I want to get serious for once in my life and talk about something that is very familiar to me: being fucking crazy. I don’t mean that fun-loving, eccentric, “Guuuurrrl, you crazy!”, kind of crazy. I mean mentally ill crazy. Okay, well I’m not mentally ill, but maybe that’s . But I do suffer from panic attacks, which I’m sure everyone goes through at some point in their lives. I’m going through a full fledged panic attack as I type, so I thought this might be a good experiment, blogging until it stops. So anyways, I will tell you how a panic attack feels: First your heart starts beating faster. Then you get this feeling of unexplained dread. You kind of feel like you are going to die or pass out but you have no fucking idea why, and that is pretty alarming in itself, because you know, I don’t want to die. Your mind starts to race and you have a need to break free of wherever you are and just walk/pace. For some reason when I am having a panic attack, I want cool air, so sometimes I will step outside and walk around aimlessly. Luckily, I work with my boyfriend, who is completely aware of my attacks and knows exactly what to say/do to calm me down. So I will usually call him up and say, “Talk normally to me”, and that’s a pretty good indicator that I’m having a full blown anxiety attack. If he’s not around, I’ll go to the bathroom and take deep breaths until I can regain my composure. WebMD and all those other bullshit sites say that panic attacks only last few minutes. That’s bullshit, because mine can last up to an hour. Yeah, if you’ve had a panic attack, you know how bad they fucking suck. But I don’t like the idea of taking medicines to calm me down, so I just try to get through them constructively, and even typing this is making me feel better. So basically, my idea works and I’m pretty much a genius (geniuses are usually mental, FYI). I really can’t hate my panic attacks too much, because they’ve brought out my inner genius.Usually when I get panic attacks, I will get them frequently for a duration of time. Then they will go away for a year and resurface when I’m on the Red Line or eating oatmeal or in line to pee at the Stadium, etc. I don’t really think much into them because I can work my way through them. But a few years ago, I was going through some stress at work and they were occurring more and more frequently. I was getting sick of these asshole panic attacks, so I made a doctor’s appointment. I told the doctor I was under a lot of stress and not sleeping due to the stress. She told me I had “exhaustion”. I don’t know who here reads tabloids (I assume you do if you read the trash I blog about), but when someone says “exhaustion” in this context, it really means “batshit”. So immediately I wanted to ask my doctor when Candy Finnegan or Jeff Van Vonderen would be escorting me to Logan airport to catch my flight to Utah. Would Dr. Drew be there to greet me and help me with my intake forms? Because when you suffer from “exhaustion”, the first place you need to go is Cirque Lodge to get un-crazy. Just ask LiLo, Britney Spears, and Demi Moore. They know. Although, I’m unsure as to what is it one does to cure exhaustion. Do they just sleep for like 7 days? Because I am so down for that. Anyways, long story short, my insurance wouldn’t cover it. So I’ve been crazy ever since. But you know what? That’s completely fine because Angelina Jolie once said:
Over the weekend a neighbor stopped my mom while she was getting out of her car to request a blog about break ups. I guess a friend of my neighbor was going through a painful break up and my neighbor wanted to have a girl’s night and read the blog to make her friend laugh. Unfortunately for her, I had yet to blog about break up’s, since I am one of those obnoxious girls who has been in a relationship for a couple of years now and gloats about how happy she is to be in love (and there is nothing funny about that, I make myself sick). But then I cracked open a few Bud Light’s on Friday night and started thinking about all the break up’s I’ve gone through. And I started laughing at how pathetic and depressing I used to be. And I realized if I could just have known while going through those break up’s, that one day I would be sitting there, sipping beers and laughing alone in my head on a Friday night, I could have slept a little easier. Okay, I wasn’t actually drinking and laughing alone. I wasn’t even thinking about the break up’s I’d gone through, because I just don’t care about those break up’s anymore. I lied to be ironic, so that you would still think I was pathetic and depressing and feel less alone. I would never think about a past heartbreak while drinking alone on a weekend night. I am way too busy watching 20/20 or sleeping by 10pm to be bothered. So for the sake of this blog, I want to provide a list of shit you need to do if you are trying to get over someone. Maybe I’ll recall some shit about my break up’s in the process, share it with all of you, then curl up into fetal position in the shower and cry. But considering my past taste in men, probably not. Here goes:
How To Get Over Someone
- Allow your friend to slap you across the face. This sounds upsetting and painful, but sometimes, you need it. Hey, maybe you are a cheating whore who deserves a slap in the face. But either way, a slap in the face is the first step in the road to recovery. Make sure you don’t know about the slap before you receive it. This is kind of difficult, since you need to ask you friend to do it. So maybe have your friend sign a contract when you first become friends stating that she will surprise slap you across the face after a break up. When I got slapped, I was about 16 years old, and my friend didn’t tell me exactly what she was going to do, other than that she had seen it on the show Friends, so that she wouldn’t take away the surprise element. She sat me down on her bed, told me that she was going to do something that might hurt, and asked for my blessing. I gave it to her and then BOOM! She slapped the hurt right out of me. Actually, the hurt was not completely out of me. But it was after the slap that I realized, “Hey, my ex is a fucking loser who no level-headed girl should ever desire. Ever.” And then, after some stalking and obsessing, began the process of moving on.
