Tag Archives: funny

You’re At The Top Of Your Class! Too Bad No One Will Ever Care.

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Holy crapballs.


There’s something we’ve got to talk about before we take this relationship any further. No, I’m not going to talk aboutthe six consecutive years I avoided the dentist, or how I almost married a British heroin addict, or how I almost married a bipolar psychopath, or how I will search for as long as it absolutely takes to find a close parking spot because I’m grossly out of shape and have no desire to remedy that situation, or how I will inevitably listen to the same song for two straight weeks which then ruins it for the rest of eternity, or how I can’t seem to buy toilet paper until I literally run out while on the toilet.

We’re not talking about any of that. Sorry to tempt you.

What we ARE talking about is how the crap I ended up being 27.  And how no one even had the decency to fire a warning shot.

Oh, I forgot I wasn’t going to reveal any personal details on this website. My bust. V over at Uncorked, just wrote a post about how she’s got her 10 year reunion coming up and it got me to thinking about mine. Oh dear, what will they all say of my singleness, my random smattering of job choices, the fact that I quit college cus it was B.S., and how I don’t have ANY CHILDREN to blame my butch haircut on?!? If I had one, that is. Which I never will cus someone has to keep living the dream. And that someone is me.

Please pay close attention to the picture below. Study it with reckless abandon.

Sorry, that wasn’t really an appropriate usage of that phrase, but I have been trying to incorporate it into as much of my written and spoken word as possible this month. Some of us like to achieve the goals we’ve set out, you know?

graduation

Did you pay close attention?

Well if you did then you might notice there are only 18 people there. Did the plague sweep through my high school? Were we the original group to encounter the Swine Flu? Was it Senior skip day?

Not necessarily. That might have been everyone.

And I’m very proud to say I was in the top 5% of my class, academically. Although having only like 10 male dating prospects truly sucked, I won’t ever have to endure the torture that is a class reunion. Cus really? Like any one of us would go to that. And like any one of us would take it upon ourselves to plan that. So BOO-YA. I bet all of you are wishing right now that you went to an overly strict, fundamental Baptist school which didn’t allow you to attend movies, wear pants, have unnatural colored highlights, more than two piercings per ear lobe, sleeveless shirts, open-toe shoes, or sit next to the opposite gender- but did accuse you of being in a gang.

We can’t all have perfect lives.

 

Open Letter: How Can We Break Up Without Me Having To Tell You?

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[My mother unearthed several boxes of letters from my childhood. I have no clue why they were saved, but what’s mine is yours. And if there is one thing more ridiculous than my current life, it would have to be all the time leading up to my current life.  Hence, I started writing about these gems and refer to them as – the Open Letters]

If there’s one thing that I suck at more than commitment, it’s breaking those commitments.  And leaving bowls of half-eaten Eggos in the backseat of my car. But whatever. Sometimes a piece of toast sneaks in there, but only when things really get off the hook.

In other words, I’m non-confrontational.

And from the looks of these pictures and the following letter, that trait started long, long ago.

confrontation1

christmas

As I explained on my last blog So I Fell Asleep In A Few Bible Classes, I never dated until I was almost out of high school.  So you can imagine my shock, when after reading through these letters, I see that several boys thought they were dating me. I’m not sure if that was my fault or theirs. But I like to think that given the Baptist school setting, relationship lines were a bit blurred.  I’m pretty sure if you sat next to someone in Chapel [far enough apart so that a King James Bible could fit in between you, of course] then your families would be having a joint brunch that following Sunday to discuss whose aunt would be singing a hymn at the wedding.  If you’d like to read more about my Baptist school experience and how I used to be in a gang, please go here.

From what I can deduce, I received this letter circa 7th grade.  Apparently, the word on the street was that I was through with this guy, except I hadn’t bothered to tell him. Unfortunately, he failed to use his awesome observation skills to detect things like the proper spelling of my name, or say, punctuation.

love-letter2

For more Open Letters you can check out:

Open Letter: Rejection at it’s finest

Open Letter: Dear Liar Liar, your pants are burnt to a crisp

dsc_3619edit1P.S. Don’t forget to check out my latest photography post with the cutest munchkin around!  I’ve never lied to you. As far as you know.

