Chaos on 3A

I regret to inform you guys that a landmark on route 3A is gone. No, I’m not talking about Panda Rug. Amazing Adult Video Express is gone. A Rockland man lit the place on fire. A giant flaming ball of rubber, melting into one humungous rod of God. It’s a sad day for Weymouth. It’s a sad day for idiots who purchase porn. It’s a sad day for creatures who stay in on Saturday nights utilizing their Amazing purchases. It’s a sad day for anyone commuting over the Fore River bridge who thought they lucked out that the bridge wasn’t up, only to hit detour  traffic. But during this trying time, we must remember what is important: The Cliffhanger is still alive.  VIVA LA 3A! 

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(Photo credit to Michael Curran – not sure who that is but I stole his photograph after seeing it on Facebook).

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Sometimes in life the lighting is the perfect combination between Lo-Fi and Earlybird. The  angle at which we maneuver our chin is unnatural, yet flattering. We have accomplished a sock bun that is set in just the right spot on our heads, it is the right amount perfect with the right amount messy so that we look like neither a pretentious ballerina, nor an 11 year old in a Youtube tutorial fail. Life is momentarily good. Remove all the clutter from the background and boom, take a selfie. Then another seven. Log on to Instagram. This is so good it could be hashtagged #nofilter. But wait, our cheekbones look better in Hefe. Fuck it, filter. Share. Let the likes come in. Instant gratification. Dopamine pours into our soul with each orange notification that pops up onto our smart phone. Selfies are the new sex.

I’m guilty of the shameless selfie myself every once in awhile. It’s a quick thing to do that makes us feel better in 2 seconds, and sometimes we look nice and want to show it off. Okay.  But is there anything more depressing than an Instagram account that pumps out selfies all day long? I just want to reach out to these girls and tell them that every thing will be okay. I’m just not so sure it will. I mean, do these girls work? Or do they get paid to snap pictures of themselves in their bedroom all day? Our generation (today’s twenty-somethings) are kind’ve fucked up. As a whole, we are the most egocentric psychos of any generation before us. I guess it’s normal to get more fucked up as we go along, but I think the internet is a big factor in how fucked we are. I mean, what makes anyone think that ANYONE cares to look at an online album consisting of 138 pictures of the same person, in essentially the same weird positions, making distorted facial expressions that don’t even anatomically make sense? Because really, no one does care. Harsh.

The most fascinating part of this whole selfie phenomenon is when the selfie-taker tries to hide their selfie insecurity behind a baby. Yes, a baby. It’s one thing to show everyone how cute your baby is by uploading some adorable pictures of him eating spaghetti’s. But the baby selfie isn’t about the baby, it’s about the selfie’er. Rather than take 14 selfies alone during the day, they take 8 of themselves and 6 with themselves…and a baby. Because they are just trying to show off their baby who is going to call out a baby selfie? You do that and the entire internet will dub you an anti-maternal antichrist. They drag their innocent 13 month old into their egocentrism. It’s bizarre. I mean, here’s a thought: why not take your baby outdoors and get off your fucking cell phone? I’m not a mother, but I was a baby once. And I know I’d be pissed if my mother was taking pictures of herself instead of letting me thrive and shit. Cue angry moms leaving comments that I am an anti-mother antichrist who doesn’t understand that moms need breaks from their babies to take selfies from time to time every 20 minutes. Sigh.

All I know is that the more the internet can do, the more self-absorbed us humans become. It’s this attention-seeking, constant gratification behavior that comes out of a stupid “like” that really means NOTHING.  Seriously, what does it even mean? That someone absent mindedly perused their IG feed and for a fleeting moment they saw a picture they thought was neat, so they effortlessly hit a button. Wouldn’t it be a little bit healthier to just go out and live instead of refreshing internet pages? Deny if you’d like, but ask yourself honestly if you care about other peoples’ Instagram accounts and then tell me I’m wrong.

And now, an overplayed song with a surprisingly accurate description of selfies and a catchy beat:

 

 

Coming Soon in the Boston/South of Boston Area…

Molly:

This is pretty bad ass: Chicks come to your place, clean up after your party, and bring you breakfast. Wish this was around when I was in college. Give them a call/like them on Facebook!

Originally posted on Pick Me Uppers:

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Did you have a party last night? Do a few too many shots of Jager? Are you in no condition to clean up your place? Do you have no idea who that guy sleeping on your lawn is? Don’t worry about it! The Pick Me Upper girls are here to help you! All you have to do is give us a call and we will head on over to your house or apartment, pick up your empties, do your dishes, and take out the trash. Oh, and we will bring you fresh coffee and bagels to boost your stamina while we do the dirty work. Hangovers suck. But they suck a little bit less with a PICK ME UP!