- Write Down All the Bad Memories: Get out a pen and paper and start writing. Don’t leave anything out. Once you recall all the bad memories you have with this person, the good memories will be start to seem few and far between. Remember that it takes about 10 good memories just to forget 1 bad memory. Here are some examples of the worst memories I have from a collection of ex boyfriends that probably would have gone on my list:
-He got so drunk at the ugly sweater party that he thought my Chinese friend was me and started a domestic dispute with her while I was trying to play Flip Cup.
-He screwed over all of his friends and has none left. Most guys remain friends with their buddies from the second they meet at T-ball practice at age 5. Unless they are on par with Jeffrey Dahmer.
-With the exception of our mutual friends, all of his friends are complete fucktards.
-He won’t play Scrabble with me because he doesn’t know how to spell. I love Scrabble...
- Cry to ALL of your friends: The reason I say “all of your friends” is because you can’t put all of this on just one friend. It will make that one friend fucking hate you. So cry to your best friend, then give her a break and call someone else up to cry. Exhaust all of your options then stop. You are only allowed to cry about it for a certain amount of time. After a month or so it gets redundant. According to Sex & the City, it takes half the amount of time you dated someone to get over them. Do this getting over in your own head. Don’t be “that girl” who mourns her heartbreak out loud and in public. This sounds harsh but seriously, your friends can only take so much before they stop calling you to hang out. No one wants to hang out with someone who is always depressed. Pretend you don’t care and eventually you won’t care, and you’ll still have friends. If you don’t have friends, then um, I hate to say it but it’s not everyone else’s fault: it’s your fault. Girls who don’t have friends either have a personality disorder or are just backstabbing whores. Either or. Get it together.
- Go to the Dollar Tree, purchase bloomers (yeah they sell underwear there), stick them outside the window of your car and roll the window up so the bloomers fly in the wind: Trust me, you need to do this to get over someone. Would I lie to you? Probably. But we aren’t talking about me right now, we are talking about YOU getting over someone.
- Listen to the following song:
I know that when I listen to that song, I get all sorts of angry at Joey Gladstone, how about you?
- Eat a pint of ice cream or a stick of cookie dough by yourself: I don’t fucking know. Isn’t that what you’re supposed to do? Oh, and don’t forget to do this:
…don’t do that more than once though. Gross.
- Spread rumors that ruin your ex’s life: Just kidding, that’s just evil. Instead of spreading rumors about him, you could go to Amazing Adult Video Express, purchase penis erasers and scatter them on your ex’s porch. That works just as well as the rumor thing.
Okay well, now you know how to get over someone. If you follow all of these measures, you will be single and ready to mingle. I realize that this list is geared for girls, so I also wanted to provide a list for men in case they have a broken heart:
- Sleep around: Slut.
Good luck and God speed!
Recently I have become obsessed with watching HGTV and all of those real estate shows on it: House Hunters, My First Place, Curb Appeal, etc. I don’t know what it is. Maybe I am just getting older and want to spend less money at local dive bars and put more money away for my future. Eh. It might go hand and hand with me crying while I watch TLC’s “Four Weddings”, like a fucking weirdo while my boyfriend takes out his aggression by screaming at 13 year old’s playing Call of Duty on the other TV (yeah, I have a designated TV). Who knows. But God forbid a Boston episode comes on, I nearly pee my pants in excitement. I don’t even know how I stand marathons of this shit. The people that are house hunting drive me completely insane. If I were a real estate agent for some of these couples, I’d have a hard time holding back my nausea. I can’t believe the miniscule things that these people complain about:
- “I guess my heart was really just set on a laundry chute…”. A laundry chute?! Who do you think you are?! Carry your laundry basket down to the basement and if you’re that lazy you can fling the goddamn thing down the basement stairs.
- “My dog isn’t going to like this yard.” It’s a dog. Take it for a fucking walk if the yard is too small.
- “My daughter is going to need a bigger closet.” Your daughter is a spoiled little brat who could stand to donate some of the shit she doesn’t need to Goodwill.
- “That ceiling fan offends my wife”. Get a chainsaw, a step stool and have your wife stand underneath it. Just kidding, kind of. But seriously, any avid House Hunters watcher knows that ceiling fans and bad paint jobs are an inexpensive fix! “Don’t become distracted by the colors” – Every single real estate agent on every single episode.
- “This backsplash isn’t really our taste…” Aww, too bad your husband doesn’t know what the fuck a backsplash is.
- “We wanted his and hers sinks in the master bathroom.” A couple that washes their hands together, stays together. I guess?
- “There is no country feel to this property.” Um, you’re in Detroit.
Andddd of course the most common complaint in the show: “This closet is WAY too small.” Oh, you are such a diva. You couldn’t even tell with those mom jeans you’re sporting! Sure fooled us. Then the husband makes those corny jokes that make you feel that second hand embarrassment. “It looks like somebody puked all over these carpets!” That’s actually blood, not puke. Now shut your mouth and stop pretending you have a say. Maybe if the cabinets were a shade lighter your wife would be able to get off her Prozac! Dream big.
