Crypt Keeper in Training

•May 9, 2013 • 1 Comment

For the last year or so, I’ve developed an obsession with aging, mainly how to avoid it. Last April I went to a baby shower and the gift bags included a product called Boob Tube that allegedly aids in bust firming. It’s supposed to make your boobs look “firmer, fitter, glowing, more dewy and youthful” to be exact. This product’s mere existence was enough to make me believe that I must make Operation Dewy Breasts a lasting routine in my daily life, but after applying this product two to three times a day for several months, the idea of continuing it for the rest of my life was too much to handle. That and my breasts were not A) defying gravity or B) as glowing as the product suggested, which is simply misleading.  


Most recently, I’ve had a heated internal debate about whether I was born with eyelids not ideal for winged eyeliner and I never knew it, or if I have developed droopy eyelids due to old age.  And if some professional tells me there’s nothing wrong with my eyelids, I take that person for a liar who’s just saying whatever is necessary to spare me the weight of the truth. My parents as my witnesses, my capacity to obsess is something to behold. I can remember plotting to find money to buy Vita-K treatment cream for what I perceived as spider veins at the age of thirteen, and sitting by a lake applying/applying/applying it in hopes of making it go away.  As of late, my obsession with finding the Fountain of Youth and making it my bitch has become my nightmare. Unfortunately, it’s not found in cheese fries or using baby oil in place of sunscreen, which I learned from my friends in Florida and is about as effective as using tinfoil as a sun deterrent. Behaving like a responsible adult who wants to take measures to fight the harsh blow of time is just one of several major struggles in my life, including my inability to eat healthily or exercise in the absence of force.


Anyway, back to old age.  Even though people who follow me on social media constantly ask if I am an intern (nice), this train is heading straight for the big 2-8. Sometimes I think hitting puberty at the ripe age of eighteen has its benefits, although my boob-less/menstruation-less sixteen-year-old self will always beg to differ.


So what’s the big deal, you ask? Given my lifestyle, I have many qualifiers as to why I should look like the guy from Tales of the Crypt by the end of the week.


Below is just the shortlist of reasons why I’m totally fucked:


1. I detest water.  I don’t think I have actively finished a bottle of water in three or more years.  I’m not even sure how I’m alive to be honest. Water makes me angry.  Not only that but Diet Coke makes me happier than all the babies, tiny animals and rainbows in the world combined, yet it contains things like methanol which allegedly metabolizes into formaldehyde. That cannot be good for an aging woman.


2. I hate washing makeup off my face and didn’t even do so consistently till I turned 26 and got all-white bedding and I thought I could wash my pillows less if they weren’t covered in glitter and mascara. You could probably find China at the bottom of my pores after digging out all the dirt that’s been backed into them for the past decade.


3. This is old news but I prefer to get by on a diet mainly consisting of candy, French fries, cookies, pizza, and Yogurtland (yes this is its own category).  So, by this I mean grease on grease on sugar on carbs and I don’t think this ever did anything good for anyone.


4. I make faces constantly that involve furrowing my brow. I know there’s Botox for this but my 6th grade teacher scarred me for life with death-by-Botulism stories that resulted in an unnecessary fear of canned sodas and food for several years, and I don’t really want to voluntarily fill my face with it if at all possible.


5. I rub the shit out of my eyes in the shower, because how do you not?


6. I spent five months in Florida in 2011, during which I laid in the sun approximately 6 hours a day, 11 days a week, hating on sunscreen, because what else do you do in Florida? Melanoma fail.


In addition, I’m a woman who likes instant gratification. With antiaging products, how in the hell are you supposed to know if your antiaging method is working until you’re actually OLD? So I spend money and make decisions now and hope that I can thank my 27-year-old self for choosing the right regimen 27 years before I’ll know whether it worked? I also resent how complicated and involved of a process this is. I don’t want to give a shit about things like free radicals. It sounds more like a band than some rogue intangibles I’m supposed to fight with vitamin c. 


