I just realized the extent of the lameness of that last post. But I'm not going to delete it. Oh no. That would be doing all of you a disservice. I'm just going to let it float in cyberspace as a reminder of what can happen if you listen to The Cure's "Pictures of You" on loop.
...so how about that Kanye West? Thats what the kids are listening to, yes?

Best Week Ever Live came to UMC Friday. I think I have a crush on Paul Scheer. And I got to see him in person.



I know you're all jealous.

Becoming Carrie Bradshaw

Sometimes, like most women, I want to be Carrie Bradshaw. I mean, its like, my ultimate dream.
I want to come home to my New York apartment everynight, curl up on the couch with my laptop, and write. For a living. The only problem is that I lack material. I don't have a Mr. Big. Now personally, I would have went John Corbett. Because Corbett is fucking hot. But the fact remains the same, I'm just too single.
Carrie spent a lot of time being single as well. But at least she had prospects. An elaborate rendezvous here, a one night stand there. Each leading her to write another brilliant revelation about relationships, or just outright sex, that every woman in New York related to. In turn ensuring her salary, allowing her to buy one more pair of Manolos, which she wore on her next date with Big. A perfect cycle. Thus is Carrie Bradshaw's life.
Me? No perfect cycle in this life. I would have to write something other than a sex column. It would most likely be boring and no one would read it. And so there I would be, alone and Big-less in the city.
I've never not been single. My friends have all had boyfriends, sexual misadventures. Me, not so much. Okay, not at all.
Once you've been single for so long, there comes a point when your friends stop being considerate in discussing your situation. They just become your own personal e-harmony. I recall when my friend Hannah began dating a fellow employee at Taco Bell and wanted to set me up on a date with his friend, also an employee at Taco Bell. She described him as "dinky," which, to me, meant that he was either small in stature or kind of a dumbass. Hannah explained that it was the latter, but that he was really nice.
I politely declined her offer. Not because of any fucked up standards I have, but because I didn't want to spend the night making small talk with someone I had virtually nothing in common with. Making small talk is probably the basis of my relationship problems. I could never take the initiative and simply ask someone out. I find myself intrigued by those who can.
But what would Carrie have done? Would she have went out with this man? Possibly. It would depend on whether he was good in bed. They probably would have skipped dinner (his minimum wage salary couldn't afford a New York restaurant) and went straight to her apartment to spoon.
I had no intention of spooning. I doubt we would have engaged in a lifelong relationship or a torrid affair. But what would have been the harm in going out once? What is common knowledge to most, has taken me 18 years to discover. Sometimes, you just gotta date. I've been waiting for this perfect geek with a great sense of humor to find me, when maybe I have to find him. Or maybe this guy I have in mind doesn't exist. Maybe he's someone completely different. Maybe my standards are fucked up. After all, Mr. Big was very flawed.
I haven't quite perfected the art of being Carrie Bradshaw. I'm sure it's something that takes many years to master. Perhaps its the search that shapes us; a string of bad dates, a heartbreak... creating our own perfect cycle. Only then can we appreciate, or identify, exactly what we've found.
Until then, I'm on a search for my version of Mr. Big, whoever he may be. And, just to put it out there, I'm available.

Napolean Dynomite is really just a low grade Butthead from Beavis and Butthead. Think about it.

You Make My Motor Run, My Motor Run

Today is the one year anniversary of my first post. To celebrate its birthday, my blog went out to get smashed and do several kareoke versions of "My Sharona." Its been a good year. We still haven't risen above three readers, but we're always optimistic.
Oooh, my little pretty one...pretty one...

I went shopping this weekend. There's nothing like shopping to remind me why exactly I so avidly despise shopping. And malls. I didn't want to believe that I hated shopping because I was still desperately grasping to the idea that I was Cher Horowitz. When in fact, I am not. Nor will I ever be.
This is partially because as a child, clothes shopping meant following behind my father while he picked out shorts that Denise Huxtable rejected because they were, quote, "too eighties." And so I trudge to school in these abominations that my parents called outfits, whether it be the shorts, floral vests (vests!), or a pink floppy hat that my mother made. Yes, I was that kid. Everyone knows that kid.
The older I got, the worse it became. There was a point in my life when I thought it was acceptable to wear overalls. Plaid ones. And everyday of 10th grade I insisted on wearing sparkly tie belts and an ever-present metallic green "clippie," (def: clippie, noun, women's hair accessory used to pull back hair in unattractive manner, the evil second cousin of the scrunchie, sets forth illusion that hair is being suppressed by the claw of an alien life form) Oh, it wasn't pretty.
Now that my fashion sense has improved (slightly), my problem lies not with the clothes that I own, but with the clothes they are selling at the mall. Such as lo-rise hip huggers. Just when I thought they had gone the way of the stirrup pants. I will never in a million years get those things over my hips, and even if I did they would create this... waist cleavage which is, to say the least, never good.
But I haven't even gotten to the worst part. The stores. The stores! With their stereos blasting Black Eyed Peas music and their half naked buff manequins propped up against a surf board. There isn't a beach within a hundred miles,Buffy McBuff. Maybe if we ignore her, the person with the ginormous ass, will just. go. away. And I do. Past the store of elitist employees who express their angst by wearing an array of paperclips on their clothing. I don't dare go in there because I haven't listened to enough Sum 41 that day. Or ever.
And then, like a beacon in the night, Old Navy. Sure, you become a walking paradody of those "superskirt, superskirt...superflirty!" commercials. But look, real people sizes. Enjoy your shopping experience and don't forget to pick up your free t-shirt on the way out. Thank you and goodnight.

How sad and pathetic are you if you find yourself in hysterics over the end of You've Got Mail? I was just sitting there minding my business, having a perfectly normal day, not one in which included turning into a blubbering mess of estrogen. Then, what happened? I'll tell you what happened. Tom Hanks and Meg Ryan happened. And there was magic. And I start to think things like, why can't I find a Joe Fox?
It was at that moment I knew I had hit rock bottom.
I need to start watching movies with more guns. And aliens. But I'll probably just watch Beaches instead.

And I Thought I Was A Huge Daily Show Fan...

[www.bringbackthecouch.blogspot.com]
I too was saddened by the set change. The large, round table without the couch seems so uninviting and stiff. Similiar to, oh I don't know, Crossfire.
We know how Jon feels about that.

Like A Pregnant Britney Spears, Living the Dream

I have a little less than a month before I leaving for the land of drunken frat parties.
This? Is an interesting time. Advice is spouted towards me, right and left. In my family, its anything from "stay focused on school" to "use protection." Thanks, but I caught this all on an afterschool special on the N. Degrassi Junior High prepared me for life.
On a positive note, you get a lot of stuff. I got an aweseome cordless vac and a lifetime supply of Cheezums and Laundry Detergent. And a pink nightgown thats not a muumuu not yet a tube dress and makes me feel like a barefoot and pregnant Britney Spears at a truckstop. I really like it. On top of it all, college scares the hell out of me. I don't know what I'm doing with my future. On one hand, I want to major in journalism. On the other, I always wanted to hand out individual sausage samples on toothpicks at an A&P grocery. I could have my. own. booth. I'm going to make everyone so proud.