, "Oh, how nice, he's willing to pay for my popcorn." NO, BITCH, NOT NICE. The only reason he's offering is because he wants popcorn, which you realize once you decline and he still gets in the popcorn line, which, in the first date world, is more commonly known as the Don't You Dare Expect Me To Kiss You When This Night Is Over When You Have A Large Bag of Buttery Kernels All In Between Your Teeth Ew Ew Ew line. So you walk into the movie, it's dark, it's dank, this place is actually a good first date location if your date is hard on the eyes, but I'm not taking the uglies into consideration at this moment. You sit down, and you think of something witty. Something hilarious, something catchy and clever, something that will make your date realize you're the only girl for him. You're the one. It's fate. It's destiny. It's the moment to make him fall head over heels in love with you. You turn to him,
"Hey, haha, have you ever thought---"
"Look, the previews are starting!"
You slink back into your seat. That mother fucker loves previews. Why didn't you take that into consideration BEFORE you thought of the seal-dealer? But wait, you recognize the actor in the preview! You used to love him as a kid! You turn to your date,
"Hey, that's James What's-His-Name! I used to---"
"Wait, hold on, I really want to see this movie!"
He leans into the screen. Then some hot-lookin-babe in a bikini comes on and he's forgotten all about you. And there you are, self-conscious, insecure, and regretting that you didn't make the sucker buy you some damn popcorn. Is your date the kind who talks during the whole movie or only does if you do, or does he not talk and despises when anyone mutters a single word, or does he want to talk but will only do so once you start talking and you're waiting to talk until he talks and so now the fuck what? You're fucked, that's what. And as soon as the thought of "I'm fucked" punches you in the face, the movie starts, and what do you and your date do for the next 2 hours? You sit. In silence. Staring. Going to the Movies can be summarized into the 4 S's. SIT. SILENT. STARE. SUCK. Well guess what, date number one? I hated the curtain you were hidden behind in the first place, and now you haven't spoken to me the past hour and a half that I've been talking to myself, and you see these past events as stepping stones to you giving me the twizzlers you should've bought me in the first place all over my neck? NO, WARREN BEATTY WANNABE! Are you going to urinate in the theatre or is your zipper starring in the next Hitchcock film? NO, ROB LOWE STALKER! Are we searching for props that could have made it into the movie? NO, SO STOP GRABBING MINE YOU HUGH JACKMAN JACK-OFFER! There are many dark places that don't require physical deeds to be done, such as: my grandma's closet, the doghouse in my backyard, and behind those bushes over there. NO. NO. NO. If that's what you wanted right from the get-go, you shouldn't of bought popcorn, you should've bought a date. Yes, I do realize that I mention prostitutes quite often in my writing. It's not that I'm obsessed; they're just so damn convenient. Once you leave the movie, all you talk about is THE movie. As if two hours about one movie wasn't enough, now I'm gonna let that same movie take up another 2 hours of my mortal life and then days from now continue to do so whenever someone brings up the film. Has it ever hit you why it's called a CIN-E-MA? CIN, as in sin? As in Enid Strict would be all up in that bizz-nazz whether she thought it was special or not. As in GOING TO THE MOVIES ON A FIRST DATE IS HELL.
Coffee
Cliche, I know. But what many people don't know is how this question should be asked.
"Wanna grab a cup of joe?"
DECLINE. What decade was it cool in to say a man's name instead of "coffee?" None. No decade. Meaning it was never cool. Meaning either this guy is so insecure he tries to hold on to the last of the trends that just never quite made it, or hes cocky enough to try to start his own retarded trends and his guinea pigs in this experiment are potential-dates. Stay away from the Average-Joe.
"Hey I was thinkin' me and you could sit down, grab some coffee, talk for a bit, catch up, you tell me about yourself, I'll tell you about myself, but mostly just enjoy some espresso."
DECLINE. If using the term "espresso" didn't immediately channel your inner gaydar, you need to avoid men who talk too much. I mean, that's what? 33 words? All to ask you to get coffee with him? Imagine how much he's gonna talk once you actually obtain the coffee! And you KNOW a guy like this is gonna be a foamster. "Extra foam, please." God, that's embarrassing. Tell him to write you his autobiography and bring it on the date. That'll save some time. Or you could just spill your coffee all over it, piss him off, then he'll leave, and if he doesn't, you can still leave because you''ll then spill his coffee all over the white blouse you purposefully wore on this date in hopes of a clumsy waiter, until you decided to take matters into your own hands.
"Hey, movies suck. So does bowling. Wanna just, like, go get some coffee?"
WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN ALL MY LIFE.
Then you can talk, and laugh, and get free refills, then get all hyper and see if he still likes you when you're fucked up on Java, which he will, because he's more fucked up on Java then you are and he's still goin' at it, and pretty soon the two of you will be goin' at it together because this brown-bean-bloke is the one and you know it.
But come on. As if that'll ever happen. Chances are you'll go get the coffee with the man who makes you laugh and then it turns out you make him laugh more than he makes you laugh and you're the funny one in this situation and you didn't want to be the funny one you wanted HIM to be the funny one and now you're screwed and your coffee burnt your tongue and THIS, my friends, is why I don't go on dates.
Bowling
So you've both decided to go bowling. Bowling is fun, right? You toss a ball into some pins while at the same time giving your date a good look at your ass. Seems too good to be true. OH, BUT WAIT! Have you forgotten why people go on dates? To get to know each other, that's why. To scope someone out to see if you like them enough to ask them out again. So what happens after you bowl? You walk back, and as you're sitting down, what does your date do? HE gets up to bowl. And he does. And then after he bowls, what do you do? YOU get up to bowl, while he's what? WHILE HE'S TAKING A SEAT. And once you've taken another turn, does he stay seated? Oh no. There he goes again, getting up to bowl. And this happens how many times? TEN! Ten out of how many? TEN! And what if you play two games? THAT'S TWENTY TIMES! Twenty times of up/down, up/down, hey/bye, strike?/yep!, how/are/you?/good!. I mean, seriously? I haven't even mentioned the awkwardness of you going up to bowl and bowling straight into the gutter. The gutter part isn't awkward; it happens to the best of us, but after that? After you deemed that ball one of the gutter? You have to turn around, make some kind of "oh well" gesture to your date, or laugh at yourself when really you want to cry, or pretend it never happened and walk back, but then you have 20-something feet to walk back! You just made an ass of yourself and then not only do you have to immediately face your date, you have to walk...and walk...and walk...and walk back towards him. Do you make eye contact the whole time you're walking back? Do you make it once then look down? Do you look him in the eye then pretend like you saw something really interesting to the left, then when he turns to look at what you're looking at, you run to your seat to end the torture faster? Or do you do something sexual, like stare him in the eye and lick your lips so he forgets all about the gutter ball? Then maybe he'll forget about bowling entirely and you can get the hell outta there. I DON'T KNOW! I DON'T KNOW WHAT YOU'RE SUPPOSED TO DO IN THAT SITUATION! THAT'S WHY I'M TELLING YOU: BOWLING IS A BAD, BAD, BAD FIRST DATE.