Probably the most smug request I hear while watching these shows is that the buyer NEEDS a home office. Um, what the fuck do you need to do in your dining room converted home office Mr./Mrs. Important? Extreme coupon before it’s time to mow the lawn? Some imbeciles even request that there be a half bathroom off of the home office. You know, in case the homeowners need to take a shit while they are online shopping. Even more ridiculous than the crucial need for a home office complete with a shitter is when the buyer requests a room with a separate entrance. The wife is all like, “My husband is a guitar teacher and we would love a separate entrance to the soundproof den so that I can concentrate on cooking my famous tortellini while he’s loudly fucking his students.” Isn’t life in Nebraska wonderful, babe? Then the end of the episode cuts to 6 months later, when the family is all settled into their humble abode. They are sitting in their cozy home office, behind a desk the size of a small boat, pretending that HGTV caught them off guard, showing up unexpectedly while they “work from home”. “Ohhh hey, HGTV! Look how family-oriented we are in our new home! That spare room was a great space for my book club that meets every Monday night! Give us a fahkin’ gift card!”.
Amenities are also a huge factor in buying for these people. They need a country club type place that is in walking distance of their house, in a small gated community. It must have a pool and fitness center because God fucking forbid these people pay 20 bucks a month for a Planet Fitness black card.
One of the most frustrating scenarios on this show occurs when the couple just can’t come to an agreement on which house to put an offer on, so they take it as a sign and don’t buy anything. You get all hyped up wondering which of the 3 homes they are going to buy, the show cuts to commercial break, only intensifying the suspense. Then, boom!, you get the news from the realtor: the couple is going to remain in their studio for now. Say whaaaaat?! That studio was too small, now where are you going to entertain your neighborhood friends? Where is your husband going to play his awful fiddle in his short shorts? Forget about “expanding the family”, since you couldn’t decide between the Cape Cod classic and the charming colonial with those granite counter tops you’ve dreamed of since you were 6. This is a major concern, wifey isn’t getting any more fertile with age. You know there was a domestic dispute when the cameras stopped rolling and the couple got back to their studio. The divorce is pending. Maybe now you can catch them during daytime TV on Channel 12 sans hopes and dreams.
I would love to be on House Hunters Quincy. “I’m looking for a Merrymount dream house with amenities such as Planet Fitness, Wendy’s, and a bus stop. I’d like a beach front property that has the view of Boston without the odor of Black’s Creek during lowtide.” A girl can dream…
*Special thanks for AS & MM for the inspiration!
Have you ever listened to the Back in the Day Buffet on Jam’n 94.5 and gotten choked up from the nostalgia? I certainly have not. Especially because some of the songs on Back in the Day Buffet are bogus. Any music post Puff Daddy should not be considered “old school”. Sorry to offend you Diddy, but “Bad Boy For Life” made you less bad/more of a douche. Whatever. I still have hood memories without Jam’n reminding me of them. And by “hood memories” I mean a childhood consisting of: a predominantly white neighborhood with a couple of Asian families scattered in, parents that were still happily married, evenings filled with cops and robbers/relevio (Google told me to spell that game “r-e-l-i-e-v-o”, I think that’s bullshit so I’m spelling it my way), disobeying your parents’ rule about going on when the street lights came on, fuckin’ teeny drinks, and drinking from hoses. Those are some of the hood memories that most kids have. Here are some fucking weird ones that I had before the days of drinking alcohol at dive bar patios during those summer nights….
- Bobsled Races: Admit how great the movie “Cool Runnings” was…and still is. Admit that it could be a beautiful day out and the sun could be calling your name, but too bad…”Cool Runnings” is OnDemand. If Jamaica could have a bobsled team then that meant Wollaston could, too. So my and my hood friends (8 year old white girls) jacked my little brother’s Radio Flyer and practiced our best bobsled moves on local hills. I guess this wasn’t really a race, since there were no other girls in the neighborhood that were weird enough to pretend to be Jamaican men competing in the bobsled Olympics, but does that really even matter? I always root for the underdogs. I see pride. I see power. I see a bad ass mother who won’t take no crap from nobody.
- Mary Kate & Ashley Concerts: What little girl didn’t want to be Mary Kate and Ashley? Unfortunately, I was born to a mailman and his wife instead of the Olsen twins’ parents, so I had to settle for just being in their fan club (just kidding mom, I mean “fortunately). I used to call up my blonde/tan friend from up the street to come by and throw a backyard concert with me and my brunette hair/pale Irish skin. We looked so much alike we could have legit passed for the real Olsen twins. The picnic table made a fabulous stage, and the best part was that you didn’t even have to be talented to be MK & Ashley. You could just sing out of key, sporting wacky outfits, while you sat there on a picnic table and all the moms in the neighborhood cringed at the high notes being attempted. Have you watched a MK & Ashley video since 1995? I have, and I could almost cut the awkwardness with a knife.
