Tuesday, March 11, 2008

Sex and Bubble Tea

Sex and bubble tea. That's really all I want. Is that too much to ask for, people?

The complications and confusion and game playing are just too much for me to handle anymore. I hate dating. I hate the ridiculous dynamics that I always somehow end up involved in. Are there any normal guys out there? No? Hmmm. I thought that was the case. Crap.

In that case, relationships can suck it. For that matter, all of those people out there who act like there's something wrong with me because I'm single can suck it too. And if there's any room left at the table, every guy who assumes I want to marry him can definitely suck it. I'm tired of unfulfilling relationships. I will settle for mind-blowing sex and delicious bubble tea. Preferably after the sex.

Saturday, March 1, 2008

Eat Shit and Die, Yuppie Jerkoff

Y'all, I am so pissed right now I can't even begin to tell you. Coming from me, who is fired up about all kinds of shit, that means something. Unless the hormones are raging, I don't tend to cry when I'm sad. When I'm crazy angry, however, I almost always cry. It is such a pain in the ass. Nothing is more infurating than having my ire rankled and being unable to stop the tears from flowing like some vulnerable, weak stereotype instead of being able to express the depth of my fury. I am crying right now as I type this; that's how pissed I am.

So, let's just say I'm a young(ish) twenty-something trying to carve out a place for myself in this world, renting an adorable apartment in a fantastic neighborhood in the city. The type of neighborhood I would never, in my wildest fantasies, be able to afford to buy a house in when I grow up and do responsible adult stuff like buy property. I understand that this is probably the only time in my life when I'll be able to live here and I love, love, love my 'hood. It's vibrant, beautiful, close to downtown, and there are enough apartments mixed in with the mansions to keep the general population pretty young. Most of the stroller moms don't have to work and spend their days working out, getting botoxed at the local cosmeceutical salon and shopping, but for rich bitches, they're usually not too much of a pain in the ass. All in all, a pretty sweet living situation for Stepchild.

However, as it's in the city, I have to deal with the annoyance of street parking. To me, the sacrifice is worth it. Sure, sometimes I have to trek for blocks when my street is pinned, but most of the time, it's not too hard to find a decent spot. Tonight, however, was kind of sucky. Except for the "kind of" part.

I got home from school kinda late because traffic was a clusterfuck, so I had to drive around the block a couple of times before I saw someone pulling out of a spot on the street behind my building. I was stoked to be home and steered my car into the empty space. A moment later, a fancy SUV pulls out of the driveway of one of the mansions on the street, speeds over next to my car with tires squealing and horn blazing.

A middle-aged dude in what could only have been a $1000 sweatsuit throws the drivers door open and begins screaming, "Noooooooooooo! No! No! Nooooooooooooo!" at me. He starts flashing his brights and basically throwing a tantrum in the street, so against my better judgment, I got out of my car and asked what his major malfunction was.

"I live in that house right there, and I wanted to park in this spot. Move your car!" he commanded.

My response was basically, "Tough titty, broseph."

Well, I wish I would have just said that and peaced out, leaving him to his cashmere pj's and sense of righteous indignation only the ridiculously privileged could feel about something so stupid.

So, Douchey Hoyt Stalworth, III starts telling me that technically the spot should be his since he lives in a house near it and it's not fair that the city won't allow him to buy a parking spot on the street. I pointed out that I live right behind him, and street parking is first come, first served, and we all get beaten out for the spots we want sometimes. Welcome to city living.

His response:

"Well, I OWN my home, and could AFFORD to pay for a spot if the city would just allow me to do so. You, clearly, are a renter, and could never afford to buy a parking spot if you wanted," he sniffed condescendingly. "It's not fair that you stole my spot!"

"I don't see your name on it, buddy," I replied. "People take the parking spot I want every single day. It's called life. I don't lay on my horn and yell about it like a baby. That's probably not the best way to get me to do you a favor."

"Well, I'm sorry I yelled at you," he managed to bite out between his veneers, clearly not in the least contrite. "Would you please move your car?"