 

So I Fell Asleep In A Few Bible Classes

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“The magic of first love is our ignorance that it will never end.”

You know I thought boys had cooties til I was about 17, right?  Up until that point, I viewed them only as despicable creatures sent to this earth as God’s punishment to Eve. It’s possible I fell asleep in a few Bible classes.  I also thought that babies came from swallowing watermelon seeds. I know it might be a bit too precautionary, but I still always buy seedless.

Growing up, all of my other girlfriends were much more advanced in the relationship  department.  They had “boyfriends” [or whatever the appropriate term would be for the guy that you’re not allowed to be in a closed-door room with but cheer for at football games].  They knew all the definitions of the “bases.”  They had someone to send them flowers on carnation day.

Puh-lease.

carnation-flowerLike I really wanted a cruddy, half-dead carnation anyway. Lame.  If the school would have hosted lasagna day, it might have been worth the inevitable hassle of claiming one of those smelly boys.  However, twas not my fate.

Then one day… wait a minute.

Hold the phone.

I met a smelly boy that changed everything.

My best friend set us up. I believe her exact words were: “There are two guys at my school that would be perfect for you.”  They both had brown hair and blue eyes according to the very detailed description of important details that was provided for me.  So I opted for the one who was “more funny.”  Of course, she had accidentally started dating the other one before I had a chance to meet either of them, so I guess I didn’t really have a choice.

BLUNT FACT: If ever given an option between two of anything, Blunt will always choose funny. Especially if the other options have anything to do with condiments, seafood, clowns, the Southwest, animals that bark, animals that shed, or Neil Diamond. But really, on a scale of 1–> infinity, how sick are we of the Neil Diamond references?

And on a scale of 1–> not a chance, what do you think is the possibility of me stopping?

So we met and instantly fell into premature love with reckless abandon. We ended up dating for 4 years. He was the sort of guy who would drive an hour to bring me a cough drop.  Or flowers on a Tuesday.

My Senior year, I was home sick and there was a snowstorm.  He was broke, as is the fate of every unemployed high school boy who grossly underestimates the cost of having a girlfriend.  He drove to my house and handed me a bouquet of sticks.  He said he’d picked them outside of school and he hoped that 1) he wouldn’t get another in-school suspension and 2) it would cheer me up.

I’m not one for sentimental crap, but to this day that is still my most favorite gift. I kept them in the back window of my car until I got in my car accident and they were lost among the wreckage.

That breakup was one of the hardest things I’ve ever gone through.  He was my first boyfriend, I was his first girlfriend.  I was crazy about him and he cherished me. We were best friends.  The breakup strung out for two torturous years because neither of us could fully let go. I could say that I had my reasons for leaving him, but the truth is – I was too young and immature to appreciate him.  We were so young that I never thought he would grow up. It was a classic case of bad timing.

I’ve never stopped thinking about him.  We had stayed in touch until before I left for London.  I had previously refused his attempts to get back together, but while I was in London, I truly missed him. I tried contacting him after I returned, thinking that maybe we had both come to the point where we could make it work.  I then discovered he had gotten married two weeks before I came back.

Three years went by.  He had moved. I had heard bits and pieces of how he was doing, but his wife forbade him from speaking to me.  I desperately hoped that he was happy.

Then, one day, I was answering calls at the bank and I heard his voice on the other line.

It was good to hear his voice.

So, what about your first love?

We Can’t Even Afford Boxed Wine

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Last November I received an early Christmas present. And I want you to know that I’m currently fighting the urge to chase the rabbit trail topic that is “the Holidays” …even though that rabbit happens to be a big, fluffy, white one that I’m very attracted to.  I’m doing this for you, because I realize it would offend some of your minds if I talked about how my tree is already up.  Or how I might have hypothetically busted out my Christmasy music mix.  Or about how I’m currently wearing my plaid Christmas morning PJs while drinking hot chocolate and eating pancakes. So I’m not going to bring any of that up.

