Now here’s the thing.  I wouldn’t say this sort of thing if I didn’t know it for sure.  Because see, I’m not going to act like anyone gives a hootin’ holler about me, however, I have gotten a few inquiries.  So, here’s the thing:

• I’m miserable about a few things, don’t want to be all LiveJournal about it
• I’m happy about more than a few things.  And frankly, writing about happy stuff has actually always been hard for me and when I see other people write all that I’m so happy crappy it rings of poopstick.  And the last thing I want to do is sound like a pompose faux turd.  Suffice it to say, I’m happy.
• my FUCKING CAMERA DIED.  Oh that’s right.  Camera and fixed lens (that makes the beautiful bokeh) are both in the shop.  Body and two lenses.  And one lense has parts on “back order”.  Oh honey, I know what backorder is.  That’s “oh fuck, where did we put the box, and why does this bitch keep calling every day for status” because that’s right, I call every day for status.   It’s MY CAMERA.  I USE IT FOR WORK.  and oh GOD I miss it for life.  I REALLY do.  I have nothign right now and now everythign is something I want to capture.  Suddenly, I have seen so many things that I want to snap from under and over and with a little droplet and reflection and weird focus.  It hurts.  It’s like I had a baby after trying so hard and then left it at the mall outside the fucking RAVE store and someone from Wisconsin took it and made it a Mormon.  Oh shut up Mormon’s I’m just sayin.  Oh it’s so hard.

that’s it.

tonight I went to see Bomba Estereo at Bowery Ballroom as part of Latin Alternative Music conference and shit on a piece of delicious toast, they were amazing.

I’m going to start my own bus line inspired by the strict cleanliness of environment rules of Sinapore.  Here are the simple rules that I’ve developed based on the hell that is anything longer than a 30 minute stretch of time either on Greyhound “leave the decapitating to us” and Megabus “snotty Boston college brat? Will travel!”

• no gum.  It’s obvious that no one other than my own mother has taught their children how to chew gum.  Now these children are adult acne prone and stringy haired and they’re on my bus smacking away – chasing that pink or blue rubber blob around their mouths with thier nasty overbloated tongues, making my brain freeze dry and puff out my ears in a powder of irritation.  NO.  GUM.
• No tuna sandwiches.  You’re in an idiot who has never seen the eye rollings and death stares of people around you when you unleash your low tide smelling stomach soother even in a well ventilated area if you bring a freakin’ tuna sandwich (or salad!) into the multi bodied coffin that is the bus.  In fact, on my bus, if you’re going to bring any food on it has to be in a clear plastic bag so the driver can identify it’s nature.  In fact, i’m already amending the rule: only white chips, cookies, toast, and bologna are allowed.  Bologna is totally smell less.  Should you break this rule, you’ll be forced to lick the floor of a greyhound bus bathroom.
• It appears that even grown adults do not understand that when you touch something or someone, they feel it.  here’s an example.  Knees.  We’ve all got ‘em (if we’re lucky).  Hey, look at that seat back in front of you!  I wonder if the person, when you jam your stinky little boney BJ stands into it, feels it!  You’re RIGHT! They do!  It’s amazing how the pressure of what feels like two midget heads can turn even the most calm traveller into a psychopathic no repentance killer!  My bus’s seat backs will have electric shock systems woven into the back that will shock the kneecap offender upon contact.  Three shocks and you’re immediately ejected from the bus.
• And finally – the loud cell phone talking is out.  The mistake has been made to trust that everyone is aware of the close proximity of public transportation thus making the simple text “I’m on my way, I’ll call you when I can talk” a necessity.  Nope, we can’t be trusted.  Without fail some ding dong whips out their startac and lets the audience of 80 know that the biopsy came back and it’s just a seething goiter.  Or one of my favorites, the college hookup play by play for the entire 2-5 hour ride.  Cellphone of course will be allowed in case of emergency, but should your phone ring with increasing intensity (deedledeedledeedle   deedle dee!) and then you voice follows suit an alarm will sound, screaming that “seat # INSERTYOURSEAT is talking too loud!” launching disco lights and fart gas so that the entire bus suffers because you’re a loud talking imbecile.  Upon leaving the bus at the final destination everyone will receive the offending loud talker’s home address and net worth of their family for ransom purposes.  The offender will also be forced to wear a “I fart on the bus” t shirt for an entire week and yes monitors will be in place.

Due to high overhead, tickets might be a little pricey, but frankly, I’d pay it

I really do not appreciate your attitude today and in the couple of days leading up to it.   You’re kind of being a jerk and if I were more ambitious I’d get rid of you if I wasn’t 100% sure I might need you at some point in life.  You’re officially on my shit list, however, as you’re creating physical pain for me, lethargy, and predictable but nevertheless shocking mood swings.  I’d even go so far as to accuse you of trying to ruin my life, but that’s a little dramatic.  You’ll have to forgive me, I’m a little hormonal.  It’s. Your. Fault.

Have you seen pageant documentaries? I’m talking the little kiddie ones.  THAT is how she grew up.