The news just keeps getting worse; I thought that because I spend most of my time in an office staring at a computer screen that SPF was not a necessary morning component. I’ve recently come to learn that harmful rays can penetrate windows and ALSO computer screens and lights contain rays that can ruin your face. On top of that, apparently daily sunscreen needs to go all down the boobs too, and it needs to be reapplied every two hours. I’m sorry, I just didn’t envision a time in my life when it would be necessary to slather on SPF in a dark office every two hours because my computer has become a threat to the longevity of my face. I’ve also been told not to sleep on my side recently, which about ruined my day. Excuse me but I thought sleeping on your back was for old men and pregnant women. The woman who does my eyebrows demanded that I put castor oil on my brows before bed because apparently we have a finite amount of eyebrow hairs in our lifespans (who knew?), and I don’t go easy on it.  Pair that with several types of lotion and a generous dab of retinol and I roll into bed looking like I’ve just dipped my face in a vat of bacon grease on the nightly.  


At this point, if some professional told me that the secret to looking 21 forever was sleeping with a taco salad on my face, I’d do it proudly.  Anyway, I’m currently researching sunscreen on right now so I gotta hit the road.


Talk soon.


Mrs. Havisham



Things I Learned from Game of Thrones

•May 4, 2013 • 1 Comment

Even though I was the last one on board, I finally committed to watching Game of Thrones. Now that I powered through the entire series thus far like a BOSS in about two weeks flat, I’m in a true funk, struggling to find a purpose in my life. I despise being restricted to weekly programming. It makes me feel like a peasant. Anyway, I learned things:

1. If someone annoys you, it is acceptable to kill that person using a variety of methods.

2. “Cunt” has been a popular female compliment for ages.

3. You can be a dragon mom without actually having to birth a dragon from the vagina.

4. If you conceive a child with your brother, it may not be mentally challenged, but it may be a very bad boy.

5. Dead people walk, they don’t run, and sometimes they spare fat people.

6. Brothers and sisters do it from behind.

7. When people you like die, you cry a little and then go kill more people.

8. Cremation is the way to go if you want to see your homies again.

9. If your brother is an asshole, you could be gifted to a giant man-horse and forced to have frequent public intercourse.  You may start to like this man-horse.

10. Attempted murder is forgiven by follow-up sexual advances in caves.


I’m Back! And I’m On A Diet

•April 1, 2013 • 3 Comments

If you’ve ever read this blog, you’re aware that I’ve been known to exaggerate from time to time. It’s not actually my fault, as the “Pinyan Exaggeration” is a very real trait that was passed along to me by my mother’s side of the family. Anyway, this has been building for months on end, but I’ve reached a point where my food consumption has actually been more or less limited to three things: bread, cheese and candy (not necessarily in that order). Last weekend, I had pizza for dinner Friday night, pizza for lunch Saturday afternoon, followed by pizza for dinner AGAIN that night (and lots of cookie snacks in between). Sunday was basically a fat assery free-for-all that involved an unmitigated bread basket plundering, chased by various types of candy and probably two pounds of macaroni and cheese.

I decided last night (or at some point between slices) that I needed to remove the poison from my diet and do a little “reset”. By this I mean I’ve begun to feel the sting of a diet fit for an unrestricted six-year-old, and it’s weighing heavily on my spirits (LITERALLY). In knowing that I won’t want to be alive if I have to make it through an entire week without pizza, I tried to be reasonable and challenge myself to five days without bread, cheese or candy. This seemed simple and not too restrictive until I realized donuts are probably a bread product and therefore not a suitable breakfast choice.


DAY  1

7:47am – I verbally communicate a desire to my coworker Jaclyn to eliminate bread, cheese & candy for the week. She, In turn, expresses concern about what I will eat without my only known food groups as an option.

9:06am – I greet our intern, Matthew, outside the office. He is holding some sort of a cheesecake/meringue surprise from a neighboring office. I reiterate my intention to cut out the aforementioned products. His response cuts deep: “But it’s raining. Diets don’t count when it’s raining.” He says this dryly and walks away, leaving me feeling like if I don’t start my new diet then nothing is really lost (pun intended). I’m still full from yesterday’s feast(s) so I decide to keep on truckin’.

