Tag Archives: life

Why I Hate Women Part 7 Of 8,964: Mind Warp Trivia

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“Indian people seem rather unemotional in my experience… Then again, my experience was with your ex-boyfriend who snorted $300 of heroin a day. So that could be a bit of a generalization.”

-my Dad.

I am currently watching a Millionaire Matchmaker marathon. I love this show, but not because I love it. Patty Stanger has nothing on me in the relationship knowledge department – and certainly not in the hair department. Right? I’m loving this show because I discovered I still have cable even though I cancelled it in December. Take that, universe.

It has come to my special attention that I not only suck at blogging and mysteriously have bootlegged cable, but that ALL of my readers hate women. Especially the women. I like to think that we would all be cyber friends even if we weren’t united by this sentiment of hatred, but I can’t say for sure. Here’s to hoping on rainbows and leprechauns.

MIND WARP POP QUIZ: Please raise your hand if you’ve ever found yourself trapped into one of the following questions –

1. Are there any cute girls where you work?

2. Does this make me look big?

3. Do you like my new haircut?

While you’re pondering that, I recently had drinks with a woman that I don’t hate- V from Uncorked. And maybe a pizza. And a tuna wrap something or other. Have I mentioned how smitten I am by this kitten? She’s everything she’s cracked up to be (except for that time she blew me off for her couch and a couple of Pugs) and if you don’t read her blog then don’t come crying to me when your life ends up in shambles.

i-hate-women
NEWSFLASH: when it comes to women, there’s no winning. In my experience, if I try to befriend them and put my best self-deprocating, non-threatening-hoodie-wearing foot forward, I will inevitably suffer the consequences of their certifiably nutty minds snapping at some point. Don’t be fooled- this process can sometimes take years. However, if I gravitate toward male friendships, then I’m a boyfriend-stealing hoe with daddy issues who is starved for attention. Some might think of this predicament as a lose/lose, but I just think it’s great Sunday night entertainment. What else are you gonna do, watch golf?

Strap in, because I’m about to blindside you with the point of this post. Except I don’t think I can legally call it a blindside if I warned you first. Since I’m not a heartless bastard who hates things without concrete reasons, I will now dispense reason 7 of 8,964 of why I hate women: Mind Warp Trivia. Let’s look at question #1 and it’s possible answers. You might think you know the correct one, but I can assure you that you are sorely mistaken.

1. Are there any cute girls at your work?

a.  No sweetie, not at all.

b. I haven’t really noticed to tell you the truth.

c. Eh, there’s a few that are alright. Certainly not on your level, but they are okay.

d. I’m not even going to dignify that with a response.

Unfortunately none of these are correct. Regardless of what you choose, the answer won’t be satisfactory because it is a trick question. If you choose (a) she won’t believe you; if you choose (b) she will accuse you of lying; if you choose (c) she will be pissed that you are looking at other girls; and if you choose (d) she will say that’s bullshit. This is a mind warp trap with the only way out being a fight. Even simply breathing will cause a fight when presented with such a question. With that being said… Good luck!

Why I Hate Women: Part 6 of 7,893

Why I Hate Women: Oh Let Me Count The Ways

Dear Haters, Why Do You Love Me So Much?

Am I Too Late For A Thanksgiving Post?

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Your guess is as good as mine why two “loving parents” would allow their only daughter to eat corn on the cob directly off a dirty picnic table. Or to wear that Little House On The Prairie getup, that was clearly too small.

I was going to title this post: That Time I Tried To Run Away [OR Why I Hate Dogs]. But the truth is, there isn’t much to say about running away. I didn’t get very far. I have rather protective parents and an overly paranoid mother who is a very, very light sleeper. Plus they live on a dead end street in the middle of nowhere. Just saying, it was probably my most unsuccessful idea ever. Aside from the lemonade stand and the time I asked my dad for a horse and he scammed me into raising sheep.

Oh, and the whole dog thing is a mystery. I just hate them with a fiery passion. The smaller they are, the more unjustified hatred is directed toward them. Don’t get your panties in a bundle trying to figure it out. And please don’t use the word “panties.”

As usual, I’m fashionably late in getting to the Thanksgiving post. Despite my looming depression over the past year, I have a lot to be thankful for. You, for one. I realize I’m a horrible blog owner. I hardly post. I don’t always comment on your comments. And I’m an altogether frustrating mystery.