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The Psycho at the End of my Street

The weirdest shit happens to me, I swear. One morning a little over a month ago I pulled out of the parking lot in my complex to head to work. My street is a long side street that stretches from one side of Hospital Hill to the other, and I use it to avoid Newport Avenue morning traffic. At this time there was still snow on the ground that had been plowed to the sides of the road. The sidewalks are small as is, but with the snow banks, they were non existent, making the road much smaller in width. I’m cruising along at a steady pace, with my 4 wheel drive on, when I notice in the distance a man walking his dog in the middle of the road. No big deal, there isn’t much room on the road and the sidewalks are inaccessible. I get closer, and the closer I get the slower I go because this guy is not moving himself or his pit bull to the side. I get closer and he looks up from the ground and directly at me. At this point I stop, confused as to why he’s not moving the fuck out of the way. This is when he starts SCREAMING. Legit, screaming at me. I had the windows up and the radio on so I don’t know what he was screaming, but he looked pissed. He starts walking briskly, pulling his dog’s leash, towards me. I go into panic mode and my eyes are darting around looking for a way to get away from him, but there is no way unless I reverse my car. He reaches the driver’s side of my car, still screaming, while I am about to pee my leggings. My mind is frantically telling me to hit the gas and floor it but I don’t want to hit this psychopath’s fucking dog who I can’t see because it is so close to my vehicle.  But before I can think of a plan B, this dude is punching my window. So plan A: I floor it. Don’t worry, I didn’t hit the dog. The guy gives my new Jeep a few more whacks with his grubby mitts as I speed off. I can see him screaming and flailing his arms in my rearview. Au revoir you Ted Bundy ass PSYCHO!

A few days later, I saw him again on another street close to my street. He didn’t notice me because he was busy watching his dog shit on someone’s lawn. So naturally I took a picture:

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A few days after that, I got a call from Ryan while I was at work. I could immediately tell from his tone that he was bullshit about something. He proceeded to tell me that while he was at a red light in Wollaston, a drunk Irishman came out of a nearby tavern, approached Ryan’s car yelling in  half Irish accent/half shitfaced gibberish that Ryan could not compute and takes a swing into Ryan’s car (his window was down). Being a 2 o’clock in the afternoon on a weekday drunk, naturally, he missed Ryan’s head and kind’ve half-assed hit him in the shoulder. Ryan, in awe, just looked at him and goes “Dude…what are you doing?”. The drunk stumbled away and all was well in Wollaston.

Fast forward to this morning, I am cruising down my street again, probably around 20mph, when I catch a glimpse of Psycho’s tan jacket in the distance. He spots my car out, and starts wildly swinging his arms in the air like some kind of monkey ass bitch. This time there was no snow, and although he stood directly in the middle of the street in a whack attempt to block me, I was able to do an awkward swerve around him without killing his dog. Or him. Unfortunately.  He did some weird swing, but missed my car.  My future plan is to video my ride up my street every single morning, then post it here so we can identify him and prosecute him for not picking up his dog’s poop. Also: Quincy Police, if you are reading this, be on the lookout for a guy in a tan jacket, glasses, hat, jeans (he is like Doug Funnie in that he wears the same outfit every day, but also like Roger Klotz in that he is a douche), and a pit bull. He punched my car, scares me on the reg, and he let’s his dog poop on lawns (that may LOOK like a bag intended for the collection of poo in that picture, but it’s more likely a bag that was once filled with crack cocaine).

Anyways, I found it bizarre that Ryan and I have random psychopaths throwing punches at us while we are busy minding our own business. Then it dawned on me: this was karma. Karma for being the annoying engaged girl on Facebook! I never have believed in karma before, but boy do I believe in it now.  Let this be a lesson for all you engaged girls: people hate what you’re doing. So shut the fuck up, before you too are getting punched in traffic.

FIN.

Who You Are.

 

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You ever hear someone excuse their asshole behavior by proudly announcing that the behavior they exhibited was “WHO THEY ARE!!!”? And why shouldn’t everyone just be themselves and have no filter and be a tactless lunkhead because being a bitch is trendy!?  Everyone is on the defensive when it comes to “This is who I am and if you don’t like it then you can just light yourself on fire  while pounding sand infested with hypodermic needles!!!!”.  Before I go any further I want to clarify that I am by no means justifying not being yourself. Be yourself. All day. I am merely pointing out that sometimes you should shut the fuck up.  Because when you’re an asshole, I already know you are insecure about something, I just might not know what it is yet.

Now that I got that out there, I have a serious question:

What if who you are is an asshole? 