9:39am – Confused and not sure what I am supposed to eat, I attempt to make a pot of coffee fit for four people even though I will be the only one partaking. Terrifyingly I find we are out of coffee filters. I make a desperate sprint across the hall to another office and ask if I can PLEASE borrow an emergency filter for my emergency situation. Happily they comply, but their coffee filter looks different from the ones we use. I am more or less a fraudulent coffee drinker; I’ve only ever made it at this office, and I will drink it usually for a week or two at a time, remember I hate it because it tastes like shit and it makes me an angry person, and move on to something else (like Diet Snapple). Anyway, I’m desperate so I shove the filter in and do my thing.

9:53am – I begrudgingly drink my coffee with probably like 11 tablespoons of Sugar Free French Vanilla creamer and 3 Splendas (although quite possibly carcinogenic, I deem Splenda exempt from candy category). My hope is that the hunger suppression this coffee brings me will be of more value in my day than the anger I will inevitably feel as soon as I’m done drinking it.

11:00am— After swinging by my boss’s house for a quick meeting, I take one of her daughters to Noah’s for a bagel. I feel sad about this. This may actually be my Hell.

11:05am — We also go to Jamba Juice. I recognize that I don’t want it but it feels safe. I consider a nondairy option but I feel peer pressure to commit so I get my usual: Caribbean Passion Light (cause I’m healthy like that).

12:05pm — I am bored and possibly hungry so I eat a mango snack from Trader Joes (the actual fruit, not the bullshit dried mango pieces that might as well be just actually sold in the candy section).

12:30pm – I place a sensible lunch order of a fancy salad consisting of lettuce, carrots, sunflower seeds, mozzarella cheese, avocado, cucumber & shredded chicken. Will power is my bitch!

1:11pm – I realize halfway through tearing up this bad boy that I’ve already failed to meet my goal for even half a day. I ORDERED A SALAD WITH A CHEESE TOPPING. AND I DIDN’T EVEN KNOW IT. I feel cheated. By me.

1:25pm – I ponder whether “cookies” fall into the “candy” category. I decide yes, they do. Life seems hard.

2:14pm – I consider eating a cookie anyway. I then realize the only person I am hurting is myself.

2:29pm – I purchase a giant fountain Diet Coke with lemon to fill the void. My happiness level peaks at this point in time.

3:25pm – I vocalize a strong desire for a cookie or multiple cookies (again) to my coworker Liz. I decide (upon her approval) to take a handful (make that two) of peanut butter filled pretzels. I let this one slide after careful consideration solely because the bag came from Trader Joe’s and I think somewhere on there it said the word “natural”.

4:40pm – I’m aware that I hate life. My Diet Coke is gone by now and I have nothing to look forward to.

5:15pm – I am already contemplating how to get through dinner. My typical move is to threaten to not actually eat dinner, which I then usually succeed at doing for several hours. Then, when I am starving and unable to make an informed decision, I do something counterproductive like eat four pieces of toast or six popsicles or like two apples and a handful of miniature cookies. It’s fine. Anyway, I’m nervous.

7:00pm – I narrow it down to Whole Foods or Starbucks for dinner. Whole Foods seems hard, and most importantly, dangerous. I’m a loose cannon. I don’t trust myself in a buffet situation.  Not for one second.

7:15pm – I purchase the one and only thing I have ever ordered to drink at Starbucks: Grande Soy Chai with sugar free vanilla, as hot as it can be legally made. And a banana for good measure. I’m feeling hostile (otherwise known as “hangry”) and my boyfriend is being fresh, so I remove my banana from the peel and attempt to hit him in the face on two separate occasions with the banana peel. (Bonus information: he is terrified in a truly phobic way of fruit, which makes it even more fun to use fruit as a fear-inducing tactic when necessary).