But you, you’re so forgiving of my wayward actions. You love me in spite of my disappearing acts. Truth be told, this blog has been a great source of inspiration for me in the past year. It’s been a place where I could honestly vent my frustrations and hopefully, you could too. The fact that any of you take the time to read my incomprehensible ramblings is more confusing than why my mom collects all those free gold-lined address labels that come in the mail, yet she refuses to use them because they are so ugly.

Although I often fill these virtual pages with rants and sarcasm, I am a very blessed individual. 2009 may have given me a round house kick to the stomach, but I have quite a few things to be thankful for:

photography

florence

best-friends

medieval-church2

parents2

babies

So there you have it.

Now stop labeling me a Crabby McUnthankfulPants. Next post we will be returning to BitterTown and your regularly scheduled whining.

 

Dear 2009, I’m Ready To Forgive You For Your Bastardly Ways

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You know how when you meet someone for the first time and there’s just that instant connection? As they explained on Sleepless in Seattle: magic. The stars align, and in that moment it’s as if the whole universe existed just to bring the two of you together?

Well, that is not what happened when I was first introduced to 2009.

The year began with me laying in the darkness of my room, unshowered [for what might have been days], surrounded by leftover holiday candy wrappers, recently unemployed, and staring at the ceiling while listening to news anchors give unbiased coverage of the upcoming election make virtual love to Obama.

I thought about making resolutions, but then remembered I had just published my first story in Chicken Soup for the Soulwhich talked about precisely how much I hated resolutions.

As the year went on, I started devising a list of things that I’d never forgive 2009 for:

  • stealing my best friend away and shipping him to San Diego
  • the extra 15 pounds I put on by working in a bank office for 2 years but always justified with the fact that I made lots of money
  • losing said bank job and no longer having an reason as to why I was toting around an extra 15 pounds
  • making Illinois not only one of the most corrupt places to live, but one of the hardest places to get a job
  • causing various family members to get really sick and/or lose their minds
  • that spot on my carpet I couldn’t get out, even with the stuff that Billy Mays told me to buy
  • Billy Mays dying
  • my air conditioning bill
  • all of those people who rejected my story submissions thus deepening my depression and making my goal of becoming a full time writer seem impossible
  • turning 27

The list goes on, but the point is: it was just one of those years. Unfortunately, I felt like I’d been in “one of those years” for nearly a decade. It didn’t help that everyone around me was talking about CHANGE, yet I knew nothing was going to be different for me. Every passing year that I was working some random job instead of doing what I was passionate about, I found it harder to put on a happy face. Then, depression’s finest looking wing man, guilt, strolled in wearing a nicely coordinated suit. I started to feel guilty for being depressed. Cus, I mean, hey, I’m still breathing right?

Wait, hold on a second.

Oh, okay. Yes. The answer is yes, I’m still breathing. And on top of being able to breathe, the second installment of the Twilight Saga was released. There were things everywhere to be thankful for. Yet, I still struggled. I didn’t even put up a CHRISTMAS TREE, which nearly resulted in excommunication from my own family. If we were Catholic, that is.

But then. Irony struck my life again, when a routine email inquiry turned into a meeting on a snowy morning during Christmas week [that I almost blew off cus I love sleep too much and my car sucks in the snow and I had procrastinated all my shopping but mainly I just like sleep too much]. That meeting turned into a job as Senior Editor for a new magazine, in which I will be able to be as creative as I want. Which by the way, never happens in real life jobs. And, she found me in a random Google search in the middle of the night.

And now if you’ll lay back on the counseling couch, I’d like to say that dreams are a tricky thing. They can be the only driving force that keeps you going at times, yet the constant pursuit of dreams -accompanied by disappointment- can also destroy you. But here’s the good part: when you finally take just one small step towards fulfilling that dream, which you eventually will, it makes all of the rejection letters, and sleepless nights, and financial stress, and waiting tables, and writing about things you hate seem just… not important.

So hey, do me a solid and hang on to those dreams in 2010.

You have nothing to lose but your sanity.

My dad stole my Polaroid camera. He took this as I was walking through his backyard. He’s always been a big fan of my dreams.

dreams

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.

 

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.

<——-


Naked Barbie Chillin On Some Cookies?

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[I’m laying on the floor photographing the above picture, when my dad walks in the room]

Dad:  [said like he is trying to piece together the mystery of life] Barbie. Naked. Laying on a pile of mom’s chocolate chip cookies. [laughs hysterically and then pauses for two minutes.] I don’t get it.