• I don’t expect anyone in a “beauty” pageant, regardless of how they position it with the whole “well rounded and representing your state/country/doughnut shop” PR vomit, to say anything that I fully support or even feel represented by.
• She competes for your acceptance as your representative in a bikini.  Go to your local government web site.  Go to the white house website.  Those are the people who you should care about representing you.  Those are the people who you also don’t want competing in bathing suits.
• She has fake boobies.  Boobies she didn’t even invest in.  My favorite part about all of this is that the pageant authority figures want to be taken so seriously, but they operate on the mantra of “put your best boob forward” not “put your best brain forward.”  Again, I need to reiterate, I don’t give a shit about pageants, but now suddenly we’re all supposed to be up in arms about the vapid, fantasy based opinions of someone who thinks that the way to present confidence is with a boob job she isn’t even invested in.  I mean, at least know the rewards of saving for something you really want, getting it, and then really appreciating it.
• She’s hot, not smart.  Period.
• BFD she has a different belief system than I do.  We can call her names and stone her publicly, but seriously, she’s not evil, she’s not rallying her gay fearing friends and resorting to gang violence.  She’s not a god damn senator.  She’s just an ignorant backwards damaged toddler in a tiara.  I seriously do not care that she only believes in “opposite marriage.”  I really don’t.   She stated her opinion and it’s different than what I hope is growing to be a more popular opinion, but who the f cares.  Is she going to get a bill passed? No.  Is her comment single handedly going to shake up our political system? No.  Spend less time on some silicone filled, fake blond, soft core porn wannabe and write letters to your congressmen, participate in marches, support your gay friends, make out with a hot girlfriend (woops, where did that come from).  DO SOMETHING.  Stop talking about vapid cotton ball bullshit, stop giving it more attention, and DO SOMETHING.
• I can not express enough how completely inane it is that there are press conferences on whether or not she keeps her crown.  Really? It’s a disgrace that she said what she said?  The disgrace is that we still have advertiser supported televised beauty competitions where this stupid ideal woman is selected to represent our states and countries.  Let’s have a fucking spelling bee instead.  I’d rather have a spelling bee winner represent “me” at the Miss Universe pageant.  In fact! The winner of the Miss Universe pageant should be shot into space at the end with only a map and a compass to find her way home.  I mean, shit, make it worth while.

Other countries must be laughing at us right now – here we are in economic turmoil – our middle class is living in tent towns next to some really spunky meth addicts, jobs are scarce, and mcDonalds fries just aren’t what they used to be, and every news outlet is focusing on some fake boobed dumbass who’s word carries about as much weight as a fart in a sandstorm.

I hate positive people as much as the next guy. Ok I don’t HATE them, but I am an all facets kind of gal. If I feel shitty, I feel shitty. If I feel awesome, I feel awesome. If I feel like a huge bitch, I’m probably a huge bitch. If I’m ecstatic, you know I’m ecstatic. I’m emotionally charged all the time, and when my battery is dying, well, that’s 100% a feeling, too. Because of that, I don’t like it when other people throw a bloody rain of sunshine or share a nice little silver lining about my gripe or grouse. I know, I’m such an asshole, right? Like, seriously – if I feel like poop, don’t throw glitter on it and tell me it’s not poop. It’s poop!

Which is why I surprised myself this weekend, and if you’re the next guy, you’re going to hate me for being so positive, but yeah, I surprised myself this weekend by launching into it with a “I’m not going to gripe about anything” policy. Because, see, my little chicken wings, I usually wake up on Sunday groaning about Monday. Which robs me of my goshdang Sunday. I suddenly have maybe one good workless day a week – and it’s my own doing! This weekend I felt the Monday anxiety creep up – it starts mid esophagus. It has to share my esophagus with alcohol induced GURD, but it’s there and it owns its individuality, and it burns. It creeps up my throat, causing more anxiety, and then I just burp my way into Monday morning, usually spending all of Sunday night on the couch watching The Soup again and sitting through all of Adult Swim because even though I’ve seen those episodes of Family guy 18 times already, they’re still rolling-in-a-basket-of-buttholes-funny. It’s like if I stay up super late on Sunday, Monday won’t come as quickly. Again, you’re probably thinking I’m like A Beautiful Mind over here – damaged genius. Alas, no, stop writing your Oscar worthy screenplays about me, I’m actually just an ass. My Sunday night activities make it nearly impossible for me to wake up on Monday, making me hit work way too late, thus establishing a week of abnormal behavior.

What the f was I saying? OH! Right – so yeah, even though I felt the crazy creep, I pushed it down and I let myself relax and enjoy Sunday. While lying in the Central Park sun I not once groaned about Monday, I just sort of accepted it’s coming. And guess what? When I woke up this morning, I swore that this was going to be a good week. That NOTHING was going to shart in my shackburger. Oh that’s right, all you positive silver lining sunshining on the showers freaks, I harnessed your stupid idea and so far it’s working.

Jerks.