8:36pm – I complete my usual wind-down routine of taking a dramatically long bath during which I continue to work from my phone and Instagram my ass off since I only break into my feed during the day to post various animal photos. I am aware that I am still hungry, but I’m not feeling like a problem solver. I am no hero in the kitchen, and the only food assembling I am capable of usually boils down to snack packs of Ritz crackers and string cheese, neither of which are safe as this point in my journey. I recall that I purchased turkey at some point, so I go to the fridge to investigate. I open my deli turkey bag, put a small amount into my mouth, check and see that I purchased this turkey seven whole days ago, deem it unsafe to eat, and cough it back out like a regurgitating mother bird into the trash can.

8:49pm – I decide I’ve had enough. I brush my teeth and even throw down on a little mouthwash so I’m not tempted to lose control and go for the Milton’s Multigrain (which makes a superb slice or nine of toast). At this point I realize as per usual, I have not had a sip of water today. Rather than do anything about it, I instead employ my typical irrational justification, which is that water is obviously involved in the making of both coffee AND Diet Coke, and therefore trace amounts have surely entered my system.

Is this my darkest hour?

More to come.

Peace, love and pepperoni.


To Mother, With Regrets

•August 14, 2012 • 4 Comments

Here’s the lowdown. Today is my Mother’s birthday. While it would be easy to send flowers or a massage, Mommy Dearest channeled her innermost masochist and requested a gift from the cold, dark hearts of her children. She asked for a list from each of her three life-ruiners of the things we liked about having her as a mother growing up, as well as a list of the things we did not like. As a sybarite who is only interested in hearing fabulous things about myself, this sounds like my nightmare. Nevertheless, I must acquiesce to this birthday wish.

Luckily for you, Mom, you raised a grudge-wielding psychopath who is happy to regurgitate a list of compliments resentments for you on your birthday. I’ve been sharpening my perspicacity in a way that I could use it against you one day since I could speak, and you have now encouraged me to do so. Sorry in advance, but this is all your fault.

Like List:

We weren’t your typical brown bag lunch kids. In fact, we were all pretty particular about what we would and would not eat. I don’t remember ever being much interested in school food at all. As soon as I had the option to purchase things a la carte, it was over. Moreover, my mom went to Leger’s (a deeelicious local deli) and hand-delivered us food to the lunchroom on the regs without requesting a delivery tip. While most kids went on shitty carb tours during the lunch hour, I shoved my happy little pie hole with turkey and cheese on a sourdough roll, Sour Cream & Onion Lays and a variety high brow beverages (think Arizona Iced Tea and Kiwi Strawberry Snapple). That kind of star treatment did not go under-appreciated in middle school, nor did the coffee cakes she made that I tore the brown sugar topping off every time without fail, preventing proper consumption of at least half of it.

By that, I mean there wasn’t much. I made it to 27 years of age without ever having felt the sting of consequence. I think the worst it ever got for me was the threat of a phone call to my Dad, the theoretical disciplinarian. Don’t get me wrong, we were chased with a wooden spoon so frequently that I had more interaction with that son of a bitch than any other kitchen utensil, but 1) spoon-beatings are too fleeting to be effective and 2) we learned early on that laughing in your Mom’s face and wagging your ass at her while she tries to spank you with a spoon will indubitably trump her effort to teach any sort of a lesson as well as prevent any sort of satisfaction by spoon. At the age when my friends began having “restrictions” as a result of bad behavior, I would sneer in the face of verbal threats to have privileges removed. For instance, my Senior year of high school when two of my best friends and I got busted partaking in illegal activities at my VERY SOUTHERN bff’s house, I chose to bypass the punishment enforced by her parents (which was to stay in her room all night even though it was Winter Formal and there were parties to be attended). Instead of staying in and contemplating our poor decisions, I jumped out her window in the middle of winter into waist-deep snow, ran down the small mountain her house was perched on, jumped in the escape vehicle of another friend, went home to tell my mom what had happened, and took off to a party with her blessing. Thanks, Mom. I bet you’re regretting that now! (Cackles.)