Well, sonofagun.  Maybe I don’t either.

But my mom makes some ridiculously large and delicious chocolate chip cookies, which are clearly bigger than a pretend, unrealistically proportioned person.  And she handed me 5 batches as she walked in, also carrying a blueberry pie and 10 bags of groceries.  Immediately following this, she grabbed a paper towel and some Ajax and got to work on my shower, again proving to me why remaining in the Midwest was the sensible choice.

So while the parents were over, I decided I’d get caught up on some laundry today. .

laundry

Huh.  Well what’s that crap? A crumpled dryer sheet? No, pffft, I don’t splurge on dryer sheets.  And plus, these came out of the washer.  A napkin, perhaps? Naw… Why would I have napkins – who’s coming over the Queen?  Bob Hope?  OH…. A Kleenex. It’s totally a Kleenex.  Must have left it in a pocket or something.  Blessed Respite!

However, that was a merely child’s play compared to what I would soon discover.

paper-towels

Wait… Wha? Okay, I’m no scientist, in fact, I didn’t even finish the 6 various colleges and trade schools that I started – but that IS WAY more stuff than could be produced by a Kleenex.  And now that I think about it, I’m also too cheap to buy Kleenex. And you know what Judgy McThinkYou’reBetterThanMe?  Once you have your own place, you will be too.  AND you’ll remember to turn off the lights when you leave the room, dangit.  So you just relax.

After I’d noticed that every single garment was coated in tiny pieces of white stuff, I knew there was something terribly awry.  There was so much of it. Finally, as I reached into the washer and grabbed the last pieces of clothing, I discovered Exhibit C:

i-hate-women1

You’ve. Got. To. Be. Kidding.

How the? What the?  Ugh.

*No Barbies were harmed or humiliated during this documentary.  This is because, contrary to popular belief, they enjoy not being dressed in ridiculous outfits.

Chances Are, I’m A Pervert

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Today, while at a routine stop at the Goodwill, I put these three items on the counter.  They were exactly what I was looking for. We don’t have the time nor resources to get into the logistics of exactly why I needed this combination of items, but one could assume that I’m a third degree pervert who is planning on using exhibits A & B to lure a small child into my presence in order to lock them inside of exhibit C.

Based on the death glare I got from the Cashier, that’s definitely my plan.  [as if she’s one to judge]

But that’s not why we’re here. Wait, why are we here?  No, really, I was hoping you’d have the answer cus….

Listen.  I know, I know. I don’t write a blog for, like, decades and all the sudden here I am with the one-two punch.  But see, that’s how it works around here.  This isn’t a “real” blog, this is more of an update.  Housekeeping, if you will.  I have been a bit MIA around the blogosphere lately, and it’s not because you’re getting on my every last nerve.  Although…

As some of you may know, I lost my job last fall. No, there’s no blog that I can refer you to so that you can read about this seemingly dreadful but actually wonderful experience; however, that is definitely something I’ll add to my list.  Cus Holy Crapballs, that was messed up.  If you’ve lost your job recently, and there’s a good chance that you have – especially if you live in my dumpster of a state  – you’ll understand what I’m about to say.

Losing your job can mean all sorts of things: a chance to reinvent yourself, an opportunity to do something you really love, a new start, or a spiraling depression that leaves you wallowing in self pity. For me, it meant all of the above.  This brings me to my point, and yes, I have one this time.  After I ate every morsel of hidden [but apparently not very well] holiday candy, watched every unfortunate chick flick that I owned – twice, and spent the better half of two months unshowered and locked away in darkness, I slowly managed to yank myself out impending doom and decided to pursue writing.  It is, after all, the only thing I’ve ever wanted to do – even though I tried almost every other option.  That process has been the most tragically-unfortunate-and-frightening-experience-turned-wonderful-surprise of my life.  And I’m determined to make it work.  Because well, if you have even the smallest chance of being able to do what you love – you should.  Enough with the fear.  Enough with the procrastination.  Enough with the negativity.  With that being said, go make yourself happy already – even though it might mean you’re broke for awhile about a year.  ***Also, in the midst of this pursuit, combined with an excess of time on my hands, I’ve also discovered another passion I’m quite siked about, but one thing at a time here.

So my point is.. crap.  Hold on.