The Movies
Ahhh, yet another outing that somehow made it to be prime first date rib and I don't know how the hell it did. The movies. I won't even mention the fact that movies cost more than if I had bought the date to go to the movies with. Shit, I did just mention it, didn't I? Well, might as well mention it again! MOVIES ARE EXPENSIVE AS FUCK WE NEED TO ORGANIZE A SIT-IN AND DO IT PRONTO FUCK THE CINEMA AND ITS KERNEL-COVERED FLOORS. So you pay for a movie, you walk in, and he asks you if you want popcorn. And you think, "Oh, how nice, he's willing to pay for my popcorn." NO, BITCH, NOT NICE. The only reason he's offering is because he wants popcorn, which you realize once you decline and he still gets in the popcorn line, which, in the first date world, is more commonly known as the Don't You Dare Expect Me To Kiss You When This Night Is Over When You Have A Large Bag of Buttery Kernels All In Between Your Teeth Ew Ew Ew line. So you walk into the movie, it's dark, it's dank, this place is actually a good first date location if your date is hard on the eyes, but I'm not taking the uglies into consideration at this moment. You sit down, and you think of something witty. Something hilarious, something catchy and clever, something that will make your date realize you're the only girl for him. You're the one. It's fate. It's destiny. It's the moment to make him fall head over heels in love with you. You turn to him,
"Hey, haha, have you ever thought---"
"Look, the previews are starting!"
You slink back into your seat. That mother fucker loves previews. Why didn't you take that into consideration BEFORE you thought of the seal-dealer? But wait, you recognize the actor in the preview! You used to love him as a kid! You turn to your date,
"Hey, that's James What's-His-Name! I used to---"
"Wait, hold on, I really want to see this movie!"
He leans into the screen. Then some hot-lookin-babe in a bikini comes on and he's forgotten all about you. And there you are, self-conscious, insecure, and regretting that you didn't make the sucker buy you some damn popcorn. Is your date the kind who talks during the whole movie or only does if you do, or does he not talk and despises when anyone mutters a single word, or does he want to talk but will only do so once you start talking and you're waiting to talk until he talks and so now the fuck what? You're fucked, that's what. And as soon as the thought of "I'm fucked" punches you in the face, the movie starts, and what do you and your date do for the next 2 hours? You sit. In silence. Staring. Going to the Movies can be summarized into the 4 S's. SIT. SILENT. STARE. SUCK. Well guess what, date number one? I hated the curtain you were hidden behind in the first place, and now you haven't spoken to me the past hour and a half that I've been talking to myself, and you see these past events as stepping stones to you giving me the twizzlers you should've bought me in the first place all over my neck? NO, WARREN BEATTY WANNABE! Are you going to urinate in the theatre or is your zipper starring in the next Hitchcock film? NO, ROB LOWE STALKER! Are we searching for props that could have made it into the movie? NO, SO STOP GRABBING MINE YOU HUGH JACKMAN JACK-OFFER! There are many dark places that don't require physical deeds to be done, such as: my grandma's closet, the doghouse in my backyard, and behind those bushes over there. NO. NO. NO. If that's what you wanted right from the get-go, you shouldn't of bought popcorn, you should've bought a date. Yes, I do realize that I mention prostitutes quite often in my writing. It's not that I'm obsessed; they're just so damn convenient. Once you leave the movie, all you talk about is THE movie. As if two hours about one movie wasn't enough, now I'm gonna let that same movie take up another 2 hours of my mortal life and then days from now continue to do so whenever someone brings up the film. Has it ever hit you why it's called a CIN-E-MA? CIN, as in sin? As in Enid Strict would be all up in that bizz-nazz whether she thought it was special or not. As in GOING TO THE MOVIES ON A FIRST DATE IS HELL.
Coffee
Cliche, I know. But what many people don't know is how this question should be asked.
"Wanna grab a cup of joe?"
DECLINE. What decade was it cool in to say a man's name instead of "coffee?" None. No decade. Meaning it was never cool. Meaning either this guy is so insecure he tries to hold on to the last of the trends that just never quite made it, or hes cocky enough to try to start his own retarded trends and his guinea pigs in this experiment are potential-dates. Stay away from the Average-Joe.
"Hey I was thinkin' me and you could sit down, grab some coffee, talk for a bit, catch up, you tell me about yourself, I'll tell you about myself, but mostly just enjoy some espresso."
DECLINE. If using the term "espresso" didn't immediately channel your inner gaydar, you need to avoid men who talk too much. I mean, that's what? 33 words? All to ask you to get coffee with him? Imagine how much he's gonna talk once you actually obtain the coffee! And you KNOW a guy like this is gonna be a foamster. "Extra foam, please." God, that's embarrassing. Tell him to write you his autobiography and bring it on the date. That'll save some time. Or you could just spill your coffee all over it, piss him off, then he'll leave, and if he doesn't, you can still leave because you''ll then spill his coffee all over the white blouse you purposefully wore on this date in hopes of a clumsy waiter, until you decided to take matters into your own hands.
"Hey, movies suck. So does bowling. Wanna just, like, go get some coffee?"
WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN ALL MY LIFE.
Then you can talk, and laugh, and get free refills, then get all hyper and see if he still likes you when you're fucked up on Java, which he will, because he's more fucked up on Java then you are and he's still goin' at it, and pretty soon the two of you will be goin' at it together because this brown-bean-bloke is the one and you know it.