Being the top notch person that I am, I have opted out of bashing the former employer who screwed me over last holiday season.  Oh, you didn’t hear about that? Well, that’s probably because I’m so top notchy. However, it just so happens that the leaves aren’t the only things changing their colors around here.

Dear Nancy Drew,

If you weren’t able to crack that code, it means, precisely, that I will now be busting out the former employer who screwed me over.

Love, Blunt.

I wrote a heartwarming tale about how this crushing experience kick-started my freelance writing career [and this blog] in the newest Chicken Soup for the Soul book- Count Your Blessings, which will be released November 3rd.  When I receive my copies, I will post the PDF for you along with the others on my Words by Brit freelance writing website if you’d like to read it.

But I know you won’t.

So I’m gonna talk about it now.

christmas-presents

Let’s just say when you work for a quasi-local bank that has a BIG RED sign and rhymes with ShmAMCORE, and you are one of the top performers in your department, and you’ve gotten Employee of the Month 6 times in a year and a half, and you just got a promotion, and you’ve had no write-ups or warnings whatsoever…. it comes as a bit of a shock to be let go like a cheating housewife with poorly highlighted hair.  The feelings of mere shock and paranoia can often lead to depression.

I’m not saying that’s what happened.  I’m not one to succumb to depression.

All I’m saying is that I spent a few months locked in my room with the blinds shut, listening to Joni Mitchell, watching Matthew McConaughey movies, and eating all the leftover holiday candy and pre-packaged food that I’d previously hidden from myself in attempt to get my body ready for summer.  That’s all.

I did receive occasional visits from the outside world. “The outside world,” however, consisted only of my six friends who were also axed on the same day.  They were the only ones able to appreciate the abyss of sadness that was my bedroom. We wallowed together. In sweatpants and silence. Every once in awhile a conversation would take place:

Unemployed friend: I need a glass of wine.

Unemployed Me: We can’t afford wine.

Unemployed friend: Not even the fake kind that isn’t even wine?

Unemployed Me: Not even that.  Or the kind in the box.

[silence..]

[in unison, as we looked at each other]:  SERIOUSLY?

Unemployed Me: Hey, did you eat all the Ferro Rochers!?

Unemployed Friend: Maybe. But there’s some Christmas tree Andes mints left.

Unemployed Me: Oh, awesome. Mints. Get out.

Something I noticed when going through this crisis, is that you’re not the only one who panics.  I think my mother might have been hospitalized for a short amount of time when she heard the news.  Then, of course, it didn’t take long [one month exactly] for my family to muster up some sort of inappropriate reaction to my lack of income.  Now is when I’d like to draw your attention to the picture above, where I am indeed sitting next to dish soap and holding individually wrapped toilet paper rolls with Christmas bows.

Really?

Why I Hate Women: Part 6 of 7,893

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[ In case you missed the first installment, please check out Why I Hate Women: Let Me Count The Ways and then because I got equal amounts of hater/lover responses to said blog, please check out my rebuttal entitled: Dear Haters, Why Do You Love Me So Much? ]

I guess hate is very strong word. When I think of hatred, only a few things come to mind: Nazi Germany, dead beat dads, Frasier, the DaVinci Code, and the unspoken singer which I reference on a consistent basis.  So I suppose I could classify my disposition toward women as mere frustration.  But I’m far too Italian and dramatic to use the word “frustrated.”  Pffft.

Recently, I noticed that my blog Why I Hate Women: Let Me Count The Ways, continues to get alot of attention. I often wonder, does this come as a surprise to you guys? I mean, after having dealt with women your whole lives, is it an overwhelming shock that some of us take issue with our own gender? Speaking of my own gender, blog comments such as this one, from “anonymous,” lead me to believe that some women might be taking my witty banter personally: 

“So you all comment on a website that is sexist and idiotic and down right harsh to women, you know how many women out there think that men are soo much worse than women but DON’T write stupid blogs about it! My god, go get a life and delete the blog it makes you sound like your childish!! shame on you.”

I use this comment as an illustration because it further proves my point on why I hate women. You can’t take a freaking joke? Holy mother of insanity.  Really?