- Disturb the peace: Like most little shits running around the suburbs looking for something to do, I used to disturb the peace by egging the shit out of the Nazarene college up the street from me. Sorry to any Nazzi’s who read this (I wasn’t sure how to spell “Nazzi’s” correctly, but I feel politically incorrect spelling it “n-a-z-i”). After you egged a few dorms/science buildings, the campus security rent-a-cops come jogging at you seeking an arrest. It was almost as if Deputy Doofy were chasing us. The adrenaline rush that comes with Deputy Doofy chasing you is one that I’ll probably never have again, unless I take some hardcore drugs. Speaking of Deputy Doofy, watch this:
- Pog dealing: Not a typo. I mean poG, not poT. I used to walk up to the baseball card store in Wollaston to purchase some pogs and sick slammers. Then I’d trade them like they were worth something. Mostly I would trade any pogs I had for pogs that had the pink ranger on them. She was my style icon of the early 90′s. Maybe that’s where I went wrong. PS: Did you know that the yellow ranger died in a car accident? And Billy the blue ranger was bullied on the set of Power Rangers? So sad =(. Anyways, pogs got unpopular and then Beanie Babies came out. There was a kid on the playground in elementary school that sold Beanie Babies in zip lock bags. It was a risky business, everyone wanted to get their hands on Princess for a while. I have since given my Beanie Babie collection to my 6 year old niece, who I walked in on while she was ripping all the tags off. I ran over to her screaming, “WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!?! DO YOU KNOW HOW MUCH THOSE ARE GOING TO BE WORTH?!“. Then a voice in my head told me “Nothing…nothing”, and I backed off and took decided it was probably time to seek meds.
- Shoe flinging contests: It’s exactly what it sounds like. You and your opponent sit on a swing set and when you start swinging high and fast enough, you fling your shoe. The shoe that went the furthest was the winner. If you were a real diehard at this game, you could fling more than your shoe: you could fling yourself from the swing and whoever lands further wins. Just be careful you don’t give yourself a charlie horse or end up like inside-out boy.
- Playing DJ: Life before Ipods was like “Lord of the Flies” in some ways. You had to put a blank tape into your boom box and literally wait around for hours until your favorite songs came on the radio to record them. Anarchy.
Those are my most vivid hood memories, so what about you guys? What are your hood memories? Send them to me at firstname.lastname@example.org and I will post that shit. Thanks as usual!
Welp, here are some minor awkward situations that you experience on a monthly, okay, maybe annual, basis:
- The awkward turn around: Ever run the beach? Yeah, me neither. But sometimes I swiftly walk the beach (let’s pretend “swiftly” means “leisurely” and go on with the list sans calling me out). Besides running into everyone and their mother, isn’t it awkward when you get towards the end of the beach? You need to just, stop, turn around and head back the other way. When I’m alone, I feel like someone driving on Quincy Shore Drive is going to scream, “AWKWARD TURN AROUND!” when they pass by me. And when I’m with someone I feel like someone is going to scream, “AWKWARD TURN AROUND DOUBLE TEAM!“. Once you can see the end of your route you have to plan your turn around. And you and your friend have to plan it out right quick, “Let’s turn at this parking area and not make eye contact with anyone and let’s make this turn synchronized so that it looks like we practice.”. Super cool.
- The awkward toll booth: Ever park in a ghetto parking lot in which you feel someone should be paying YOU to park your vehicle? By “ghetto parking lot” I guess I mean the Quincy Center parking lot. It throws me for a loop when I park at a reasonable hour, craving a Doug Flutie at the Fours for lunch or dinner, and then the toll booth dude asks me for my parking stub and THEN has the audacity to ask me for an additional $1.50. I just gave you back your ticket stub. What else do you need?! I’m not paying you money. You owe me! A homeless man from the Thomas Crane lawn could have wandered on over to the hood of my car and passed out drunk on top of it! And you want me to pay you money for that inconvenience?! I’m always so thrown off that I am being asked to pay for Quincy Center parking that I stumble around in my big pocketbook looking for quarters (I’m not breaking anything over a dollar for Quincy Center). Then the toll booth dude is like, “Just forget it, there are cars behind you”, and I’m like “Sorry, only have a $20″, as if he’s homeless and I’m being kind enough just handing him some pocketbook change. I have the money to pay you guy, I just don’t think you take plastic. I get the same feeling I imagine Whitney Houston must have felt when Diane Sawyer asked her if she was smoking crack. It’s insulting. I am above crack. Even though Whitney smoked crack, she was above it, too. Don’t ask me to pay to park my dented up lease in Quincy Center.
- The awkward “someone made the bathroom at the bar smell and left their stall before you, and now you are the only one in the bathroom and someone else just walked in and thinks you created the smell” : Guess that pretty much sums its up. But I do have a question: WHO DOES THAT AT A BAR?!
- The awkward elevator ride: Have you ever gotten an elevator to yourself and just want the doors to shut fast and bring you to your floor before anyone can hop in? I have, and that’s when I hit the “Door Close” button. Usually, I feel so sneaky/selfish about hitting this button, that I hit it frantically as though I was in an emergency. The door really never shuts any faster. Sometimes the door is more than halfway shut, so if someone rushes to catch the elevator and doesn’t make it, I can just shrug and shake my head apologetically as if I had tried to alert the sensors of our newest arrival. Door closes in their faces. But most of the time, someone catches me in my frantic door closing encounter. And I look like a big douche. Sorry, where I’m going can’t wait 8 seconds for you to get on this elevator.