But come on. As if that'll ever happen. Chances are you'll go get the coffee with the man who makes you laugh and then it turns out you make him laugh more than he makes you laugh and you're the funny one in this situation and you didn't want to be the funny one you wanted HIM to be the funny one and now you're screwed and your coffee burnt your tongue and THIS, my friends, is why I don't go on dates.
Tuesday, July 7, 2009
Unconditional Love In A Diaper
I am sorry to say that I do not possess the common "obsession" with the round balls of blubber you most often find disguised behind a pair of overalls. I'm talkin' babies here, people. Babies. Now, most girls my age tend to talk about these little morsels of lard not only every minute, but also as if they are the solution to happiness. Are you depressed? HAVE A BABY! Are you a closet homosexual? HAVE A BABY! Are you shooting up Monday through Sunday? HAVE A BABY!
"Oh, I can't wait till I have a baby!"
14-year-old Samantha
"Oh, I wish I could have a baby right now!"
15-year-old Kelly
"I do have a baby!"
16-year-old Penelope
"Well I have TWO babies so suck it!"
17-year-old Bonnie
"Your BABY will suck it!"
Penelope
"That's BABIES you bitch!"
Bonnie, again
"Well your son's a BASTARD!"
Penelope, makin it personal
"Fuck you, scabby nips!"
Bonnie, being a hypocrite
The whole baby-infatuation baffles me. I get women who grow up, get married, and want to have a baby. I mean what the hell else is there to do? A baby isn't like a pet, man. I mean yeah, it drools and shits and you punish it by securing it to one single location in the entire house, such as a corner, (in my household we call it "the naughty corner") (it's not for me) (I've never been to "the naughty corner") (or any corner for that matter), but a baby is for LIFE. There's no redo's with a baby. No returns, either. You also can't trade your baby with other mom's babies in the hospital, though I think that would solve many problems.
"Look, honey, she has my mother's eyes."
"Ha...you mean MY mother's eyes."
"No, your mother is an evil, conniving bitch and my baby is none of those things."
"Let's not argue over who's mother is a bigger bitch; this is about our new daughter."
"Oh, so you think my mother's a bitch, do you?"
"That's it, NURSE!"
"Yes?"
"We're arguing a lot over our baby's features."
"Oh, well let me take care of that."
DING DING DING!
"TRADE-OFF!"
"Now just give me that one and I'll give you this one."
"Oh, look, honey! See that man over there in the waiting room? Our new daughter has his same uni brow!"
"Oh, honey, you're exactly right!"
I think the reason the whole "babies are god, god is babies" or however you wanna phrase that, ordeal bothers me so much is because I know I would be a terrible mother. But I wouldn't think that. I would do things thinking I was doing what a mother should do when really every other mother on the planet and Planet X (whatever happened to that?) would look down on me for doing. Because just like every baby looks like a old man's wrinkly ass, every mother has to raise her child in the same way. That's why there are BOOKS on "raising you kid," you know, since it shouldn't come naturally or anything, since it's not nature taking its course, since some old broad sat down and decided that not one other woman knows that it's good to communicate with your adolescent, since a mother's instinct is really just to ignore the thing and leave it in the kitchen somewhere. Since, as a mother, I have not already assumed that I "shouldn't feed young children tiny plastic toys" because it never occurred to me that "babies can choke on tiny plastic toys" since, as a new mother, I have filled my house with "tiny plastic toys" just so I can prove how good of a mother I am by putting these "tiny plastic toys" away and doing so when other people can see me doing so. I hope you're following. I just know I would be the weirdo mother who lets her kids watch R-rated movies and thinks a "balanced meal" is food on a scale, and then neighbors would think I'm a drug dealer because my kids eat french fries on a scale and they'd think I was hiding druggies in their huggies or some weird shit cause neighbors are just stalkers with a shorter distance to stalk and so then they'd call the cops and the cops would walk in and we'd all be naked because I think it's incredibly unnecessary for children to wear clothes and I wouldn't want to be the outcast and then the cops would ask me why no one has clothes on and then I'd say my kids' skin is just so soft they can't wear clothes and I'd stroke their skin but since I'd be naked as well it'd look like incest pedophilia and I'd be taken to jail and what kind of mother could I be there? EXACTLY.
It's not that I hate babies; believe me, there is something fiercely appealing about having someone who will always love and adore you for the rest of your life even when your husband's left you and you think power walking is exercise. That's beautiful. It's unconditional love in a diaper. But now is not the time girls my age are supposed to be looking forward to that. I mean talk about the stupidest mothers in the world.
"So I was like teaching my babAY to grind and like my best friend PollAY was like, 'oh my god megan you cannot teach your babAY to grind that's just like wrong' and I'm like 'every girl needs to know how to grind PollAY' and she's like, 'but your babAY is only two' and I'm like, 'PollAY, it's never too early to start teaching your girl to give a guy a boner' and she's like, 'oh my god megan you are SO right!' and I'm like, 'duh, I'm a MOM now, hello?" and she's like, 'i am just so silLAY i want a babAY' and I'm like, 'it's really not that hard to like get one' and she's like, 'you're right i totally should get one' and then we were just teaching my babAY to grind but then I left her with my mom so I could go to the club and do some grinding myself.'
-just so you know, I didn't just make that up. Not in the least bit
All I know is that if I were an 18-year-old guy, I'd be looking for junk in the trunk, not a mummy with a tummy. But maybe that's just me.
"Oh, I can't wait till I have a baby!"
14-year-old Samantha
"Oh, I wish I could have a baby right now!"
15-year-old Kelly
"I do have a baby!"
16-year-old Penelope
"Well I have TWO babies so suck it!"
17-year-old Bonnie
"Your BABY will suck it!"
Penelope
"That's BABIES you bitch!"
Bonnie, again
"Well your son's a BASTARD!"
Penelope, makin it personal
"Fuck you, scabby nips!"
Bonnie, being a hypocrite
The whole baby-infatuation baffles me. I get women who grow up, get married, and want to have a baby. I mean what the hell else is there to do? A baby isn't like a pet, man. I mean yeah, it drools and shits and you punish it by securing it to one single location in the entire house, such as a corner, (in my household we call it "the naughty corner") (it's not for me) (I've never been to "the naughty corner") (or any corner for that matter), but a baby is for LIFE. There's no redo's with a baby. No returns, either. You also can't trade your baby with other mom's babies in the hospital, though I think that would solve many problems.