I feel that some of you think I hate women for the sole purpose of sabotaging my own gender.  I assure you this isn’t so.  Thus, I’ve decided to continue what will turn out to be the second installment of a 7,893 part series on why I dislike women.  All of this isn’t to say men don’t have their issues. We all do. It just so happens, my chemical makeup is designed to more easily deal with their craziness than that of the female kind.  Our brand of crazy is particularly alarming. To further demonstrate what I’m talking about, there is currently a group of women reading this, who are placing me in one of the following categories:

1. I’m starved for male attention.

2. I’m a slut [I’m not sure how this conclusion is drawn, but just trust me, it will be]

3. I have a weird nose and/or smile [or some other cut-down based on my physical appearance]

In all actuality, I love normal women. And if using the word “heart,” didn’t send my body into convulsions, I might even say that I heart them. And by normal, I mean, women who are capable of the following:

1. Getting over it. Contrary to popular belief, there is no prize at stake, champ.  This isn’t the Grudge Olympics.  Or the Olympics of many things you can bring up during an argument that have nothing to do with what we’re actually arguing about.

2. Not making everything into a competition. Is it possible to be happy for another woman’s success?  And if a guy flirts with your friend rather than you, it doesn’t mean she’s better than you.  It just means he wants to flirt with her.  The next guy will want to flirt with you. And probably the next guy too. Stop taking it so personally, Spazzy McInsecureAlot.

3. Not forsaking their friends when they become obsessed with a relationship. Guess who’s gonna be there when you’re crying elephant tears and eating yourself ugly in about 6 months, which is precisely how long it will take you to figure out you made a tragic mistake?  Not Jerky McCheatsAlotandIToldYouHeWould, I’ll tell you that much.

blunt-joFolks, I’ve only scratched the surface.  As always, I welcome your thoughts, but only if they are concurrent with mine.

Speaking of women that I love, check out my latest photography post, with pictures of this hottie.

<——-


Fievel Goes West: Substitute Fievel For Blunt

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[written whilst in the middle of the desert]

Well.  If it wasn’t confirmed by my first trip to New Mexico four years ago, it is definitely a fact that I am allergic to the Southwest.  My body has rejected it in every possible way.  Not in the same way it rejects mayonnaise, but in the way that it rejects the voice of Neil Diamond, where essentially everything shuts down and stages a protest.  I’m sorry if I make so many Neil Diamond references, but it’s the quickest way I know how to convey feelings of hatred,  loathing, and utter disappointment.

As I’m writing this in my composition notebook [obviously, cus I’m a total notebook snob], I am staring at the vast expanse of orangish rocks and dried up bushes that is the New Mexican landscape, while trying to ignore this altitude sickness and the fact that my nose is so dry that it refuses to breathe.  Even transportation via car is miserable, considering the bumpy, mountainous roads and my propensity for motion sickness. My hair is currently in a braid, but not in the figurative sense that you’ve come to expect.  Quite literally, my hair is in braids. Why? Well, what I can tell you with absolute certainty that it has nothing to do with my desire to appease or fit in with Native American culture, rather it has everything to do with the fact that my $150 straightener was broken in half during transit.

P.S. Have you ever seen my dad’s hair? Well, let’s just say that I have inherited more from him than just his sensitive stomach, lack of coordination, and irresistible charm. It’s quite the package.

new-mexico

[TMI: there was a point and time when I was wearing everything in the airport gift shop, including the T-shirt covered in chili peppers that said “Juan in a million,” while I was riding that Navajo horse in the background]

And while we’re on the subject of trips, have we discussed flying yet? Oh, we haven’t? That’s probably because I love it as much as I loved getting peed on after that jellyfish attack.  Not saying that necessarily happened, but I’m pretty sure it doesn’t have to in order for me to know that I didn’t like it.

On the flight back to my beloved Midwest, it was a bumpy ride.  Thatswhatshesaid. There were high winds and turbulence the whole way. I was busy writing, when I heard an announcement over the loudspeaker.  Immediately assuming that they are informing us of impending death or that we’ve been hijacked, I rip my iPod from my ears so I can prepare myself properly.  Preparing myself properly, of course, would involve nothing but alot of crying, praying/pleading, sweating, and grabbing the neighboring passenger’s leg.