To this day, I get reminded by one of my best friends about the time my Mom wore two different shoes to a pre-Europe trip meeting at school. I’m not talking like two different black flats. It was like, one of the shoes had a closed toe and a heel; the other shoe was flat and had a peep toe. It was like that. It was actually like that. While you might think I would put this under my list of resentments, I think it gave off the vibe that no shits were given that day by Mom and she was therefore an incredible bad ass who was not to be messed with. Do you think you’d go at someone wearing two totally different shoes? My guess is that you’d be a bit concerned, impressed and frightened, all at once. And no, no you would not go at that person.

To this day, I eat like a seven year old, at best. I was not open to trying new foods and still struggle with it. My Mom is an amazing cook and baker and we had top-class dinners prepared daily, but I could always count on whatever food I was fixated on at that point. I think my Mom made me Tyson chicken tenders and carrot sticks every night for probably two years, followed by another few years of chicken caesar salad ONLY. While everyone else dined on steak, twice-baked potatoes, salad etc., my food-paranoia was fostered and embraced. And now? I am pretty sure every person I have ever dated has had at least seven major panic attacks regarding my food behaviors. You cannot take me anywhere *too* nice and I am mentally not able to even entertain the idea of expanding my palate. Gentlemen callers, be warned.

Resentment Run-Down

I can’t. I still can’t deal with the van years, which were all of the years. I don’t know that Mom is totally to blame here, as Dad was the purveyor of vehicles. I’m starting to wonder if he wanted to keep my Mom’s hot ass in check by constantly purchasing family vans for her to tote us around in. And it’s like, he went out of his way to get luxurious vans with automatic doors and televisions and such. But WHY? These various vans were always a source of embarrassment for me, as I was unapologetically aware that vans were not and will never be cool from a young age, especially not in a vermilion shade. Not only that, but our vans had glittery bumper stickers with phrases like YOU GO GIRL plastered on them and they all managed to look like they had been bitten by giant yetis because (SORRY) my Mom had an uncanny ability to run into things (at least not people). (She is denying this as she reads it.) Anyway, during the formative years, self-esteem is directly hinged upon things not in a child’s control, like the clothing your parents dress you in and the sweet (or not so sweet) rides they roll up in. The van was sort of mitigated by the amazingly matchy/matchy Gap Kids outfits we were adorned in (generally two completely purple on purple on purple outfits for my sister and me and green on green on green for brother), but the van shame lives on.

Anyone who knows me knows that until I turned eighteen, I was stuck in the body of a twelve-year-old boy/Bambi. While all my friends were running around with awesome racks and talking about their periods in middle school, I was getting relentlessly teased for lacking in physical maturity. I was assigned nicknames like “Jennie Stick” and “TW”. What does TW stand for, you might ask? T*TLESS WONDER. Who was the begetter of that name? MY OWN BROTHER. How long did I not know what that stood for? YEARS. So yes, my own family members harassed me on this topic. If I had a dollar for every time my dad asked me when the Boob Fairy was coming, and a dollar for every resulting chuckle that escaped my other family members’ mouths, I'd have Heidi Montagged myself at the plastic surgeon by fifteen and had enough cash left over to legally emancipate myself. When I turned eighteen, everything changed. I went from being completely concave in the chest area to suddenly possessing a sprawling metropolis of T&A (mostly T). I have no one to take this out on but my parents. I can't scientifically place blame on one parent, so Mom, you can take the heat since it's your birthday and you deserve it.

I'm just going to wrap this up by saying that I am still mad about the following items.