"Look, honey, she has my mother's eyes."
"Ha...you mean MY mother's eyes."
"No, your mother is an evil, conniving bitch and my baby is none of those things."
"Let's not argue over who's mother is a bigger bitch; this is about our new daughter."
"Oh, so you think my mother's a bitch, do you?"
"That's it, NURSE!"
"Yes?"
"We're arguing a lot over our baby's features."
"Oh, well let me take care of that."
DING DING DING!
"TRADE-OFF!"
"Now just give me that one and I'll give you this one."
"Oh, look, honey! See that man over there in the waiting room? Our new daughter has his same uni brow!"
"Oh, honey, you're exactly right!"
I think the reason the whole "babies are god, god is babies" or however you wanna phrase that, ordeal bothers me so much is because I know I would be a terrible mother. But I wouldn't think that. I would do things thinking I was doing what a mother should do when really every other mother on the planet and Planet X (whatever happened to that?) would look down on me for doing. Because just like every baby looks like a old man's wrinkly ass, every mother has to raise her child in the same way. That's why there are BOOKS on "raising you kid," you know, since it shouldn't come naturally or anything, since it's not nature taking its course, since some old broad sat down and decided that not one other woman knows that it's good to communicate with your adolescent, since a mother's instinct is really just to ignore the thing and leave it in the kitchen somewhere. Since, as a mother, I have not already assumed that I "shouldn't feed young children tiny plastic toys" because it never occurred to me that "babies can choke on tiny plastic toys" since, as a new mother, I have filled my house with "tiny plastic toys" just so I can prove how good of a mother I am by putting these "tiny plastic toys" away and doing so when other people can see me doing so. I hope you're following. I just know I would be the weirdo mother who lets her kids watch R-rated movies and thinks a "balanced meal" is food on a scale, and then neighbors would think I'm a drug dealer because my kids eat french fries on a scale and they'd think I was hiding druggies in their huggies or some weird shit cause neighbors are just stalkers with a shorter distance to stalk and so then they'd call the cops and the cops would walk in and we'd all be naked because I think it's incredibly unnecessary for children to wear clothes and I wouldn't want to be the outcast and then the cops would ask me why no one has clothes on and then I'd say my kids' skin is just so soft they can't wear clothes and I'd stroke their skin but since I'd be naked as well it'd look like incest pedophilia and I'd be taken to jail and what kind of mother could I be there? EXACTLY.
It's not that I hate babies; believe me, there is something fiercely appealing about having someone who will always love and adore you for the rest of your life even when your husband's left you and you think power walking is exercise. That's beautiful. It's unconditional love in a diaper. But now is not the time girls my age are supposed to be looking forward to that. I mean talk about the stupidest mothers in the world.
"So I was like teaching my babAY to grind and like my best friend PollAY was like, 'oh my god megan you cannot teach your babAY to grind that's just like wrong' and I'm like 'every girl needs to know how to grind PollAY' and she's like, 'but your babAY is only two' and I'm like, 'PollAY, it's never too early to start teaching your girl to give a guy a boner' and she's like, 'oh my god megan you are SO right!' and I'm like, 'duh, I'm a MOM now, hello?" and she's like, 'i am just so silLAY i want a babAY' and I'm like, 'it's really not that hard to like get one' and she's like, 'you're right i totally should get one' and then we were just teaching my babAY to grind but then I left her with my mom so I could go to the club and do some grinding myself.'
-just so you know, I didn't just make that up. Not in the least bit
All I know is that if I were an 18-year-old guy, I'd be looking for junk in the trunk, not a mummy with a tummy. But maybe that's just me.
Friday, June 12, 2009
A Middle Aged Man's Phalange
The reason I don't watch sports isn't because "I'm a girl." I don't watch sports because big, sweaty men getting sweaty together really doesn't interest me that much. I don't find sweat and balls an entertaining combination. (balls as in basketballs, baseballs, etc.) (not that the other kind of balls and sweat make a great combo either.) (not that I would know.) (not that I'm against men's balls.) (not that these side thoughts are inappropriate and awkward in the least bit.) (not that my father occasionally reads my blog.) I just don't understand the male fascination with things you can do with balls. Or really just things men can do with balls. Sports should really just be deemed Men With Balls. Or Things Men Do With Balls. Or Watching A Man Try To Grab That Other Man's Ball. Or you could simply call it Gay. (not that I have anything against gay people.) Not only do men LOVE watching other men play with balls, they have parties in honor of the practice. So not only are you a grown man who willingly admits to watching men get sweaty together, but you'll invite your fellow male friends to join you in getting off on watching these men get sweatier...and angrier...and hotter. And then you act like it's a Man's Thing. Well I know the truth.
"Hey honey, me and the boys are watchin' the game tonight, so you stay in the kitchen."
What They Want You To Think: "We are so manly, us manly men, cause we like sports and beer!"
What They Actually Think: "I don't want you seeing me get a hard on over these men and their rippling biceps and skills with balls."
And that's another thing. Not only do they congregate to oogle over ripped men, they drink while they do it. And I think it's pretty well known that drinking often gives people the feeling of...horniness. So they're males. All together. All watching men with balls. All horny. Interesting...
You don't think I have a point, do you? Well I do mother fucker, and the point is that I saw Jeff Fisher tonight.
"Hey, that's Jeff Fisher!"
"Where?"
"Who?"
"The coach of the Titans football team, over there by Smoothie King!"
"Talking to those two people?"
"Yeah!"
"Oh yeah, I recognize him now..."
"JEFF!"
I mean come on, what would you do if you saw someone "famous?" Scream out their name from half a parking lot away, THAT'S what you'd do.
"JEFF!"
And yes, you would use their first name.
"JEFF!"
The couple he's talking to turn, look at us, and turn back to Jeff, completely ignoring us. Those pretentious gina wads.
"Well that was awkward."
"We should just approach him and be like, "Jeff Fisher?!" and he'll be all like, "Yep that's me," and we'll say, "Oh, I LOVE the Rams!" and he'll be like, "Uhhh...no, I coach the Titans," and we'll be like, "Oh. Dude they suck," and we'll walk away. Then who'll feel stupid? JEFF FUCKIN FISHER, THAT'S WHO.
"Hey! He's getting in his car!"