I don't really know why I did it. I don't. This asshole deserved nothing more than a sound beating with a sock full of pennies. For whatever reason, I caved, mainly because I have to live in this neighborhood and don't want to have some sort of ongoing feud, so I got in my car and moved it. I should have forced his ridiculous ass to trek the couple of blocks in his shearling lined driving mocs like the rest of us peons have to do, but I didn't. I moved my car, pretty much humiliated by his little, "you don't belong here, poor girl" routine. It was like high school all over again, when I was the poor kid at what might as well have been fucking West Beverly. I haven't felt so ashamed and inadequate since those awkward years.

My only consolation is that I flipped him off as I drove past on my way to find a shitty spot blocks away from my place, in a kind of sketchy area. As soon as I got in my door, I burst into tears, furious at myself and furious at Douchey for actually thinking he's better than me. I may not be rich, but I work full time during the week and go to school ten hours a day on Saturday and Sunday. I bust my ass to live where I do, I bust my ass to reach my goals and actualize my dreams, and this pampered shithead has the gall to try to make me feel small about my life. I could probably put my fist through a wall right about now, but I won't.

Instead I think I'll have a drink, study for my three exams tomorrow, and plot my fantasy revenge (which I will never carry out, but hopefully it will make me feel better). Die, yuppie scum. I hope your wife's fucking the pool boy.

Tuesday, February 19, 2008

You Know, Not Like a Punctuation Mark. The Other One.

Okay, here' s the situation. (Sidebar: I cannot say "okay, here's the situtation," without jumping into the rest of "Parents Just Don't Understand," by the one and only Fresh Prince. If you can, I envy you because that song is always in my effin head). I continue to be appalled and saddened at the utter crap that the kids these days are calling music. Yeah, yeah, apparently I'm eleventy, but holy shit, people. We are in crisis! I wrote better lyrics to my song "I Love the Monkey Bars" when I was six than the majority of the new garbage I hear on the radio.

Por ejemplo, let's just start with my current favorite phrase in a song. "I'm heavy, like a first day period." Yeah, that's right. Think about it. Heavy. Like your flow on one of those super absorbency tampon days. What a poetic, illuminating simile. I didn't quite know what the insipid songstress meant by "heavy," but now it's clear. So that's what God made maxipads with wings for: soaking up talentless whores. Now I understand! Carry on, Kotex!

Someone actually managed to write that sentence down with a straight face, nod their head at their own genius and say, "That's it. Let's put it on wax." At least that's what they said in my imagination because that's what all songwriters say in my fantasies. The truly sad part is, someone decided to produce that record and it's now apparently enough of a hit to make it to my local radio station. These are dark days.

I mean how arid does the well of ideas have to get for you to go with a line like that? Why not, "I'm heavy, like the brick you shit the day after a serious bender"? How about, "I'm heavy, like a bloated corpse that's been floating around in the East River for the last month"? Those options are just as viable according to whatever brilliant mind created such subtle, richly-hued imagery as a fucking musical reference to period blood.

End of rant.

Wednesday, November 28, 2007

I'm Back, Bitches!

Don't ask where I've been 'cause you totally don't want to know. Let's just say hibernating. And ruminating. And reevaluating. And overanalyzing. No, I wasn't in rehab with LiLo, (but I would totally give you the dirt if I was) I was just having (another!) quarter life crisis. Adaptability is the name of the game, peeps.

I looked at my life (well actually life decided to give me a good and thorough mindfuck, so I really didn't have a choice in the matter), put my thing down, flipped it, AND reversed it. Oh, and I finally remembered that I have a blog and thought I'd get off my ass and actually use it. So, I'm back to bitch to no one in particular about shit that doesn't matter so I can distract myself from all the shit that does. Check back for random ranting.