- The awkward elevator ride part 2: My boyfriend LOVES to do this. He will be on an elevator with a friend or coworker who is getting off a floor after him. He farts, then gets off the elevator. Now if someone else gets on after he gets off at his floor, his friend/coworker is blamed for the flatulence. This can also occur in a similar fashion during rush hour on the train. It could be anyone…
- The awkward pass out: Have you ever been on the verge of a deep sleep during class in high school and suddenly get that falling feeling and proceed to jump up like a psychopath? It’s kind of awkward to even remember blatantly falling asleep during class. I could never have accomplished that in college. So rude. I have to be completely at ease/comfy to fall asleep. It really shows the teacher how fucking bored you really are.
You know who I hate? No one. If you hate someone, you have no time to love them (I don’t think that’s how the quote goes). But I do strongly dislike bitches. Every time I come across a bitch, the bitch in me comes out. Is that hypocritical? Yes, totally. Not only hypocritical, but also ignorant, but you’ll keep reading this anyways for some reason. Anyways, bitches just bring out the bitch in all of us. For example, this weekend I was trying to enjoy my Irish heritage with all of my friends and this buzz kill ass clown bitch from Hingham, who is dating someone in my circle, started frontin’. Okay, so she didn’t really front, nor do I know what real frontin’ even entails, but around 3am when we were all pretty disoriented, I overheard her call one of my girlfriends a bitch. Apparently she had forgotten I was in the same room and as soon as she realized I had overheard, she made eye contact with me nervously then quickly looked away. I get it: you think that because you go to Derby St. while I’m at Marshall’s scoping out bargains that you’re better than me. Bitch, please. The Lauren Conrad/Daisy Fuentes blazers you buy at Kohl’s aren’t anything to toot your own horn about.
Now normally I would just brush the shit talk off because I’m a total pussbag with no spine, but this chick is constantly talking shit about all of my friends behind our backs. And I’m bitter about that ever since I invited her to a BBQ at my house last summer and the only thing she brought was a 12 pack of Stop & Shop franks. Like, thanks for the unused pig meat scraps that you got for a discount price, but I wanted wine/Tostito’s y con queso (here I was thinking you shopped at Whole Foods). To top off the bitchiness of this girl, she also is a bitch to Barney, calling him words such as “alcoholic”, and “fucking slob”. Only me and my girlfriends can relentlessly make fun of Barney, because what this bitch calls an alcoholic slop-fest is what we call “shock humor”. So anyways, my friend confronted this bitch, she lied about calling my friend a bitch, so I then told her boyfriend I apologize for the disrespect but that SHE is the bitch, and also that her new hair cut makes her look like Casey Anthony. Then she told my friend’s sister that I was the bitch. Because that’s what bitches do. They bitch out and call everyone bitches.
So yeah, the Casey Anthony comment ended that argument (because I fled to my car, as it was 5am and I didn’t want to hear his response). Not really a good story. But it got me thinking about how to deal with bitches. And I want to share with you all the things I’ve noticed about bitches so that when you come across a bitch, you will know how to deal. Here are a few different kinds of bitches that I’m sure you or a friend have encountered before:
The Office Bitch: I haven’t come across one directly, because I don’t currently even work in an office. And when I did work in an office, every one liked me, because I’m lovable and shit. But I’ve seen my friends go through it. The office bitch is a bitch who is constantly throwing you under the bus and tossing unfinished shit onto your desk when you aren’t looking. She is typically a kiss ass and has a really crappy social life because she is a neurotic psychopath bent on ruining your life. She is always pointing out your flaws in front of everyone to make herself look better than you. If you come across this kind of bitch, the best way to handle her is to spread a rumor that she went number 2 in the single stall bathroom. Ew, gross. Just don’t rat her out to the boss. Remember, snitches get stitches.
The Weekend Bitch: This is the kind of bitch like the Casey Anthony look-alike I came across this weekend. You might only see her when you’re out and she has to be fake nice to you and your friends because she’s dating someone in your circle. She usually will bring her bitchiest friend out with her so she feels less alone and can talk shit the duration of the evening while acting like she’s better than all of you because you are from Quincy and she is from Hingham or another town that begins with an “H”. So what can you do about her? Lock eyes with her when you see her whispering. Don’t blink. Hold eye contact until she looks away. It will make you look like a hard core psycho. And no one fucks with a hard core psycho.
The Whore Bitch: The whore bitch is a bitch who is also a whore. Did you really need me to explain that? She talks down to you in front of guys to talk herself up, then leaves the bar with these same guys and they lose respect for her and the circle of her insecurity continues. Yadda, yadda, yadda. How do you deal with a whore bitch? If she tries to bring you down in front of guys, just call her out for being a hater in front of them. Then she will look like a jealous weirdo and they will take notice of her cattiness. The outcome will be the same, she will leave with one of the guys…but at least by tomorrow they won’t respect her anymore. And if they do still respect her, that means they are probably a guy who likes drama. This kind of guy is called a man bitch (see below).