Jeff drives by us, and we were prepared for whatever might happen. (Actually we were trying to think of something cool to yell but all we could think of was 'I LOVE YOUR ICE CREAM, MAN!" which, yes, we ended up yelling) and he waves at us, which, you know, was nice of the guy, so we're thinking, hey, maybe he's not so rude after all, until the couple he was talking to, who were following him to go somewhere, drive by us as well. And you know what that little fucker of a hubby did?
FLIPS US OFF, THAT'S WHAT HE DID.
I mean, what? Talk about a wannabe. Sorry, bud, it's not YOU we wanna see, it's Jeff. I'm sorry if you're all jealous and pissy that you're just "the friend in Jeff's shadow" but flipping us off so you get all the attention that was initially focused on Jeff? Now that's just fuckin' desperate. It's one thing to have your dick in a box, but it's another to just BE a dick in a box.
"FUCK YOU, BITCH!"
Yeah. Okay. I did it, and it was immature. But come on, some wannabe Jeff flips you off, what ya gonna do? You're gonna step out of your car and call them a fucking bitch, that's what you're gonna do. And what kind of friend is he, anyway? He just made Jeff look like a total dick, which I'm sure he is since he hangs out with a 40-year-old man who gives teenagers the bird. I mean, I could report him for flashing. Who knows? A middle finger is long and thin, I could easily have mistaken it for something else, you know what I'm sayin? I'm just a teenage girl, I could have been emotionally scarred by that old man and his long, skinny body part. Seriously, a middle aged man's phalange? Not something a girl my age needs to see.
Fuck watching sports. Fuck Jeff Fisher. Fuck Jeff Fisher's friends. And most importantly, fuck Jeff Fisher's ice cream.
"Hey honey, me and the boys are watchin' the game tonight, so you stay in the kitchen."
What They Want You To Think: "We are so manly, us manly men, cause we like sports and beer!"
What They Actually Think: "I don't want you seeing me get a hard on over these men and their rippling biceps and skills with balls."
And that's another thing. Not only do they congregate to oogle over ripped men, they drink while they do it. And I think it's pretty well known that drinking often gives people the feeling of...horniness. So they're males. All together. All watching men with balls. All horny. Interesting...
You don't think I have a point, do you? Well I do mother fucker, and the point is that I saw Jeff Fisher tonight.
"Hey, that's Jeff Fisher!"
"Where?"
"Who?"
"The coach of the Titans football team, over there by Smoothie King!"
"Talking to those two people?"
"Yeah!"
"Oh yeah, I recognize him now..."
"JEFF!"
I mean come on, what would you do if you saw someone "famous?" Scream out their name from half a parking lot away, THAT'S what you'd do.
"JEFF!"
And yes, you would use their first name.
"JEFF!"
The couple he's talking to turn, look at us, and turn back to Jeff, completely ignoring us. Those pretentious gina wads.
"Well that was awkward."
"We should just approach him and be like, "Jeff Fisher?!" and he'll be all like, "Yep that's me," and we'll say, "Oh, I LOVE the Rams!" and he'll be like, "Uhhh...no, I coach the Titans," and we'll be like, "Oh. Dude they suck," and we'll walk away. Then who'll feel stupid? JEFF FUCKIN FISHER, THAT'S WHO.
"Hey! He's getting in his car!"
Jeff drives by us, and we were prepared for whatever might happen. (Actually we were trying to think of something cool to yell but all we could think of was 'I LOVE YOUR ICE CREAM, MAN!" which, yes, we ended up yelling) and he waves at us, which, you know, was nice of the guy, so we're thinking, hey, maybe he's not so rude after all, until the couple he was talking to, who were following him to go somewhere, drive by us as well. And you know what that little fucker of a hubby did?
FLIPS US OFF, THAT'S WHAT HE DID.
I mean, what? Talk about a wannabe. Sorry, bud, it's not YOU we wanna see, it's Jeff. I'm sorry if you're all jealous and pissy that you're just "the friend in Jeff's shadow" but flipping us off so you get all the attention that was initially focused on Jeff? Now that's just fuckin' desperate. It's one thing to have your dick in a box, but it's another to just BE a dick in a box.
"FUCK YOU, BITCH!"
Yeah. Okay. I did it, and it was immature. But come on, some wannabe Jeff flips you off, what ya gonna do? You're gonna step out of your car and call them a fucking bitch, that's what you're gonna do. And what kind of friend is he, anyway? He just made Jeff look like a total dick, which I'm sure he is since he hangs out with a 40-year-old man who gives teenagers the bird. I mean, I could report him for flashing. Who knows? A middle finger is long and thin, I could easily have mistaken it for something else, you know what I'm sayin? I'm just a teenage girl, I could have been emotionally scarred by that old man and his long, skinny body part. Seriously, a middle aged man's phalange? Not something a girl my age needs to see.
Fuck watching sports. Fuck Jeff Fisher. Fuck Jeff Fisher's friends. And most importantly, fuck Jeff Fisher's ice cream.
Tuesday, June 9, 2009
Show Me The Money
I need cash and I need it quick. It was only 12 years ago that I was told money does not grow on trees, and I haven't gotten over it since. The weird thing is, it never occurred to me that a tree would be a place for money to grow until I was told that it does not grow there, which really just doesn't make sense at all. Ever since that moment of---
"Money doesn't grow on trees, Natasha."
---I have been contemplating if money grows anywhere at all. I mean, who said money grows? I assume it does indeed grow somewhere, since if it didn't, why would you even add the "on trees?" Wouldn't you just say: "Money doesn't grow, Natasha." But no, it's 'money doesn't grow...on trees." Which means, "Money doesn't grow...on trees, that is..." Did you catch the difference there? By adding "that is," I have not only proved my point but made my point sound quite mysterious, as well. ON. TREES. So money grows...somewhere else? I've actually found it incredibly easy to think of some likely candidates for discrete locations money could grow.
1. Bushes
2. Tulip Buds
3. My Grandfather's Mustache
Because of this recent epiphany of mine, there are two things I have been asking myself.
1. Where THE HELL does money grow?
2. Where can I buy money seeds to plant?
With these money seeds, which I'm assuming, no...which I'm inferring, do exist since in order for something to grow it must begin as a SEED, or any other S-word with the long-E sound, (yes, I do mean what you may be thinking I mean) I could make billions. Literally, make billions. What would occur if a girl like me was growing billions in her backyard?