I am hereby still angry that-
1. You made me wait forever to shave my legs, and when you finally did allow me to, you only let me shave them to my knees. (WHY? WHY MOM, WHY?)
2. You also made me wait till I was fourteen and get straight A’s in order to pierce my belly button. Shortly thereafter, you allowed Mackenzie (younger sister) to have the same privilege at a much younger age without having to put in the same hard work. I still remember you unveiling her birthday gift- some sort of certificate notifying her that she would be getting her belly button pierced. I do not think I have ever felt a stronger urge to attack someone in my entire life. You and her both.
3. You always bought the kind of orange juice that James and Mackenzie liked and in doing so ignored my needs, thus forcing me to live in their juice shadow…forever. You clearly cared more about their happiness than mine, and that hurts me.
4. One time when I screamed in bed at the sight of a spider, paralyzed with fear, desperately needing you to come to my rescue, you happened to be on the phone and did not appreciate the interruption. I continued to scream as you killed the spider with a paper towel. At that point in time, you nudged me with your free, spider-contaminated hand, in an effort to shut me up. Instead, you smudged spider guts all over my arm. I have never been the same. I will never be the same. In fact, I think this my be the root of all of my future problems. Mystery = solved!

HAPPY BIRTHDAY YOU GORGEOUS BIRD. I LOVE YOU! I’m sorry for ruining your day… and life.

All my love/Sincerely,

The only child who matters

Extremely Justifiable Bitch

•July 27, 2012 • Leave a Comment

Twice this week, comments in observation of my “serious” expression came my way. First, after parking my car in the garage at my apartment, I walked to the elevator and was told by a complete stranger that I look “very serious behind the wheel”. I told him I had a seriously long day, a serious commute home, had seriously not eaten anything but candy in at least three weeks, and in all seriousness, have killed men for less-serious comments.

The next day, my boss’s chef asked me why I always look so serious when I charge into the kitchen, and compared my demeanor to a “drill sergeant” looking to “bust people doing something wrong” although I “look really good today”. So basically I’m a culinary gestapo, only lip glossed and on heels. I’ll be sure to add that to my list of qualifiers for socialization.

Anyway, I’ve been a real bitch this week but after realizing that it’s completely justified, I am ready to begin thinking about the healing process. In the past few weeks, Meg (roommate) and I started noticing some suspect stray bugs; then, as if overnight, we had a full throttle infestation. Unfortunately, it turned out to be a pervasive, bang-happy breed of roaches who apparently do nothing but f*** and eat all day long. Thus, I have been living in a veritable roach brothel. Wednesday night, Meg and I removed every single item from every single drawer and cabinet in the kitchen and stacked everything in the living room in preparation for round one of exterminator execution. I came home from a long day of work on Thursday to a graveyard in the kitchen and note that read, “Please allow 10-14 days for maximum results. You may notice more insect activity after the service is performed”. OH, so basically it said “H.A.G.S in the trenches taking grenades alone because your roommate has taken the pets and abandoned you during this difficult time. PS, for the next 10-14 days, F*** YOUR LIFE”. Our building management also said we would need to do this once a week for a month, which means I will be wearing protective gear and sleeping in a capsule for up to six weeks.

In the last 24 hours, I have successfully killed five roaches IN MY BEDROOM because as expected, they are running for their god damn lives, conveniently directly into my personal space. Two of them have narrowly escaped my unrelenting hand of judgment. And I have a message for you two wise guys: HEAR ME NOW. I will annihilate you and everything you have ever loved. I will kill your wife, your children, your cousins and your pets. I will laugh as you expire and I will wear an array of upbeat colors to your funeral (which will be your long journey from the dustpan into your final resting place at the bottom of a trash bag with all of your closest fiends). You are dead to me. No, really. PSS LOL. Sincerely, The Undertaker’s Stepmother

Now, if you will excuse me, I have to go engage in a shower scene not unlike this:


My Match Dating Profile

•July 9, 2012 • 1 Comment

Recently, I had a thought, as I do have those sometimes. You hear a lot about these days and its hand in helping people find love. I mean, good for you and all, but that whole idea is so suspect to me. The way you can set preferences and sort through potential mates based upon them–we’re not ordering sandwiches here, people. This is real life. And I guarantee you 102% of people are holding back or straight up LYING in their “bios” or whatever the hell you sum yourself up in on there. It’s like, let’s just cut the shit, I’ll tell you what an absolute nightmare it is to date me, and then you can make an informed decision about whether my good looks supersede the cray cray. And if you decide that they do (which you obviously will), then, I mean, good luck.