The Man Bitch: The man bitch is a bitch that is a man. Yes, men can be bitches, too. It’s called male PMS. They are probably the worst kind of bitches because they are so bi-polar about their bitchiness. One minute they are so nice and the next they are whiny, immature and usually go for the low blows in an argument. If you come across one, and he says something mean to you, cry. Even if you don’t feel hurt enough to cry, force yourself. If you just immediately cry, the guy will look like a total dick who makes girls cry. Maybe the man bitch who caused the tears will be turned on, because he’s a secret sadist, but no one else will like to see you cry. Because real men don’t like to see girls cry.
The Secret Bitch: The secret bitch is a fake friend who, like the whore bitch, is always putting you down in front of others. She calls you out all the time, but she acts like your friend to your face. She tells people things about you that you told her to keep a secret, then she pretends like you didn’t tell her not to tell anyone. If she is hanging out with you in a group, and you leave before her, you might get the feeling that as soon as the door shuts behind you she will begin talking shit. No matter who you are, if you are a girl with a lot of girlfriends, you are going to come across a secret bitch. That’s why you need to weed out the bad ones, even if that leaves with only 3 friends. Three real friends are better than 17 1/2 fake friends. Every few months ask yourself, “Do I have too many girlfriends?” If the answer is yes, 5 plus girlfriends, then maybe it’s time you start being a bitch to your least favorite girlfriends, that way you start talking about them before they have the chance to back stab you.
Okay, now that you have a list of the most common kinds of bitches, get out there and be a vengeful bitch. It will be funny.
Disclaimer: Some of this is a joke. Only some. The bitch from Hingham who looks like Casey Anthony and can’t AT LEAST spring for Ballpark franks at BBQ’s is real. She is probably reading this right about….now. My point: unless you are her, don’t be offended. Take a joke. Bitch.
Possibly the biggest downer is when I log into Facebook and see depressing statuses that girls put up about their sucky love lives. You’ve seen them, they kind of sound something along the lines of: “I’m a miserable person because HE made me this way”; “I just can’t stop crying“; “I just want ONE guy to prove to me that they’re not all the same”. Once in awhile, whatever…I guess, not really. But in most cases it’s the same handful of melancholy girls updating us on the reg, letting the world know via Facebook about their awful taste/lack of self respect/attention seeking tactics. Look, if there was a point that anyone ever did give a shit, they took that shit back the second they read that desperate status, psycho. Here’s a thought: why not learn to love and respect yourself so that you won’t give some douche ammo to hurt you?
People tend to forget that life is filled with choices. You are a miserable person because YOU made yourself that way when YOU chose to let someone treat you badly. Not all guys are the same, you just don’t have enough self respect to date one that isn’t a douche. And maybe you keep dating similar people because that’s the kind of person you attract because you are basically screaming that you let people abuse and walk all over you. You CAN stop crying, you probably already have, but you want comfort in the form of Facebook status comments telling you that everything is going to be alright. But nothing is going to be alright until you stop being such a fucking downer. Stop being an attention seeking weirdo and sharing all of your negativity towards the opposite sex with 456 acquaintances who don’t care.Can I let you in on a rule? When you start bitching about a guy constantly, then do nothing to help yourself, people stop listening. Think about that before you speak/type.
Do you think I am being insensitive to the dramatic? Well, you think so because you are one of them. Get a grip on reality. Get a grip on your life. Then go grab the world by the balls. Maybe take in a drag show with your girlfriends or something afterwards. Yeah, remember the girlfriends you drove away with your negativity/neuroticism? Call them up, tell them you sincerely apologize for being a complete fucking psycho and maybe they’ll take you back. If not, then you obviously have bad taste in friends as well. Good luck and God speed.
It had been awhile (about a year), but I finally went back to the gym a few weeks ago. Planet Fitness, in case you wanted to stalk the most boring human being on earth. Stalking is fine, just please refrain from small talk, it’s especially annoying at the gym when I’m gasping for air on a loud machine. Upon pulling into the parking lot, I am immediately pissed off because I tried to check-in. Yeah, I know, that’s fucking lame, but like I said, it had been a year and I think I’m allowed to announce to Facebook when my gym hiatus is up. When I saw the options for check-in locations, I saw that almost every single asshole who had ever checked in to Planet Fitness had spelled it wrong. I felt like that fact alone was a sure sign that people who are checking in to “Plant Fitness” every day are definitely tools.
For those who don’t know me, you should know that I fucking hate the gym. Nothing worse. I hate being out of breath, I hate being bored, I hate being sweaty, I hate being alone with my thoughts for 45 minutes to think about every mistake I’ve ever made in my life and will probably make again. Then, when I think I can’t get any more miserable, my Ipod dies and I have to plug the earphones into the elliptical machine and watch sports because that’s the TV closest to my machine. Why couldn’t I have sat closer to the TMZ TV? For those who don’t know me, I only watch sports as an excuse to go out drinking on a week night. And it can get worse than watching sports while at the gym. Sometimes those TV’s are set to the Food Network. What.The.Fuck. Who wants to look at delicious cheeseburgers with bacon and special sauce and crispy fries while they are at the gym? Okay, so my Ipod is dead and some sadist who works at Planet Fitness put the Food Network on…I guess I have to listen to the radio. People who actually like listening to the radio are probably the same ass clowns who LOVE to go back and forth between Maddy in the Morning and the Jam Scam on 94.5 religiously, every single morning. These are also probably the same people who LOVE Bono. But anyways, I scan the radio for a decent song. Gotye is now being played on Mix 104.1. That’s annoying, I liked that song and if Mix is playing it now that means in approximately 1 fortnight Kiss108 will be playing it. And the song will be dead the second it hits the airwaves. They killed poor Adele, and now they are going to assassinate Gotye.