I hear the Stewardess [except it was a dude, so Stewarder?] say the following:

Stewarder: Please draw your attention to the large circular formations on the ground below us.

Me: [thinking]  Great.  Alien formations? I KNEW there was something to that Donahue episode I watched in 1988.  Terrorist camps? Missile launching sites? Or is this just the plot of soft land we’re supposed to aim for when we are thrust out of the burning plane?

Stewarder:  Those are pizza farms. [obligatory laughter from any coherent passengers]

Me: Are you fricken serious right now?

I’m gonna go ahead and take this opportunity to grab the loudspeaker and make an announcement of my own: NOTHING is funny when I’m suspended 40,000 feet in the air. Especially not from you, creepy flight attendant guy who handed me very questionable peanuts.  Cus really, from the looks of things, I wouldn’t be surprised if you turned out to be the one who hijacks us later.

That’s enough about that. Adios!

Commitment: The Fire Breathing Dragon That Eludes Me

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It’s fall.

If you reside in an area of the country [I like to refer to it as God’s favorite] where you experience the change of seasons, then you understand the sheer elation I’m feeling at this very moment as I put on an extremely worn-in hoody [the kind that barely keeps you warm anymore cus there are so many holes], eat a caramel apple [but only the kind I make myself], and drink a hot beverage [preferably a pumpkin spice latte] while staring at the crispy orange leaves outside my window.  Wow, don’t tell my 6th grade English teacher about that sentence, cus it definitely violated a few grammatical laws of nature.  If you can’t experience fall, then my heart aches for you.

Something about the fall just makes me think of new relationships. Why? Well, because it’s absolutely impossible to resist falling in love with someone during this time of year.  In fact, I believe almost all of my relationships have started in the fall.  In fact, I believe anything good that has come out of my life has started in the fall. Wait, but none of those relationships were good. Stop confusing me.

apple-orchardSo why am I talking about fally wonderfulness when this blog is about commitment issues? Well, you should know better then to ask me questions about why I do the things I do.  Here’s my thought process: crisp weather —> I’m cold —> hoody —> wow, I need a pedicure —> fall —> unrequited love for Jon Stamos —> new  relationships —> WHAT? I’m all out of pasta? —> commitment.

All of you know that I suffer from a very serious condition that we might call: issues. Particularly, of the commitment genre. I can’t commit to and entire box of one type of cereal, thus, my cupboards overflow with mini-boxes, which lead visitors to the general conclusion that I am either a foster parent to a surplus of midgets, or that I run my own daycare.  That being what it is, if we’re talking about way more important issues such as: weekend plans, underwear colors, or hair dye you can expect hives and/or cold sweats at some point.  And if we’re talking about anything that will monopolize 6 months to a year of my time, I lose feeling in my forearms.

This was the exact feeling I experienced when I closed on my condo, followed by nausea and hyperventilation. Needless to say, it presented quite a challenge when I had to sign all that paperwork with a numb arm.

While trying to psychoanalyze myself, I’ve come up with a number of scapegoats on which to place blame for this senseless paranoia. The first, of course, being my mother.  I have no idea why, but it just seems like a logical conclusion to just about everything.  The second, being my string of bad luck with overly possessive boyfriends.  The third, being the changing of the tides or humidity levels of the rainforest.  All of which make more sense than the actual truth, which is, I’m nuttier than that box of assorted off-brand Valentines Day chocolates still rotting on the bottom shelf of your fridge.  Guys, seriously, what did I tell you about Valentine’s Day gifts?

When I come back, I not only promise that I will be extremely parched, dehydrated, and tan – but that we will return to your regularly scheduled blog programming and I will have an announcement for you that you may or may not be excited about.  I’d like to say it is an announcement so big that it might blow your socks off, but then I remembered that I hate when people say that.  I mean, is that even possible? Come on, people.

Get real.

I miss you already!