So I’ve been doing this thing where I don’t drink during the week.  Last week was ROUGH.  Imagine you’re in an industry that’s lousy with networking parties or just parties here and there where everyone is either unemployed or a “consultant” trying to drum up new business.  Then imagine that you cover these parties for a living.  Then imagine being sober at all of them.  Exactly, it can’t be done.  Now imagine that you’ve been subscribing to that “I gotta getta drinkinme soze i can handle this” theory for, oh I don’t know, almost A YEAR NOW. [hint hint, my year anniversary writing my column is coming up.]  Now imagine that you decide to not drink during the week that you have an event scheduled every night.  It was brutal, but I made it.  Day 1 was not good.  I was edgy and a freak.  Day 2 was anger ball time.  Like, what the hell?  why do I have to NOT drink? Everyone else does it and they’re fine.”  Of course, they don’t also get belligerent and then sit down to a good facebook drunken commenting session – with an employee of one of the most fould gossip ridden mean mean mean online publications out there.  Yeah. Day 3 was almost ok.  It was sort of a light at the end of the tunnel day.

And so on.  and it’s a good thing I didn’t drink (and I’ve been GORGING myself on detox tea.. though i want one that’s harsher, like makes me cry to jesus the next morning on the porceline… that’s how you know it’s working) because looky what I got to experience:

• A reader decided to ask me if I meant to sound racist in the way I captioned a photo.  It was a photo of a black couple that I am friends with.  The female is consistently well dressed and fashionable.  Thus, i said something about “color coordinated.” That, apparently, could sound racist?  Really?  Really, reader? So, I should be careful when I talk about my previous love of coloring books, water colors, and brightly colored lights just in case there are black people around?  I mean, come the fuck on.  But you know how someone plants that seed and you start asking yourself if it came off that way?  I almost sent it to the gal and asked if she was offended, but I didn’t want her to start thinking  I was thinking she obvioulsy must be an ambassador for her race.  If I had been hungover, I wouldn’t have dealth with the situation as well as I did.
• The next day someone called me an ignorant unskilled idiot writer responsible for the downfall of the advertising industry.    You haven’t “made it” until someone asks if you really get paid for what you WORK REALLY FUCKING HARD AT.  again, I probably would have cried, would have reacted worse had i been hungover.  Now mind you, this dillhole called me a douchenozzle in his blog once a well.  It should be noted he’s probably a pedophile clown.
• I had to deal with more BS from boobies, the energetic cotton ball of a snatch in my office who is just so vapid, so vacuous in the cranium that I feel my body turning inside out from the blackhole-like pull of her reverse intelligence.  In a meeting, i kid you not, the prince said “oh, shoot, I’m sorry, you had something important to say but I talked over you.”  DEAD SILENCE.  And then (start with a good uptalk “…..  I diiiiiiIIIIIiiiiiiiIIIIiiiidddd?”  Auw, gawd.

The week ended up great, where I covered a party where the people were so out of my league, i turned into my 3rd grade self and waited to fall on my face in front of the girlscouts and break my two front teeth.  It was awful.  i couldn’t even stay there to help get rid of cancer.

Last night began the wagon again after a fabulous weekend of lazing about in Central Park, drinking, laughing about ridiculous nonsense, and BBQing.  I decided to hit Trader Joe’s for my brussels sprouts fix.  I’m standing in line and nearly lose a yard of skin off the back of my ankle.  I turned around and said to the couple behind me, “Please stop that.”  I wasn’t snotty, I wasn’t horribly aggressive like I usually am at the store (self defense people!!).  I’m trying to be non anger ball me.  The one man look in my face and made the sNOTTIEST FAUX LAUGH AND SMILE in my face and waved me back around.  Yes, it was a gay couple.  And I’ll have you know, my gay friends, you were ill represented this evening.  I move foward.

Their cart hits my can. (for my englandland pals, their carriage hit my… bum).  I thought “no, this isnt’ happening”.  I hear behind me, “Why is it always the small ones?” BANG, cart connects with my sack.  I scooch up and move my sack towards the front (this is not porn). Now the cart is flush against me, PUSHING ME FORWARD.  it’s intentional, obviously.  I turned around again and said “Could you please stop, your cart is pushing against me.”  One of them very fakely said “oh gosh, sorry!!!” while the other one hit his hand and said “now, stop.”  yes, now stop. The other times you were trying to assrape me with your cart were actually socially acceptable.

I came out the winner though because they didn’t say “why is it always the fat ones.”

Cheers.

I’ve got lots stored up.  some of the topics I plan to cover are:

• boobies, and not what you think
• credit where credit is due
• control
• straight talk
• drunken facebooking
• e-vacation
• work/life
• friends vs fiends
• being an asshole

I know, you’re all pretty excited.

oh yeah bitches, I’m meeting the deadline!  the first three are my likes.  the final one is my official submission for “motion”.  I .love.her.

All kinds of movement on all levels in this one:

official

Brooksy!
Rusticle!
Conni?
Elizabeth!

Yowwee!

My goals are attainable and they go a little something like this:

• go outside
• buy an awesome knife
• buy an awesome pickle
• take some awesome pictures
• find an awesome side table w/storage
• update my portfolio
• write some Yelp reviews
• somehow spend not a lot of money
• behave

And, GO