Friday, May 18, 2007

Today is Weird

Today is fucking weird. At this very moment, there is a young man dressed as a generic biblical character standing outside my apartment building waving and shaking his staff at the traffic driving by. No, that's not a euphemism for something dirty, but I like how you think. Should I feel bad that I don't know the correct terminology for his biblical garb? He's got some kind of head cloth with a braided fabric headband type thingy and a white shorty robe that's about thisclose to showing his biblical junk every time a stiff breeze kicks up. Oh, and a belt and a wooden staff. Maybe he's supposed to be one of the wisemen? I really don't know, but it's fucking weird.

I would assume he was just another rando homeless dude, but seriously, we only have 2 homeless dudes in my 'hood and they're both present and accounted for. We have headphones wearing Tourette's guy (whom I love). Call me biased, but one day after getting my hair cut last summer, he actually stopped his random beat boxing to call out to me, "Your hair looks nice, miss." Love. That. Guy. Shit, my own mother didn't notice my damned haircut. That dude is always getting my spare change. Then we have the homeless dude who always tips his imaginary cap to me and wishes me a pleasant morning/afternoon/evening. I love that guy, too.

Oh, reason number two I know he's not a rando homeless guy: he's very well groomed and wearing brand new neoprene Teva sandals. Tevas? Really? Is that what Jesus would do? I think not, my friend. I'm pretty sure that even the son of God decided they were ugly and too cliche to wear in Seattle anymore.

Anyway, in conclusion, next time get a sign or something to let people know what the fuck you're trying to tell them with your erratic behavior. Remember: crazy homeless people are funny. Stupid college students conducting sociological experiments in front of my goddamned apartment are just tools. Love, me.

In other news, I finally got my got-damned corporate card today so I can stop trying to avoid being asked to pick stuff up for the office and just "expensing it" because although I get that the company will pay me back, does the company get that I don't have the cash to front them for their supplies and stamps and microwave and coffeepot? Does it? Does it?

So, first order of biz was to head to Costco to pick up all kinds of shizz to make the office livable and functional for people (read: me) who need to bring their sad little leftover lunches to work because they can't afford to go out for every meal. I loaded up my cart with all kinds of swag. Microwave, cups, plates, napkins, coffee, creamer, you name it. Well, guess what I found out when I was at the register after all my stuff had been rung up and put in boxes for me to take back to the office? Oh, my corporate card is a Mastercard. Costco doesn't take Mastercard. They only take debit cards or American Express. I'm sure everyone else in the entire world knew this but me, but seriously people: I live alone. How often do you think I shop at Costco? How many fifteen gallon buckets of canned tomatoes does one girl need? And the one time that I shopped there in the last year I paid with my debit card, so I wasn't made aware of their discriminatory credit card acceptance policy. What about us po' folk who don't have a gajillion dollars in their bank account so they can't buy ten thousand rolls of toilet paper, fifty pounds of Italian seasonings and a two-pack of flat screen TVs with their DEBIT card????

I understand that Costco has the more, more, more consumer-driven American society by the balls and they can do whatever they damned well please. Still, that is fucking ridiculous. American Express? Are you fucking kidding me? Nobody takes that shit, but that's the only card you take? Sweet. Why don't you just ram your industrial strength, economy sized, wholesale priced, gigantic 25-pack of fists up my ass, Costco? Do you realize that I have used my personal Mastercard such various and sundry locations as: the super sketchy Teriyaki shop/mini mart/payday loan/pawn shop in South Central near my old office, Taco Time, Pike Place Market produce stands, and a jewlery-making street vendor who was selling her wares at the farmer's market on Kauai. Kauai -- where 70% (or something, don't email me!) of the land is uninhabitable. Yet Costco: one of the largest and most well-known companies in this god forsaken country can't be bothered to accept major credit cards (I know Amex is considered "major," but seriously: who are they kidding)?

So, thank you Costco, for that enormously humiliating experience of having to stand there while the cashier announced that all of the stuff I'd just attempted to purchase would have to be returned to the shelves, because I didn't have a way to pay for it. Rad. Today is weird.

Tuesday, May 1, 2007

Ooh girl, you da bomb!