I had to check my notes.  My point is…. that I’ve been busy lately working on “business stuff.”   And that would be a major understatement.  So, remember how I used to have that freelance writing website that was really super duper ghetto? Psssh.  Guess who ain’t ghetto no mo? That was just a temporary site [ come ON, a little credit please? ] and I’ve been slaving away on a dashing new web presence, among about fifty other pressing matters.

You can check it out on my freelance writing website, wordsbybrit.com.

 

 

Kenny Chronicles: “Officer, What Do You Take Me For?”

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STOP THE PRESSES! If you keep reading, you will be lost and wandering through the woods like Bambi after he got ravaged by a wolf.  This is part II of a series, first you must read the Kenny Chronicles: Risky Doesn’t Begin To Describe This Business. No really, get out of here.

This is quite long, it really should have been 3 parts… but who has patience for that?  Okay, where were we? Oh yes. Circa 2006. I was going to house sit for Slumdog Millionaire [heroin addict ex-boyfriend] while he was in London “sorting himself out.” So being the responsible house sitter, I was in full party planning mode with Kenny [metrosexual BFF] for our Top Secret Risky Business-themed-birthday bash, scheduled for the weekend after Slumdog departed. My old London roommate was flying out from the Big Apple. The DJ was booked. Ray Bans and five thousand glow in the dark beads were ordered. Approximately 300 invitations were accidentally sent out.

Brief history of “the house” in question: I don’t think you understand. This house was in the NICEST neighborhood in my entire city. Quiet little families. Doctors and Lawyers. Maple trees, Unicorns, and rainbows EVERYWHERE. The only parties thrown in this neighborhood were, like, Mary Kay related.  This knowledge will come in handy later on.

And now, courtesy of the recent archaeological dig in my Myspace Museum, I present to you an exact replica of the invitation to the “Kenny & Brit Risky Business B-day Bash of 06.”   [My observations have been made in pink]

dj-party1Dear those who like Tom Cruise and those who don’t,

I’m about 99% sure one of these things is currently true: 1. Your panties are now officially in a bundle.  2. Your mom still cooks a mean casserole.  3. Making out is my favorite past-time. Wait, sorry! We’re not talking about me.

Well, fear not, for the clouds have cleared and I can see the party of your life shining through – as if it were some golden ray of sunlight after a cold, dark & lonely winter void of human interaction and … wait, what?  So break out the Velcro shoulder pads, the stars are aligned and its the Age of Aquarius. [clearly, my schizophrenic writing style and tendency to digress have not matured over time]

THE OFFICIAL DAY THAT YOU’RE GONNA LOVE YOUR LIFE: FRIDAY, AUGUST 4th @ 9pm-?  We have condensed the guest list considerably [from what, 1000?] because this cannot get out of hand!! WARNING: Hey, Conan and the rest of you barbarians! You will be kicked out faster than Michael Jackson in a daycare if you do any of the following: [this was the second, ahem, slightly over-sized and out of control get together that we threw in Slumdog’s house]

*smoke inside the house (cuz you did last time)
*punch holes thru the walls or rip off the thermostat (cuz you did last time)
*spill stuff all over the place like you’ve got cerebral palsy (cuz you did last time)

[INSERT CRISIS] Four days before the party, Slumdog informs me that he’s not flying home.

Me:  Um. [ losing my last fricken’ marble on the inside] I thought you were going to sort yourself out and get better?  Don’t you want to get BETTER?  Don’t you care about me?  And your mom.  What about your mom? You haven’t seen your mom in like a year?!  What kind of son ARE YOU?

Needless to say, guilt trips don’t work very well on people who are on drugs to escape reality and feelings -thus, he missed his flight. Kenny and I went into full fledged Mission Impossible crisis mode. I had to do something drastic.  I bought him a new ticket and if I had to sell my soul to make sure he went, I was ready.  But the only ticket I could get was for the day AFTER our party.

Me [to Slumdog]: So I’ve bought you a new ticket for this weekend. You leave on Sunday, but I’ve arranged for ___ to pick you up on Friday and you’re going to stay in Chicago for the weekend and hang out on a yacht.   It’ll be good for you.  Have fun.

scan00021Night before the party I receive this email from Kenny:

From: Chad-a-licious

To: Neil, I still hate you.
Date: Aug 3, 2006 7:43 PM
Subject: Oh, by the way…

…let’s see. Could I be anymore frickin’ nervous??!!
[[exhale]] oh, boy… :S

and is that receptionist from the laser place still comin’???