But anyways, I keep scanning the radio. In the midst of scanning, there is a high school reunion going on all around me. Nothing like trying to lose some pounds in case a high school reunion comes up in the next 20 years, all the while your high school classmates are wiping sweat off their foreheads with mad old rags in every direction you look. Don’t get me wrong, sometimes I love seeing people I knew from school, so long as I enjoy their company. Just last week I saw a girl I went to school with from 6th-12th grade. We used machines next to each other and were under a mutual understanding that we had our earphones on during The Bachelor, and would take them out to catch up with each other during commercial breaks. Perfect, great to see ya! On the contrary, if you were someone in high school that stole my boyfriend while I was grounded one weekend, I don’t want to elliptical with you. I don’t want to watch shitty reality TV shows with you. I just want you to get dehydrated and fall off your machine while listening to “Someone Like You” for the 4th time in 37 minutes.
And have you ever noticed the gym rats who glare at you as you are cooling down? You know, the ones who are sweating profusely and have their speed on the treadmill set to 10.6, with a fitness magazine covering the timer to show that time is not issue when it comes to their work out. Those smug assholes don’t even need to know how many calories they burned. And they are grilling you because they want to know that you are going to spray the elliptical handles down after usage. Calm down, I’m only a little bit of a slob, I’m going to clean it. Get back to sprinting Jillian Michaels. Psycho.
There is one advantage to the gym: how you feel after a great work out session. That feeling can last anywhere from 10 minutes to 1 hour. Then you go home, eat that burger you saw on Food Network, and cancel out the entire work out. Then you dedicate the rest of the evening to self loathing while you watch Dance Moms and scream at Abby Lee Miller and chug cheap wine.
And that’s what happens at the gym despite what people who claim the gym is addictive say. These are usually the same people who say they get “runner’s high”. They are also the same people who are probably high on real drugs because “runner’s high” is a lie. Another lie is saying you are craving salad. No one craves salad. And that’s why you can’t trust people who love the gym, they are liars who get high. You can trust me, someone you probably don’t know who has no fucking idea about anything in life. See you at Plant Fitness tonight!
I got a rant in my Facebook inbox about the laziest foods known to man. I had to agree with the author, who wishes to remain anonymous, as not to offend those committing sloth.
Being bored I went to Ask.Com to see if anyone was so stupid that they’d need directions for uncrustable sandwiches, I was not disappointed:
“I am trying those uncrustable sandwich things that people really like. The directions say thaw for 30-60 minutes. I am doing that now. But then it says wait 8-10 hours to eat for best taste.! I am confused. Help! I dont wanna wait 8-10 hours to eat something im hungry for now.”
ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME!!!!!??? Just make a goddam sandwich you lazy bastard. Get yourself a plastic disposable knife, two slices of bread, a jar of Smucker’s Jelly , and a jar of Skippy and be done with it. Then, you could spend the rest of the day counting the stairs on the escalator at the South Shore Plaza.
You must be the same fucking idiot that buys Tyson Precooked Chicken Breast
Do you know what “Tyson Precooked Chicken Breast’ means in English? LEFTOVERS! You go to the fucking store to buy LEFTOVERS. Are you stupid? There are two problems with this. First, you have to thaw and then reheat (in other words, cook) them so you’re going to dirty a pan or a plate (if you microwave) so why not just get the chicken fresh. Second, they’re FUCKING LEFTOVERS! Take them out of your damn freezer and save yourself a couple of bucks. Then maybe you won’t have to go to the Olive Garden for a first date.
I don’t know what pisses me off more, the fact that people are so lazy that they buy frozen PB&J sandwiches and leftover chicken or the fact that I should have thought of it myself. America, what a country.
In chronological order. Just because I can.
- The Olsen Twins Brother: I don’t know who Mary Kate and Ashley’s brother was, but my first grade heart wanted him. Actually my 1st grade BRAIN wanted him. He has to have money, he’s the Olsen twins brother. If he was really for sale, I would have paid 3 shiny quarters for him.
- Tommy Pickles: I know. I couldn’t have a crush on a cartoon infant, it wasn’t a crush on Tommy literally, but a crush on the idea of Tommy’s character. He was such a fucking leader. You don’t see that often.
- The green (turned white) Ranger: Yeah, Tommy. It’s painful to admit this or even Google image this dude now. Cringing.
- Sam: The hottie that came in through Clarissa’s window via ladder. I liked his choice of entrance and his choice in plaid. Swag.
- Squints: While most girls were crushing on Benny the Jet Rodriguez, this girl was looking at Michael Squints Palledorous. It was just something about his nasally voice, geek glasses, and his ballsy-ness when it came to the pool honeys. This crush will last for.ev.er…for.ev.er…for.ev.er….
- Kel Mitchell: Is it trueeeee? MMMMmmmmhmmmmmmm! I do, I do, I do, I do, oooohh!