 

Open Letter: Dear Liar Liar, Your Pants Are Burnt To A Crisp

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My life began in a unicorn-filled meadow, where I was fed cinnamon rolls for dinner and had sweet dreams of hot pink, glitter-filled balloons. The only thing I remember getting in trouble for was not finishing a satisfying amount of cinnamon rolls by my mother’s standard-a burden which nearly broke me.  But it was my unlikely cross to bear. Each night, I painted the neighborhood red on my Strawberry Shortcake banana-seated bicycle, of which the training wheels never quite made it off.  I blame what I can only describe as a non-existence of driving skills and an inability to adhere to traffic laws, on my father’s failure to remove said wheels.  And the fact that I was born in a trailer park, cus why not?

Up until the day I started college, and perhaps a small significant amount of time afterward, I’d of given up my weaved plastic bike basket to a homeless alcoholic, in a split second, had he asked nicely enough.  Back in the innocence of my youth, my Can-I-Trust-You-Gauge consisted of the following checklist:

1. Are you alive?  If yes, please skip to question 2.

2. Are you unshaven and wearing an orange-striped jumpsuit and shackles?

If no, I can now entrust you with the deepest secrets of my existence.

I like to refer to this fool-proof analyzation process as: my first big mistake. During the time span between frolicking with unicorns and an undisclosed year occurring somewhere in the range of 2003-2007, I continued to acquire a significant amount of unwanted lovechildren in the form of prematurely trusted “friends.”

Trusting people has now become an activity that I rarely participate in, and based on my life experiences, my checklist has undergone some minor adjustments since my days in the meadow:

1. Are you alive?

2. Are you on more than three major prescription meds that should not be taken in conjunction with one another?

3. Have you or do you ever plan on dating me and then consequentially holding a minimum of two years of my life hostage, while you discover that you, in fact, will never sort out your secret drug addiction or self-destructive tendencies?

4. If presented with the opportunity, would you steal something very valuable from me, like, let’s say, my copy of He’s Just Not That Into You or perhaps a custom designed engagement ring?

5. After I devote several years to our friendship and max out my credit card on wedding showers, baby showers, post-breakup-don’t-kill-yourself-presents, and housewarming gifts will you terminate our friendship for no apparent reason?

6. Are you unshaven and wearing an orange -striped jumpsuit and shackles?

And now I’ll present you with another charmed memory from my dusty archives. This letter was illegally passed to me in class circa 9th grade.  It was the first note I had received at the new school I started Freshman year.  I had never met this guy, but for some reason the phrase: “you can tell me, cus I won’t tell no one” was all I needed as a vow of solidarity between me and a complete stranger.

love-letter

Brittany,

Hey girl! Sup? Not a lot here.  You probably have no idea to who I am.  Well my names Mark.  I was wondering if you liked anyone and who it was.  You can tell me cuz I won’t tell no one.

Love, Mark  W/B

Big. Big. Mistake.

 

Someone Alert The Environmentalists

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THERE HAS BEEN A MAJOR OIL SPILL.

But first, a note from our sponsors.

Dear Everyone Who Reads This Blog Whether You Like It Or Not,

As of late, I realize that my online presence has been replaced with tumbleweeds and probably a surplus of tears.  To attempt to explain exactly what has been going on, which has kept me from you like an unjust prison sentence, would require more space than the internet can provide.  I can only beg for your forgiveness in this matter, and instruct you to refer to my book.  That I will write.  Someday.  As soon as I can figure out what will be in it.  But the past two weeks, you can be assured, will be in it.

Patience is a virtue,

Houdini.

As I was running out of the house with my arms full, I realized that I just absolutely could not survive the next 4 hours without a box of Rice Krispie treats.  I stumbled into the kitchen, reached up into the cupboard, and that was the last moment of life as I knew it.  Had I met my soul mate?  My maker? Did I experience an epiphany that somehow pieced together every bit of my crazy life into a beautiful puzzle of clarity?

Not quite. As I was staring at my kitchen floor/cupboards/rug/fridge covered in olive oil and shards of glass, I shouted every bit of language I’d remember from my French class.  Which, unfortunately, was nothing since I took Spanish.  An entire 48 oz bottle of olive oil (extra virgin, of course, cus what am I a cheap bastard?) had been knocked off my counter by my extemely oversize (but tragically attractive) purse.  And. Holy. Crapballs. It was a freaking mess. Have you ever tried to clean up oil? OH wait, you haven’t…cus it’s IMPOSSIBLE.