Let’s just get on with it.

About your potential date AKA me:

You should know that I just turned 27 in June, which makes me a Gemini. When I was 21, I was dating a 27-year-old man who spoke frequently about why he refused to date in his own age range. In his mind, all women his age were marriage-obsessed, baby-starved crazies. I totally agreed with him because 27 years old was unfathomable at that point and I wanted to keep him keen on my hot and unfocused 21-year-old ass. Now? Well, now I am that very scary age, except I hate my uterus with the fire of a thousand suns. I think the fact that society thinks I want a baby or many babies makes me like the idea of them even less. I am about as interested in babies as I am in haunted houses in the month of October, which is not at all. As far as marriage goes, it’s sort of like indulging in In N Out. I really can’t entertain that idea right now, but maybe some other day.

Notable Relationship Habits

I don’t enjoy fighting and I’m not some incendiary she-devil who seeks out arguments. That’s the good news. If we’re fighting, we won’t be dating shortly. As far as my battle technique, I don’t take low blows, but I will push you to the penultimate edge of the earth with sarcasm and dangle you right there until you can’t take it any longer. I will do things like call you “Dude” when you’re making me angry as well, so get excited for that. If you take it too far, I’m gonna shut down on you in a way that will require a small army to get the lights back on. Oh, you want to talk it out, do you? Absolutely not. We are not talking about it till I am good and ready, which will not be until you’re REAL frustrated with the situation. Are we having fun yet? Read on.

Abnormal belief systems:

I am not making any excuses here. I am bat shit crazy, but not in a categorical sort of way. Just like…perplexing, useless crazy. For example: if you want to do something perfectly normal like eat a piece of fish, it is expected that you distill your mouth with alcohol or gum before coming near this face. I generally understand the difference between a simple exchange of a kiss between two people and a bird regurgitating into its baby’s mouth for nutrition, but when things like seafood or milk are involved, I am temporarily unable to differentiate between you vomiting it in or around me and placing your lips upon mine. I’m sorry. I can’t. It’s fine if you want to eat strange meats and cheeses, but just…just use gum and proceed with caution.

Emasculating techniques:

If you try to get mad and do something erratic/manly like punch a wall, I am going to laugh in your face (with sincerity because I think it’s hysterical, not just to be a jerk). I won’t let you have your big man moment. There’s just something I love about tearing a man down psychologically when he’s trying to exert his manliness upon the world in a serious manner. In addition, if you’re trying to focus, my main focus often then becomes trying to distract you. Walking up a steep set of stairs? Expect to be credit carded every time you lift a foot. Really into that tennis match? Prepare to have me balance a roll of toilet paper on your head and laugh hysterically at it, just because. And take pictures. More of the same. It will not end.

Crime and punishment:
You should also know about my mental Rolodex aka bottomless pit where perceived insults go to float around forever and never die. I’m still mad at a male FRIEND for pointing out where my thighs touched when I was thirteen. I truly enjoy and appreciate when you say nice things to me, but if you make a jocular fat comment it will be indelibly burned into my memory. In a decade’s time, I will literally be able to tell you the latitude and longitude of where I stood at the moment that comment escaped your mouth, as well as what I ate for breakfast that morning. I’m really gonna make you rue the moment that thought originated every time I use it against you. For this, I apologize. At least you know now.

Skills I don’t have:

I cannot cook, I hate cleaning, I hate losing and I don’t want to try your rack of lamb because I don’t eat racks of lamb. So please don’t ask. I’m also apparently bad at nudity. I am a real-world never-nude and this never-nudeness was at one point an actual bone of contention in my last relationship. If this is a problem for you, then prepare to be assertive and just remove my clothes for me. I’ll give you that option.