1. I would give billions to the poor.
2. I would give billions to sick children who can't afford medicine.
3. I would build billions of giant pools in my backyard.
See? If a girl like me had money seeds, there would be no starving people, no sick people, and I would be incredibly tan. Basically, it would bring about world peace. There's a reason the words 'peace' and 'seeds' almost rhyme. Because they're almost the exact same thing.
Seeeeeeeeedsssssss...
Peeeeeeeeeaccccccce...
Seeeeeeeeeeeeeee???
AnyWHO, all I'm asking is if anyone knows where these damn money seeds are, please let me know. I have things to buy, college things, things a college student needs, such as:
1. a laptop
2. textbooks
3. stylin' clothes
Obviously these things are a MUST. Therefore, I MUST have money. It's not my fault that I don't have a job. It's called laziness, people, and it's not easily cured. Jobs are for people who like to "earn" things. People who like to "deserve" what they get. People who look down upon two of my best talents:
1. Mooching
2. Thanking People For Giving Me Things
So what? You have a job. Well that's damn dandy if you like to serve other people and be stranger's bitches, but I'd rather give out my address and see who mails me some cash. I mean, let's use some math here. ONE Natasha gives FOUR HUNDRED people ONE envelope for themselves and ONE envelope for a friend of theirs and asks for at least FIVE dollars, what is the ratio of people who WILL send Natasha money in comparison to the ratio of people who WON'T and then WILL be found mysteriously dead one week later?
Calculating answer...
...still calculating...
...there's a reason I took Pre-Cal 2 years in a row...
Alright, according to my calculations, approximately LOTS of people will send Natasha a rounded sum of SOME money and she will have about ENOUGH bills to buy some cool shit. Therefore, YOU, the Y variable in this equation, have FOUR options.
1. Tell me where money grows.
2. Buy me some money seeds.
3. Mail me your money.
4. Mail me your mom's money.
All proceeds will be put to very good use, I assure you.
"Money doesn't grow on trees, Natasha."
---I have been contemplating if money grows anywhere at all. I mean, who said money grows? I assume it does indeed grow somewhere, since if it didn't, why would you even add the "on trees?" Wouldn't you just say: "Money doesn't grow, Natasha." But no, it's 'money doesn't grow...on trees." Which means, "Money doesn't grow...on trees, that is..." Did you catch the difference there? By adding "that is," I have not only proved my point but made my point sound quite mysterious, as well. ON. TREES. So money grows...somewhere else? I've actually found it incredibly easy to think of some likely candidates for discrete locations money could grow.
1. Bushes
2. Tulip Buds
3. My Grandfather's Mustache
Because of this recent epiphany of mine, there are two things I have been asking myself.
1. Where THE HELL does money grow?
2. Where can I buy money seeds to plant?
With these money seeds, which I'm assuming, no...which I'm inferring, do exist since in order for something to grow it must begin as a SEED, or any other S-word with the long-E sound, (yes, I do mean what you may be thinking I mean) I could make billions. Literally, make billions. What would occur if a girl like me was growing billions in her backyard?
1. I would give billions to the poor.
2. I would give billions to sick children who can't afford medicine.
3. I would build billions of giant pools in my backyard.
See? If a girl like me had money seeds, there would be no starving people, no sick people, and I would be incredibly tan. Basically, it would bring about world peace. There's a reason the words 'peace' and 'seeds' almost rhyme. Because they're almost the exact same thing.
Seeeeeeeeedsssssss...
Peeeeeeeeeaccccccce...
Seeeeeeeeeeeeeee???
AnyWHO, all I'm asking is if anyone knows where these damn money seeds are, please let me know. I have things to buy, college things, things a college student needs, such as:
1. a laptop
2. textbooks
3. stylin' clothes
Obviously these things are a MUST. Therefore, I MUST have money. It's not my fault that I don't have a job. It's called laziness, people, and it's not easily cured. Jobs are for people who like to "earn" things. People who like to "deserve" what they get. People who look down upon two of my best talents:
1. Mooching
2. Thanking People For Giving Me Things
So what? You have a job. Well that's damn dandy if you like to serve other people and be stranger's bitches, but I'd rather give out my address and see who mails me some cash. I mean, let's use some math here. ONE Natasha gives FOUR HUNDRED people ONE envelope for themselves and ONE envelope for a friend of theirs and asks for at least FIVE dollars, what is the ratio of people who WILL send Natasha money in comparison to the ratio of people who WON'T and then WILL be found mysteriously dead one week later?
Calculating answer...
...still calculating...
...there's a reason I took Pre-Cal 2 years in a row...
Alright, according to my calculations, approximately LOTS of people will send Natasha a rounded sum of SOME money and she will have about ENOUGH bills to buy some cool shit. Therefore, YOU, the Y variable in this equation, have FOUR options.
1. Tell me where money grows.
2. Buy me some money seeds.
3. Mail me your money.
4. Mail me your mom's money.
All proceeds will be put to very good use, I assure you.
Semi-Charmed Road Trip
There I sat, embarking on what was to be the longest journey I'd ever traveled without Ma-Ma or Da-Da. There I sat, mentally prepared (due to a consumption of Red Bulls that should be deemed illegal) as well as physically prepared (shades that block the sun and well as make me look just plain awesome) for this dangerous, death-defying, terrifying, nerve-wracking, insane in the membrane road trip all the way from Nashville, Tennessee to...
COVINGTON.
(a city in coughCOUGHKentuckyCOUGHcough)
That's right, folks, there i sat, ready to risk my life for 5 hours of freeway in order to see one band, one band back from the 90's. (Screw Nirvana and their desire to be raped, screw Green Day and their food dishes involving human organs, I'm talking about a suicidal and a lord of alcohol. I'm talking about...Third Eye Blind, baby.) I had to go through a lot for permission for this trip. It went from me asking to see Third Eye Blind in Ohio...
"NO."
To me asking if I could see them in Kentucky...
"ABSOLUTELY NO DRUGS IN THE CAR NATASHA YOU ARE 18 AND INTERSTATE TRAFFICKING OF DRUGS IS 5 YEARS IN JAIL MINIMUM."
But permission was eventually granted, therefore I knew there was one thing I could NOT do: fuck it up.
I started by making sure I had all the necessary essentials a road trip feeds off of.
