I've done it again, ladies and gentlemen.
I took a perfectly promising future, bent it over a crusty, Jim Bean soaked couch and fucked it over.
With my figurative disease-infected penis.
It's pretty much never gonna speak to me again.
I'm okay with that.
It can JOIN THE CLUB.
Over the past month I have learned some valuable lessons.
Such as:
Telling men you work in television does not get you laid.
Appearing on television sans Spanx will convince you the camera adds 70 pounds.
As a journalist, it turns out I am inept.
I'd call my persona flaccid and my interviewing skills chafing.
To say it was bad is an unjust statement.
My attorney actually showed it to her newsroom as a lesson on WHAT NOT TO DO.
It was awesome to be on tv, if only playing the bumbling idiot.
But that role is not much of a stretch for me.
A few weeks ago, thanks to my irresponsible, immature, and lazy sister I got a ticket in her vehicle.
Not just any ticket.
a $700 ticket.
BECAUSE I'M ROLLING IN THE DOUGH RIGHT NOW.
Some shitfest ensued where she (surprise!) took no responsibility or offer to help.
My mistake for ever counting on anyone.
I can only count on two things: my ability to fall on my face and my twisted sense of humor.
Thank god for that one.
And since that piece of shit wasn't really working in the break or steering department anyway, its not drivable.
So yeah, my mother was kind enough to let me borrow her new car, since I have quite a commute to my 9-5 at the station.
But guess motherfuckin what?
I drove up to the launch party for the zine I write for and managed to mangle my already nearly unrecognizable life.
The party had a great turn out but I felt unneeded and awkward as fuck.
AND THEN I FELL ON MY FACE.
Blood and all.
Wasn't even drunk.
Because I'm THAT girl.
But the kicker is that on my way back home that night, I hit some debris, swerved and hit a ditch.
This blew out all four tires, ruined a wheel, and possibly the suspension.
I have successfully screwed my mom out of a car as well.
I am just a golden god.
My favorite was how I stepped in a bed of fire ants waiting for the ($500) tow.
Then, like the god damned winner I am, I sobbed in the tow truck until I cried myself out and the driver had to shake me awake.
Also when my mother was in the hospital, she missed an insurance payment.
Seriously, baby jesus is just smiling fucking rainbows and unicorns down on me.
At some point I started seeing(?) a boy. ... a nice one.
Who reads.
But because I am a homely loser I'm 99% positive this will remain in friend zone forever.
It's nice to have another friend though.
My mind is continually boggled when people agree to hang out with me as if I have anything to offer but nuzzles, trouble, and unbelievable ridiculousness.
My life is not real.
#31 - Ask, "Can we make this Facebook official now?" before the 1st date is even halfway through.
Oh where did the time go?
To hell, I'm pretty sure.
Somewhere in the past few months my brother got married.
It was lovely. Highly segregated but lovely.
Of course due to a big breasted high-maintenance priss on her rag, I was late to my own brother's wedding.
Sometimes, other people are just a liability.
I think my attorney agreed.
Later I drove through a tornado hydroplaning and got in a fight in the middle of a Black Panther party.
Good times.
But I'm happy for my brother.
Somewhere before all that, I got a real job.
By real job, I mean one I can't show up to drunk.
It's been a real doozy.
They've kept me around mainly because I halfway know something about computers.
Which is really only because I grew up with computers.
Ah, the advantages to being a child of the 90's.
Other than having some sleazebag staring at my chest all day, its pretty chill.
Oh, and by some grand mistake by fate, they've actually promoted me.
My own accounts and shit.
My employers' faith in my make me sincerely doubt their judgement.
#32 - When a nice boy asks you out, get too fucked up to even show up as your shit show self.
To hell, I'm pretty sure.
Somewhere in the past few months my brother got married.
It was lovely. Highly segregated but lovely.
Of course due to a big breasted high-maintenance priss on her rag, I was late to my own brother's wedding.
Sometimes, other people are just a liability.
I think my attorney agreed.
Later I drove through a tornado hydroplaning and got in a fight in the middle of a Black Panther party.
Good times.
But I'm happy for my brother.
Somewhere before all that, I got a real job.
By real job, I mean one I can't show up to drunk.
It's been a real doozy.
They've kept me around mainly because I halfway know something about computers.
Which is really only because I grew up with computers.
Ah, the advantages to being a child of the 90's.
Other than having some sleazebag staring at my chest all day, its pretty chill.
Oh, and by some grand mistake by fate, they've actually promoted me.
My own accounts and shit.
My employers' faith in my make me sincerely doubt their judgement.
#32 - When a nice boy asks you out, get too fucked up to even show up as your shit show self.
I'm your ch-ch-ch-ch-ch-ch-ch-ch-cherry bomb!
At least that's how I'm trying to be.
In between my stages of public humiliation and self-loathing, I procured employment.
I have a real job now.
All I can say is "I work in television" damn well better help me get some men.
At work, among other things, I am in charge of ordering food for clients and office supplies.