Typical. When Slumdog arrived in Chicago, Kenny and I were an hour away moving all the furniture out of his house, taping black garbage bags to all the windows, installing ambient lighting, and sweating bullets.  It was a hot mess. And so were we cus I got a call from Slumdog every 5 minutes saying he wanted to come home.  [For a moment I’d like to flash back to my college days and have Miss Brooks switch that “B” to an “A” cus, wow, this was a persuasive speech the likes of which you’ve never seen.]

So the DJ was set up in the main living room.  Yea, the one with a big giant window that you’d usually drive by and see a Christmas tree in.   By about 10 pm, the entire neighborhood was lined with cars and people I’d never seen before were wandering through people’s yards in pursuit of the party.  The back deck was filled with rowdy smokers.  This party was anything but down low.

By the third time the cops came, I mistakenly thought he said I would be arrested, and I burst out into tears.  Kenny, as usual, took over.

[standing in the front doorway]  Officer: Do you realize this is a neighborhood where people have children?

Kenny:  Yes, sir.  I know, we had no idea it was so loud.  [lies. lies from the depths of hell!] We will keep it down.

Officer:  I’ve been getting alot of complaints.  [peeking his head in at all the destruction] There wouldn’t happen to be any minors here would there?

Kenny:  Officer. [putting his hand on his heart]  Officer, what do you take me for? I am 25 years old. Do you really think  a guy like me would allow something like that – in a neighborhood like this?  In a house like this? Sir, rest assured, I have dotted every “i” and crossed every “t.”

And at that very moment, you could hear the sound of every Abercrombie & Fitch employee running out the back door and taking shelter in neighbors’ various swing sets and tube slides.

You Big, Fat, Fake Smart Person

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Speaking of things I collect, I may have mentioned it briefly in the masterpiece entitled How To Live The Best Fake Life You Can Imagine, or several times thereafter, that I collect books.  I don’t read them, as much as I like to give the impression that I do, while underhandedly using them strictly for decorating props.  I understand this is a perplexing and tricky dichotomy considering I’m a writer. But you know how “Those who can’t do, teach?” Well, I also find that “Those who can’t write, read.” You’re welcome to leave me nasty comments in regards to that theory, but wouldn’t you rather go eat a Dilly Bar or something?  Go with the cherry. You’ll thank me.

But seriously, the books are starting to take over my life.

bookshelves

So when I’m selecting books, my focus is on the thickness and color of the cover and how well it will coordinate with the lamp, random flea market suitcase, or bookshelf that it will be sitting on or in the proximity of.  I don’t pay attention to minor details like the title or the content.  I had an epiphany recently that I should start trying to solve all my problems by dissecting different sections of my house and seeing what they reveal about me.  [Go here to see what my freezer had to say. It was shocking, to say the least.] So, we’re moving on to my books.

It’s only fitting that we start with my desk area. It’s where I am sitting right now, talking to you.  It is also where I spend almost all of my meager existence being a hermit, writing and editing with bloodshot eyes, and listening to my nineties playlist while eating very questionable leftovers. Because I can.

forbidden-love-relationships

Let’s zoom in on the middle cubby. When I actually started reading the titles, I discovered that these books must have been stalking me during the past couple of years.

1. Places to Stay the Night.  This eerily, but accurately describes my life from the time span of 2002-2006.  If I could make one minor adjustment it would be “Random Places To Stay The Night While Escaping Your Heroin-Addict British Boyfriend, Overly-Possessive Italian Boyfriend, Or When You Decide To Go To Mexico On A Whim Or When You’re Wandering Around A European City And Refuse To Leave Your Wasted Roommate With Those Inappropriate German Guys.”

2. The Ideal Bride. Oh yes.  I couldn’t think of a better way to describe myself.  On opposite day.

3. To Love Again. And again… and again… and effing again.

4. Five Days In Paris. Please change to “Five Days In Paris Accompanied By: A Hailstorm, A Robbery, The Stomach Flu, Ungodly Frizzy Hair, World’s Meanest People, Mystery Meats Cooked In Too Much Butter, And An Unwanted Proposal.”

5. Ten Poems To Set You Free. UGH. Information that would have been useful to me yesterday!

6. Forbidden Area. Much like a fine art painting or Greek Opera, I’m leaving this one open to interpretation.

Here’s where you’ll actually get to know me: my nightstand.  This is reserved for books that I might pick up once in a while.   I don’t think it should serve as any surprise to you that WIT would be at the top of the stack, comfortably parked next to 50 Boyfriends Worse Than Yours.