-full tank of gas (despite the fact that while getting that gas the little door to my gas thing just FALLS OFF and I still am not able to get it back on)
-CD's (despite the fact that my stereo makes every song skip, and yes it is not the CD it's the stereo because I've tested them all on other car stereos and guess what? No skipping. So while I'm trying to jam out to some Landon Pigg, and it's a slow and beautiful love song, all I get is "I TH-TH-TH-TH-TH-THINK THAT POSS-POSS-POSS-POSS-POSS-IBLY
MAY-BE-BE-BE-BE-BE-BE I'M F-F-F-F-F-F-F-F-ALLING FOR Y-Y-Y-Y-Y-Y-O-U-U-U-U-U-U-" which totally ruins the romantic effect since if someone was telling you they were falling in love with you, you don't want it to be a I-think-that-possibly-maybe-I'm-reminding-you-of-Porky-Pig-kinda moment
-glasses in order to see better should it rain (despite the fact that one of my windshield wipers is torn and so it looks like I have the normal two wipers and then they got busy and had a deformed baby wiper that tags along. Or maybe the male wiper just grew a third arm. The point is it ruins the whole point of wipers since once they both wipe and return to their original positions, the third straggler-outcast-over-achiever wiper is still trying to wipe my windshield and therefore I still can't see. There's a reason windshield wipers go BACK AND FORTH, they don't just GO and then STAY right in your line of vision so you're forced to stick your head out the window as you drive which can one, cause a wreck and two, cause a bug to fly in your mouth which would one, cause you to choke and two, cause you to wreck. It's a lose-lose situation, people.)
-a sister to read road signs out loud to me, a.k.a. a sister to blame should/when we got lost (despite the fact that on her side of the car it is difficult to look out the windshield to read signs since there are three giant cracks running down it that only seem to be progressing along with their attack with the purpose of making my whole windshield look like it has veins, which all started due to a Crab Apple In Storm Incident that I'd rather not explain)
-a male amigo to tell us NOT to ask for directions (despite the fact that, according to my father, my dashboard is "falling off." Okay sure, that wasn't relevant at all, but since we're on the subject of Things Wrong With My Car, I thought I'd throw that out there. Maybe get a couple answers to my questions? Such as: HOW DOES A DASHBOARD FALL OFF A CAR. WHAT DOES THAT EVEN MEAN.)
So we were all set. Covington, here we come! The three of us pull out of my driveway...
"WOO HOO ROAD TRIP!"
Take a right out of my cul de sac...
"THIRD EYE BLIND HERE WE COME!"
A right out of my subdivision...
"COP!"
And get pulled over.
"You were going 55 in a 40 mile zone blah blah blah I'm a cop because I get off on having my crotch in people's faces through their window cause I'm too cool to bend down and look them in the eye so suck it bitch here's your ticket."
First ticket of my life. 104 freaking dollars. Traffic school, here I come. But once that douche got back in his undercover cop car...
"LET'S GO TO COVINGTON!"
Three cups of coffee, one pack of gum (advice quickie: if you're going to chew a whole pack of gum in one day, DON'T CHEW BIG RED. I did that one time, and my tongue was swollen for 14 hours, swollen to the point where I couldn't speak.) (another advice quickie about Big Red: don't lick the wrapper and stick it to your forehead. it burns very badly and you will have a giant red rectangle on your forehead for the rest of the day.), zero directions mishaps, (props to the driver, man. oh wait...that's me. Thank you so much!), and the most intense automatic hand dryer I've ever used in my entire life (this thing made it look like an unidentified flying object was about to land on my palm), we finally reached Covington.
"Excuse me? Could you tell us where the Madison Theatre is?"
We were driving through downtown, the obvious hotspot for nightlife. We had rolled down the window and asked some men on the sidewalk for directions.
"Yeah, it's just down that way!"
"Stellar! Thank you!"
"Should we just park now and walk?"
"Yeah, we seem really close."
"So close..."
"WE MADE IT TO COVINGTON WOO HOO!"
So we paid 4 dollars. Parked. Walked. And soon found ourselves in the midst of the downtown crowd, with 5 minutes left until the concert started. Perfect timing.
"Should we ask someone for directions again?"
"No."
"Okay, Male Amigo. You guys stay here and I'll ask that woman."
So I walk up to some random woman.
"Excuse me? Could you tell me where the Madison Theatre is?"
"Hmmm...I think...I think that's in Covington..."
"Covington...right. Um thank you..."
"Hey guys?"
"I think all we need to do is walk down that---"
"Guys?"
"---street and it's probably down there some---"
"GUYS!"
"What?"
"You know that woman I talked to?"
"Yeah, what'd she say?"
"She said, 'I think that's in Covington.' "
"................"
"...uhhh......"
"...ha......ha.....wait what...."
"Well then where the hell are we?"
"EXCUSE ME, PIZZA MAN!"
"Yeah?"
"Hi. Um, could you tell me...uhh...well just...what city is this?"
"Cincinnati."
"Right. Okay...Cincinatti...cool..."
"WE'RE IN OHIO."
"What?"
"What!"
"HOW THE HELL DID WE END UP IN CINCINNATI, OHIO."
"We're supposed to be in Covington."
"We're supposed to be in Kentucky."
"Well fuck."
"HA! Okay, BACK to the car!"
Lucky for us, we still made it in time for the show. In a venue with a disco ball and chain smokers galore. One opening act, one amazing show, and one dancing blonde chick who kept bumping into me, and we were done.
"NOW ALL WE HAVE IS THE DRIVE BACK!"
Pops didn't want us spending the night there. Ten hours total behind a wheel. All on the freeway. No plans on stopping. I. AM. JACK. TRAVEN.
Got home at 4am. Woke up the next morning to a shocked but proud Pops of me for traveling the longest road trip of my life and living to tell the tale.
I have yet to show him the speeding ticket.
COVINGTON.
(a city in coughCOUGHKentuckyCOUGHcough)
That's right, folks, there i sat, ready to risk my life for 5 hours of freeway in order to see one band, one band back from the 90's. (Screw Nirvana and their desire to be raped, screw Green Day and their food dishes involving human organs, I'm talking about a suicidal and a lord of alcohol. I'm talking about...Third Eye Blind, baby.) I had to go through a lot for permission for this trip. It went from me asking to see Third Eye Blind in Ohio...