Skills I do have:

All that being said, I am really clean and tidy, I smell delicious (mainly like candy), I shower A LOT, and I am super soft and cuddly. My nail beds are great, like second to none. I can also teach you how to spell things like Sesquipedalian even if you see no point in that. So I at least have like two and a half things going for me.

To sum it up, dating me is probably something like waking up in the Labyrinth every day of your life, except all your co-habitants are former winners of the Hunger Games. And they all have my face. Have you heard that saying, “Like kidnapping a killer”? It’s probably like that.

Are you in love yet? I’m taking numbers.

Forever alone,


A Piece on Traffic

•May 10, 2012 • 1 Comment

First of all, sorry for the lack of posting. Actually, forget it. Sorry I’m only sort of sorry at this point. In truth, I spend 90% of my time working or on the freeway, and generally the other 10% is split between thinking about nail polish and trying to embody Sour Patch Kids with nutrition. Anyway, there are things. They are new.

I’ve had a real shit attitude lately. Deep in the throws of almost-thirty-but-currently-26 anxiety, I spend most my time literally rapid cycling between a false sense of self-importance that leads me to believe that if I try hard enough I could literally levitate at any moment, and then contemplating playing in traffic. Speaking of traffic, due to my new j-o-b, I’ve essentially moved into the jam-packed lanes of the 101 freeway with a side of Laurel Canyon. Today, I got in a full on physical encounter with Siri on the road and I swear to god if you didn’t know any better you would have thought there was an exorcism going on in the car (one mainly composed of me screaming “PENINSULAAAAAA!!!!!!!!” repeatedly, as loud as humanly possible). If I could return my iPhone for one without that worthless concubine, I would. I dare you to try to get her to call the Peninsula Hotel in New York. Or to call Catch Restaurant, not to be confused with Kat’s, because it will not happen.

Also, this is not news, but I am about as poor as an orphan baby right now. I’m basically making dinners out of hope for a better tomorrow and the office candy I find in my pockets. I would like to thank student loans and an undeterred penchant for Sephora visits for making this all possible. Really though, it’s so bad that I’m now trying to avoid all driving other than in downhill situations because it seems more economical. We’re there. We’ve arrived.

For those of you from LA, you understand what a nightmare it can be coming over Lauren Canyon from Studio City back into Hollywood in rush hour. For those of you who aren’t familiar, let me get you a visual. There is a winding, two-lane road that goes up a hill for a few miles. About a mile before you reach the vertex, if you will, the right lane turns into a right turn ONLY lane that forces you on to Mulholland drive. According to science, 93% of everyone driving up Laurel Canyon is NOT TURNING RIGHT ONTO MULHOLLAND DRIVE. Decent people get their asses in line and wait, and wait, and wait to get to the light at the top of the hill. Assholes, on the other hand, drive as far as they can in the right lane and dart left in front of unsuspecting cars like thieves in the night just in time to fly through the light and leave the less-aggressive drivers waiting in an even longer line of cars.

I played nice for about a day before I could not take it any longer. It’s like, if you can’t beat ‘em, become the worst possible kind of ‘em. By day 3 I was doing the sneak attack like it was nobody’s business. But full disclosure, my secondary post-sneak move makes me the President of the Laurel Canyon A-hole Club. You see, after I swiftly cut off an unsuspecting driver and secure myself near the top of the line of cars, I stay so close to the car in front of me (so as to not let anyone else heave in front of me) that I might as well just drive up ON it. It’s remarkable, really, like something out of Human Centipede for motor vehicles. That close. I’m generally listening to something ridiculous like Elton John’s “Honky Cat” so loud my windows shake. Then I continue to act (and actually BE) offended by other cars doing the same thing while cursing the less-vigilant cars in front of me for being weaklings.

I rationalize this daily by thinking I have no other choice, that and the fact that I have a host of self-diagnosed extenuating mental circumstances and traffic makes my anxiety flare up. These are obviously just lies I tell myself to feel better about my behavior.

Basically this is me in Lauren Canyon


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