Those fuckers didn't know what they were getting themselves into.
Giving me an AmEx and a Costco membership.
In a week I have already charged over $350 in office supplies.
I wasn't kidding when I said I loved office supplies in my interview.
Luckily, the last girl was incompetent so I automatically seem much more capable than I truly am.
BLESSING.
When I'm being extra inept, I make up for it by looking super pretty.
They're also giving me free tickets to shit.
I'll have to remember this when I get yelled at later.
The moral of this story is:
I now work at a place where my coworkers don't know I'm a drunken degenerate!
... yet.
God, however, has decided to temper this good fortune by making my mother super crazy this month.
Basically, my siblings are self-centered automatons with little metal hearts that can't love.
This leaves me to save my mother, as I am (surprisingly) the only one with a soul.
I've got to tell you, this level of stress makes everything else seem minor.
By everything else I mean: shitty car, mounting debt, crumbling relationships with siblings, too much time apart from legit friends, etc.
It does not, however, make my state of perpetual singledom sting any less.
Which brings me to my next point
My skin has never been better in my fucking life.
I feel like a motherfucking princess.
Its such a relief to be able to walk out the door without makeup.
It's nice to know that people are staring at me disgustedly because of my personality instead of my face.
Still, this glowing milky complexion has not helped me garner the attention of the opposite sex.
This may be due to my wardrobe of man-repellant items like vests and slouchy shits and brogues.
I'm not really looking to be a sex symbol.
What can I say? I like to look like Annie Hall.
Hey, it worked for Diane Keeton.
I should probably remind myself that I am not in a Woody Allen movie.
But what fun is that?
My new goals for the month are:
to send pieces to lit mags,
to be a better editor,
to work out before work,
to buy/sew better clothes,
to be as blonde as possible,
to get as stoned as possible,
to get fucked as often as possible.
Also working on this thing called "filtering" where I, you know, DON'T say what crosses my mind.
It's a long shot but I'll give it a whirl.
Also, worried about mediocrity.
However, I am SAMOAN so I don't think I can succumb to the corporate patriarchy for long.
Too rebellious. Too weird.
I don't think I can survive too much longer with a visit with Dr. Gonzo.
Vegas is a little far but I think we can manage to hole up in Fort Stockton for a little bit.
#33 - When you recognize a superior at your new job from an AA meeting, introduce yourself as "a friend of that housewife whose marriage you broke up."
At least that's how I'm trying to be.
In between my stages of public humiliation and self-loathing, I procured employment.
I have a real job now.
All I can say is "I work in television" damn well better help me get some men.
At work, among other things, I am in charge of ordering food for clients and office supplies.
Those fuckers didn't know what they were getting themselves into.
Giving me an AmEx and a Costco membership.
In a week I have already charged over $350 in office supplies.
I wasn't kidding when I said I loved office supplies in my interview.
Luckily, the last girl was incompetent so I automatically seem much more capable than I truly am.
BLESSING.
When I'm being extra inept, I make up for it by looking super pretty.
They're also giving me free tickets to shit.
I'll have to remember this when I get yelled at later.
The moral of this story is:
I now work at a place where my coworkers don't know I'm a drunken degenerate!
... yet.
God, however, has decided to temper this good fortune by making my mother super crazy this month.
Basically, my siblings are self-centered automatons with little metal hearts that can't love.
This leaves me to save my mother, as I am (surprisingly) the only one with a soul.
I've got to tell you, this level of stress makes everything else seem minor.
By everything else I mean: shitty car, mounting debt, crumbling relationships with siblings, too much time apart from legit friends, etc.
It does not, however, make my state of perpetual singledom sting any less.
Which brings me to my next point
My skin has never been better in my fucking life.
I feel like a motherfucking princess.
Its such a relief to be able to walk out the door without makeup.
It's nice to know that people are staring at me disgustedly because of my personality instead of my face.
Still, this glowing milky complexion has not helped me garner the attention of the opposite sex.
This may be due to my wardrobe of man-repellant items like vests and slouchy shits and brogues.
I'm not really looking to be a sex symbol.
What can I say? I like to look like Annie Hall.
Hey, it worked for Diane Keeton.
I should probably remind myself that I am not in a Woody Allen movie.
But what fun is that?
My new goals for the month are:
to send pieces to lit mags,
to be a better editor,
to work out before work,
to buy/sew better clothes,
to be as blonde as possible,
to get as stoned as possible,
to get fucked as often as possible.
Also working on this thing called "filtering" where I, you know, DON'T say what crosses my mind.
It's a long shot but I'll give it a whirl.
Also, worried about mediocrity.
However, I am SAMOAN so I don't think I can succumb to the corporate patriarchy for long.
Too rebellious. Too weird.
I don't think I can survive too much longer with a visit with Dr. Gonzo.
Vegas is a little far but I think we can manage to hole up in Fort Stockton for a little bit.
#33 - When you recognize a superior at your new job from an AA meeting, introduce yourself as "a friend of that housewife whose marriage you broke up."
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