"NO."
To me asking if I could see them in Kentucky...
"ABSOLUTELY NO DRUGS IN THE CAR NATASHA YOU ARE 18 AND INTERSTATE TRAFFICKING OF DRUGS IS 5 YEARS IN JAIL MINIMUM."
But permission was eventually granted, therefore I knew there was one thing I could NOT do: fuck it up.
I started by making sure I had all the necessary essentials a road trip feeds off of.
-full tank of gas (despite the fact that while getting that gas the little door to my gas thing just FALLS OFF and I still am not able to get it back on)
-CD's (despite the fact that my stereo makes every song skip, and yes it is not the CD it's the stereo because I've tested them all on other car stereos and guess what? No skipping. So while I'm trying to jam out to some Landon Pigg, and it's a slow and beautiful love song, all I get is "I TH-TH-TH-TH-TH-THINK THAT POSS-POSS-POSS-POSS-POSS-IBLY
MAY-BE-BE-BE-BE-BE-BE I'M F-F-F-F-F-F-F-F-ALLING FOR Y-Y-Y-Y-Y-Y-O-U-U-U-U-U-U-" which totally ruins the romantic effect since if someone was telling you they were falling in love with you, you don't want it to be a I-think-that-possibly-maybe-I'm-reminding-you-of-Porky-Pig-kinda moment
-glasses in order to see better should it rain (despite the fact that one of my windshield wipers is torn and so it looks like I have the normal two wipers and then they got busy and had a deformed baby wiper that tags along. Or maybe the male wiper just grew a third arm. The point is it ruins the whole point of wipers since once they both wipe and return to their original positions, the third straggler-outcast-over-achiever wiper is still trying to wipe my windshield and therefore I still can't see. There's a reason windshield wipers go BACK AND FORTH, they don't just GO and then STAY right in your line of vision so you're forced to stick your head out the window as you drive which can one, cause a wreck and two, cause a bug to fly in your mouth which would one, cause you to choke and two, cause you to wreck. It's a lose-lose situation, people.)
-a sister to read road signs out loud to me, a.k.a. a sister to blame should/when we got lost (despite the fact that on her side of the car it is difficult to look out the windshield to read signs since there are three giant cracks running down it that only seem to be progressing along with their attack with the purpose of making my whole windshield look like it has veins, which all started due to a Crab Apple In Storm Incident that I'd rather not explain)
-a male amigo to tell us NOT to ask for directions (despite the fact that, according to my father, my dashboard is "falling off." Okay sure, that wasn't relevant at all, but since we're on the subject of Things Wrong With My Car, I thought I'd throw that out there. Maybe get a couple answers to my questions? Such as: HOW DOES A DASHBOARD FALL OFF A CAR. WHAT DOES THAT EVEN MEAN.)
So we were all set. Covington, here we come! The three of us pull out of my driveway...
"WOO HOO ROAD TRIP!"
Take a right out of my cul de sac...
"THIRD EYE BLIND HERE WE COME!"
A right out of my subdivision...
"COP!"
And get pulled over.
"You were going 55 in a 40 mile zone blah blah blah I'm a cop because I get off on having my crotch in people's faces through their window cause I'm too cool to bend down and look them in the eye so suck it bitch here's your ticket."
First ticket of my life. 104 freaking dollars. Traffic school, here I come. But once that douche got back in his undercover cop car...
"LET'S GO TO COVINGTON!"
Three cups of coffee, one pack of gum (advice quickie: if you're going to chew a whole pack of gum in one day, DON'T CHEW BIG RED. I did that one time, and my tongue was swollen for 14 hours, swollen to the point where I couldn't speak.) (another advice quickie about Big Red: don't lick the wrapper and stick it to your forehead. it burns very badly and you will have a giant red rectangle on your forehead for the rest of the day.), zero directions mishaps, (props to the driver, man. oh wait...that's me. Thank you so much!), and the most intense automatic hand dryer I've ever used in my entire life (this thing made it look like an unidentified flying object was about to land on my palm), we finally reached Covington.
"Excuse me? Could you tell us where the Madison Theatre is?"
We were driving through downtown, the obvious hotspot for nightlife. We had rolled down the window and asked some men on the sidewalk for directions.
"Yeah, it's just down that way!"
"Stellar! Thank you!"
"Should we just park now and walk?"
"Yeah, we seem really close."
"So close..."
"WE MADE IT TO COVINGTON WOO HOO!"
So we paid 4 dollars. Parked. Walked. And soon found ourselves in the midst of the downtown crowd, with 5 minutes left until the concert started. Perfect timing.
"Should we ask someone for directions again?"
"No."
"Okay, Male Amigo. You guys stay here and I'll ask that woman."
So I walk up to some random woman.
"Excuse me? Could you tell me where the Madison Theatre is?"
"Hmmm...I think...I think that's in Covington..."
"Covington...right. Um thank you..."
"Hey guys?"
"I think all we need to do is walk down that---"
"Guys?"
"---street and it's probably down there some---"
"GUYS!"
"What?"
"You know that woman I talked to?"
"Yeah, what'd she say?"
"She said, 'I think that's in Covington.' "
"................"
"...uhhh......"
"...ha......ha.....wait what...."
"Well then where the hell are we?"
"EXCUSE ME, PIZZA MAN!"
"Yeah?"
"Hi. Um, could you tell me...uhh...well just...what city is this?"
"Cincinnati."
"Right. Okay...Cincinatti...cool..."
"WE'RE IN OHIO."
"What?"
"What!"
"HOW THE HELL DID WE END UP IN CINCINNATI, OHIO."
"We're supposed to be in Covington."
"We're supposed to be in Kentucky."
"Well fuck."
"HA! Okay, BACK to the car!"
Lucky for us, we still made it in time for the show. In a venue with a disco ball and chain smokers galore. One opening act, one amazing show, and one dancing blonde chick who kept bumping into me, and we were done.
"NOW ALL WE HAVE IS THE DRIVE BACK!"
Pops didn't want us spending the night there. Ten hours total behind a wheel. All on the freeway. No plans on stopping. I. AM. JACK. TRAVEN.
Got home at 4am. Woke up the next morning to a shocked but proud Pops of me for traveling the longest road trip of my life and living to tell the tale.
I have yet to show him the speeding ticket.
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