- Leonardo Dicaprio: I am in love with him in literally every single role he plays. From Luke the orphan in Growing Pains, to Jack Dawson in Titanic. I even loved him as Gilbert Grape, and when he was coming off heroin in Basketball Diaries. He is my boyfriend, my love, my life. But don’t tell him, I don’t want to scare him. I’ll never let go.
- Mark Paul Gosselaar: Who the fuck didn’t love Zack Morris? He was fly as hell, with that big, giant, thick, sexy, 80′s style cellular phone. Get your mind out of the gutter. Whore. I just wish the college years had never happened.
- Steve Hale: I know what you’re thinking: who the fuck is Steve Hale? Steve Hale is Steve, DJ’s boyfriend. The Deej never deserved him like I did. I would let Scott Weinger raid my fridge any day.
- Zac Hanson: Judge me. But he was the Justin Bieber of the 90′s. I didn’t care about the long hair. I went to the Hanson concert in the 4th grade and was pissed that some ass clown had a giant “I like Ike” sign held up the entire concert, blocking me from my precious Zachary. Who the fuck liked Ike? I got to speak with this dreamboat last summer at the second Hanson concert I went to. Sure I wreaked of sweat and desperation but he signed my dollar bills. I think I bought a coffee with those two dollar bills. I don’t think the Dunkin Donuts Clerk understood the worth of those crumpled up bills, bit I was pretty desperate for caffeine.Don’t believe me? Here’s proof you didn’t ask for:
- Tupac: Because I was an 11 year old suburban gangster.
- Fred & Ben Savage: Rider Strong has nothing on these brothers from the same mother. And if some psychopath took a gun to my head and told me to choose between them, I’d tell them to sacrifice me. Just fuckin’ with you, I’d choose Fred. But it would be a difficult decision!
- All of the Beatles minus George: Ever since I saw the movie “Hard Days Night” I’ve had a crush on 3/4′s of the Beatles. George was alright. But I didn’t have a crush. He just didn’t do it for me like John, Paul, and yes, even Ringo.
- Joshua Jackson: From the moment I saw Mighty Ducks, I was hooked on Josh. Then Dawson’s Creek came out and I loved him even more. My favorite moment other than when Joey Potter chose Pacey over Dawson in the series finale was when Pacey called Dawson an Oompa Loompa. If you loved Pacey, too, please watch the below video. Don’t give up on it because of the ad. Don’t be a spazz.
- Josh Hartnett: Such pretty eyes <3 But you know what I’ll never understand? You ever see that movie Here on Earth, when that chick dies after an epic love triangle with Josh Hartnett and Chris Klein? WHO THE FUCK WOULD CHOOSE CHRIS KLEIN OVER JOSH HARTNETT? Not realistic at all.
- Ryan Phillippe: I just wanted him to stare creepily at me from atop an escalator then get nailed by a car while the song “Colorblind” by the Counting Crows plays in the background. Then I want him to come back from the dead and make out, but not as a zombie, just as regular Sebastian. Here’s a montage:
- Justin Timberlake: ZZZZZZZ! Boringggg. But I had to add him in. It’s just obvious. If you want me, here’s my heart. No strings attached.
- Marky Mark: After seeing him in those Calvin Kleins, what Boston girl doesn’t love Mark Wahlberg? Sure, it’s kind of fucked up that he beat the shit out of an old Asian man causing him to go legally blind in one eye, but does that even matter? Yeah, it definitely does matter. But I never said anything about him being a role model. I just said he looked hot in those CK’s.
- Eminem: Mom’s spaghetti. That is all.
- Jake Gyllenhaal: But only in Donnie Darko. Is that weird?
- Johnny Depp: But only in this photo. Is that weird?
- Johnny Castle: I can’t talk about my love for Johnny Castle without crying. Why? Because… I’m scared of everything. I’m scared of what I saw, I’m scared of what I did, of who I am, and most of all I’m scared of ending this blog bullet and never feeling the rest of my whole life the way I feel when I’m typing this sentence about him. Love you P. Swayze.
- John Bender: My favorite bad boy. If only he’d give me his diamond earring to show his affection. The world is an imperfect place.
- Ryan Gosling: I hope one day I marry my true love, after almost marrying a total douchebag, only to bump into my true love again in a house he had promised to build for me years prior. Then we’ll cut to current day and I’ll have Alzheimer’s and he’ll read to me from a notebook to try to make me remember, but to no avail, except for a few minutes briefly. Then we’ll die together on the same bed at the same time while breaking nursing home regulations. Sigh…
- Prince Harry: Because he’s just the hotter brother. But you know, it wasn’t always this way. What the fuck happened to William? It’s disappointing. He just doesn’t age as gracefully. And like Jim Gaffigan said, he looks like Captain Crunch when he wears that fancy special occasion coat.
- Brad Pitt: Sorry to be stereotypical, BUT there are some rules about this. I only have a crush on Brad Pitt when he’s playing 1. A stoner 2. An idiot/psychopath 3. A nazi scalper. This list is starting to disturb me.
After confessing my love for a teen dad, I just simply can’t go on with this list anymore. It’s bringing out the fucking weirdo in me. Have a lovely evening. Let’s forget this ever happened.