Ask yourself seriously: AM I AN ASSHOLE?  To the waitstaff, to the cashier at Dunks, to the janitor, to the girl a position lower than yours at work, to the UPS guy, to the crossing guard, to your FAMILY, to your FRIENDS, to your PARTNER, to BECAUSE MOLLY SAID SO? One of my biggest turn offs in regard to another human is when they aren’t nice to the waiter. This is an over-talked about subject, I get it. But it’s SO true. It’s awkward enough that you are demanding all this shit from a stranger who is on their feet all day, asking for refills, asking for more honey mustard, asking for a separate tab, etc. But after your requests, if you feel comfortable being condescending, rolling your eyes,  or complaining about total bullshit, then yeah, you ARE in fact  an asshole. Not to mention you are embarrassing everyone who you are dining with. No one thinks it’s funny. They just feel forced to overcompensate with a big tip. So basically YOUR assholeness is costing your friends money. This can be tweaked to every situation. And that doesn’t excuse you. You might think it does, but you’ve left an impression, and people will remember you for being a mean person for no reason. Then again, assholes are probably cool with that.

It kind’ve reminds me of when a flaky friend disappoints us and our defense mechanism is to remind ourselves or each other that “It’s just _______________________ and that’s the way she has always been and always will be.” Like, no expectations equal no disappointment. But WHY do we have to set the bar so low?!  The assholes are just getting away with being assholes because we are excusing them. Tricking our minds by telling ourselves that someday, all of the assholes will come across someone who will stop the asshole from being an asshole. More importantly though, if you are the disappointing asshole in this situation, why do you want that to be who YOU are? (And is it who you really are? Or are you just awkward and trying to hide it by being a douche? Because awkward is trendy now too and endearing as fuck, sooo….)  One thing I’ll never understand is why someone wants to be someone who goes back on their word, flakes out, treats people like shit, and is okay being that person.  Just be nice to everyone.  Period.  And if you can’t keep your word, then don’t speak the words. Because who you are is who you are, and you go with yourself everywhere that you go, and you leave pieces of yourself with everyone you meet, and why would anyone want to compromise that?

Just a thought.

Murderers and Shit

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My husband is working the overnight shift for the next week or two and he told me not to tell anyone on social media because announcing that kind of shit on social media just begs burglars to come on in and steal our Star Wars Ebay collectables/Homegoods lamps. I had to tell someone though, so I hope you can keep a secret. Yes…I’m talking to YOU. Don’t tell the burglars. Don’t be a narc.

Being alone is terrifying. Before I lived with Ryan I pretty much lived with Ryan and his friend PK in their man cave, and PK would fuck with me by sporting a Jason Voorhees mask around the property at night. And before I lived with man children I lived with my mom and my dad and my brother and my sister and my niece and my dog all together in God’s Country (Wollaston). And none of them wore Jason masks so things were pretty normal unless I was drunk off of vodka or forgot my house key.

Now that I live with just Ryan, if Ryan isn’t home it’s just me. And Boba Fett, my bird. And wine. And Doug, my pothead neighbor who has no regard for personal space or time. But let’s forget about them for a minute. It’s pretty much just me, and my only defense against murderers and rapists is how annoying I am. I know everyone says that in what they think is this endearing/cute way, and it’s offensive because it’s like no, if you were annoying the murderer would just stab you in the back of the head with a butter knife. I get it. But I’m really annoying. Like, clingy and needy and always asking people to bring me glasses of water. So I mean it in a non-endearing way. I’m really annoying. I’m sort of like that sick child in the book The Secret Garden. Like whiney and pale.

I know I’m 27 and not supposed to be afraid of things other than diseases and dry events and flooded flares with running sneakers, but ever since Lady Gaga paid someone to puke on her during a concert, you just never know. I mean, have you guys ever watched that show on the Bio channel called I Survived? But have you watched it ALONE when you’re not buzzed? I have (once). And it happened to be that episode when the woman hitchhiked and was then sexually assaulted before having her arms chopped off with a fucking machete. Couldn’t sleep after that one. The world is a scary place. Have you ever walked past that bus stop in Quincy Center that is right in front of that dollar store? I have (once – I typically drive because again, I’m annoying, but I had to walk approximately 2 yards from my vehicle to Angelina’s to pick up this buffalo chicken sub that Ryan’s friend raved about and was ultimately disappointing – whoops, TANGENT!). Scary shit. And have you ever had a seance at night in a grave yard in the year 1970? I haven’t, but I HAVE seen the movie Now and Then more times than I can count (sick soundtrack. Rivals The Wedding Singer/Dazed & Confused soundtrack), and I wanted to end this blog on a happy note. Because anyone, at any time, could possibly murder us. And we wouldn’t even know it. Because we’d be dead. And death is infinite. CAN YOU EVEN FUCKING GRASP THAT?!?!?! But that treehouse in Now and Then is SICK! Anyone else ever start up a lemonade stand as a kid to save money for that same exact treehouse? When I wasn’t busy pretending to be the front-woman in a bobsled team via my brother’s Radio Flyer, I was busy being annoying about a treehouse that I couldn’t afford. Sad?

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