Dear Number 4A:
It's so nice to know that someone is out there living out their Sex and the City dreams these days. We all know what a rare, precious thing that is. Spread those wings, girl!
I wonder what it is someone who gets home between 2 and 3 a.m. on weekday nights could be doing for a living that would sustain the rental prices of Manhattan. What makes things even more puzzling is your ritualistic vacuuming between the hours of 5 and 6 p.m. every single day. This is more vacuuming than any studio could possibly need. The frequent packages from what looks to be your mother on behalf of Pottery Barn and West Elm must mean that whatever it is you do, it has not been enough to sever family ties.
Can I speak freely here? I hate you.
Sometimes when I hear you stumbling, most likely on all fours, up to your fourth floor walk up in what can only be a pair of lead boots from an antique deep-sea diving suit, I find myself with a case of hate-induced Tourette's Syndrome. Words I usually reserve for Ann Coulter pour freely.
We are already on shaky ground, friend. But then last night, in addition to all the other pain and suffering you've so deftly doled out, you invited friends over for activities I can only assume were drunken shuttle runs, rounds of 2 lbs lady dumbbell tossing, and handstands.
So as happy as I am for you that you were fully inspired by the 2008 Olympics, I want you to know that I lay festering with rage trying to think of ways I could ruin your life that won't get me arrested. My only relief last night came in the form of your anxiety-riddled Siamese cat, whose unrelenting wailing and anguished meows induced a hate stroke inside my brain so fierce that I knocked myself unconscious with rage.
Maybe one day soon you will fall victim to your own folly (and my hope lies with untreated syphilis). Until then, I will be eagerly awaiting the end of your reign of terror.
Labels: dick move, Empathy for Criminals, How did this become my life?, NYC, Really?, stank, Why My Life Is An Elaborate Cymbalta Ad, wrongness, WTF
Somewhere back in the deep recesses of my brain, sandwiched between the ABC After School Special starring Calista Flockhart as an innovative, forward-thinking bulimic who taught us all about barfing in jars and that horrifying episode on Little House on the Prairie when Sylvia got raped by a mime, lives a darker memory. It’s the hazy memory of an 80s movie staring a young, plump Wendie Jo Sperber (RIP) as a lovable fat chick who is (obviously) a social outcast.
Wendie Jo Sperber, Team Chunk Pioneer
IMDB would have me believe that this was “Dinky Hocker.” All I know is that in this movie Wendie Jo was frantically shoveling ho-hos and other carb variants down her pie hole so fast she could barely breathe. But the scene that is really burned in my memory is the one where she is told by the Queen Bees that she’s allowed to join their sorority. She fully believes this is all on the up-and-up and gratefully partakes in their hazing rituals. They tell her to put on a bikini and wait in one of the rooms of the house for their analysis. As if this is not a horrifying enough proposition, what awaits her is so much worse.
We see poor Wendie Jo, huddled in a corner wearing a bright blue bikini. She looks pretty cute to me, but in TV land she is clearly revolting . When the door flies open it is not a bevy of sorority sisters, but a cute popular guy she has been tutoring and crushing on HARD. Wendie is stuck in the horrible, unimaginable situation of having to then RUN out of the room with her confused Crush looking on in complete confusion while some Alpha Bitch laughs hysterically.
I tell you this tale because this is what I am anticipating I tell you this tale because I feel like a chunky Wendie Jo, huddled in the corner after being nominated for the Hot Blogger Calendar. Surely, this will only end badly.
Part of me wants to win this to represent Team Chunk. The other part of me is terrified that a roomful of evil doers awaits with breathless anticipation to see me running, tears streaming down my face, cellulite bouncing, into the moonlight.
Labels: Feminism- what's that?, God?, How did this become my life?, Mommy issues, solidarity, Why My Life Is An Elaborate Cymbalta Ad, wrongness, WTF
Y'all I am not feeling Blogger as of late. Blogging in general was kind of riding my jock in an way I did not enjoy. Some jock riding is pleasurable. But this kind was chafing. So I've switched to Tumblr because it's what all the cool kids who read Gawker do. Also, I kind of like how I can just post a pic and be done with it.
So catch me on the flip side: Dianasaurus Rex
I will probably not let YOU: On My Blog die entirely. I know how dearly it would be missed.
Labels: BOLD, comedy, No but seriously, trends that suck, Why My Life Is An Elaborate Cymbalta Ad, WTF