OF COURSE, I was already 20 mins late. OF COURSE, I had no paper towels.  BUT OF COURSE, I’m a neat freak and couldn’t handle leaving a mess of this magnitude so my immediate reaction was to reach down and pick up pieces of glass. WHICH OF COURSE, resulted in about 6, 3459 cuts on my hands, which isn’t even possible. AND OF COURSE, when I went to change the clothes I tracked olive oil onto my carpets that were just cleaned.

Finally, I said screw this and I put bathroom towels over my entire floor and took off.

But of course, I’m not the only one in my family who’s been doing permanent damage to the environment lately.

You should know that here in the Midwest we’ve experience an extremely unlikely, cold, and damp summer.  So the other night, I went over to my parents house for a “bonfire.”  I walk out in the field and I quietly assume that this is what my dad was referring to:

bonfire

Have you met my dad lately?

That’s what I thought.  Apparently, nor have I.

huge-bonfire

And as we quickly ran to escape the nearly 100 ft flame scolding our faces and the atmosphere, we all took a second to rethink Heaven and Hell.

fire

And we started stripping off layers of clothing due to the surmounting heat, my father stood back and watched like a giddy Boy Scout.

Me: Well, I guess our town might as well stop recycling for about a year, cus we’ve probably just reversed any progress they’ve made.

Dad:  [laughing in a way that makes it impossible not to love him]  Tell Al Gore I’m sick of this cold summer, would ya?

Mom chimes in: I think the only place Global Warming is happening these days, is inside Al’s mouth.

Ah.  This is the heart of America, folks.

dad2

Open Letter: Rejection At Its Finest

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As a young and awkward child, I was painfully shy and introverted. Maybe it was my jacked up teeth.  Perhaps it was the acne. Or my untameable, frizzy hair before I discovered straighteners or anything other than Pert Plus.  It could have been tragic the ankle-length skirts and turtlenecks enforced by my private school dress code. There’s no way of knowing.

For years and years, the worst torture I could possibly imagine was having my teacher force me to answer a question OUT LOUD, where I’d have to use my real-life voice. However, sometime after middle school, something went terribly awry.  There was a glitch in the matrix and I became the most outgoing, uninhibited (and by all manners of speaking) freak ever to walk the planet, of whom it is impossible to embarrass.  My father, however, has made it his life’s ambition to disprove this statement.

I say all this to say that I didn’t really date in school.  At all, actually.  I would just harbor hidden crushes on boys while outwardly ignoring them until I grew so frustrated that I considered batting for the other team.  I didn’t though.  Not metaphorically or literally, cus I am the most non-athletic, non-lesbian person you will ever meet.  Except for my mad girl crush on Rachel McAdams. And Megan Fox.  But we don’t have time to get into that.

Needless to say, I was quite shocked when my mother dropped off 6 boxes of assorted love letters/ snobby girl notes from my childhood.  I don’t remember half of these people, nor do I have any clue why these letters were saved.  I would say that I did it all for you, but that would be lie that even Satan would be ashamed of.

In other words, I’m starting a new category here titled OPEN LETTERS. Why? Because as I was reading these, I not only thought they were hilarious, but it also brought me back to a simpler time, where every problem in the world could be solved by having your “friend” give someone a note for you.  Let’s reminisce shall we? This letter was circa 7th grade.

love-letter3

In case you can’t translate this ridiculous attempt at penmanship/ the English language:

Britteny,

Justin wants to know if you will go out with him tonight on a date.  If so, will you go out with him (as a girlfriend) because he really likes you.  And he thought that since I didn’t get you (as a girlfriend) then he thinks you will go out with him.

Love,

Mike

Um, am I the only one who feels a bit sorry for Mike in this scenario?   Not only did I apparently reject him, but now his friend is making him ask me out for him? That’s harsh.

Also check out:

Open Letter: Liar, Liar, Your Pants Are Burnt To A Crisp

Open Letter: How Can We Break Up Without Me Telling You?