Ok, so we've all got one. The coworker who is really genuinely nice and friendly and in all other ways awesome to work with and a pleasure to be around except for one thing...She tries to slip into her misguided middle-aged idea of "street" slang every time she sees our receptionist, who just so happens to be, you guessed it: black and the situation is embarrassing for all involved. Well, maybe not for me since I just sit in my office and laugh and laugh about it, but it's almost embarrassing to listen to. Almost.

Every morning when said coworker arrives, let's call her Turtle, she throws out an exceedingly loud, "Hey, girlfrieeeeeend!" to our receptionist. Just so you can recreate it for yourself, just pretend the "girlfriend" is from that one line in the oh so awesome song "Things That Make You Go Hmmm." While I'm on the topic, good Lord that song always annoyed me. And now it's stuck in my head. Fantastic. If the receptionist has changed her hair or is wearing a cute outfit, Turtle will undoubtedly reward us all with a, "You go, girl!" She even snaps her fingers a la Antoine Merriweather sometimes. "You go, girl"???????? Dude, even Ricki Lake stopped saying that shit in 1997. Time to move on to a new token "black" phrase. Hand to God, I once heard her tell Recep she needed to "ax" her something. I had to disguise my insanely loud laughter with a faux coughing fit to rival any sufferer of whooping cough.

Now, if this were the way that Turtle talked to everyone, cool. I'd totally still make fun of her for sounding like X-tina when she thought she was all hard and shit about 5 years ago (as a side note, I think Christina Aguilera fucking rocks and I love how she totally has her shit together now and has stopped wearing assless chaps to the grocery store and seems really happily married). But alas, Turtle talks like your typical middle-aged, extremely white bread suburban mom to everyone else. Everyone except for Receptionist. You know, 'cause Turtle is down. She knows black people.

I guess all I'm saying here is that I understand Turtle's attempts to relate to Receptionist. I actually like how personable Turtle is and I'm sure this is just her way of trying to be on Recep's level. Unfortunately she is getting all of her terminology from old reruns of Martin or something. And that's whack.

Monday, March 12, 2007

If I Die Before I Wake

If I die before I wake, somebody please call the cops because I'm pretty sure I just met the guy who is going to murder me in my sleep and stuff a pillow with my hair and/or make a leisure suit from my skin. I mean, he didn't throw me in a pit and spray me down with a garden hose every time I failed to put the lotion in the basket, but that's only because I didn't give him the chance. You may think that due to my penchant for hyperbole I am exaggerating. I say nay, my friend. Nay. I have an eyewitness and she will attest to the fact that this guy definitely killed small animals as a child and even odds say he has a human head in his freezer.

I spent the afternoon walking around my neighborhood with one of my friends with the idea that we'd get some air and scope out available apartments while we were out there. We came across an older building that was a little rundown, but I live in a historic neighborhood, so the buildings are old and you can't afford to judge a building by its exterior because it may be hiding some charming apartments. This building sort of resembled a dormitory or motel, but the location was good and I thought, what the hell? What the hell indeed.

As we approached the front door, we noticed a handbag sitting on the stoop, completely unattended. Weird, right, because nobody leaves their shit unattended in the city unless they are totally stupid. Or dead in a Dumpster, but we'll get to that. I pushed the button labeled "Manager," but there was no response. The call box made no noise, no beeps, no dial tone, nothing, so I thought it wasn't working. I tried pressing the button again.

Just as I turned to my friend to remark that I thought it was broken, I found myself staring directly into the dead yet queerly alert, sociopathic eyes of a total nutball. He was wearing a dirty sweatshirt and tapered jeans and had that bland, almost but not quite normal look of every serial killer in the history of the world. His Manson lamps raked over my body from head to toe as my flesh crawled in revulsion. He stared at us through the glass door for an uncomfortable stretch of time before finally poking his head out and greeting us warmly. And by greeted warmly, I mean he barked out, "Yes?" in his angry monotone. I told him I was inquiring about the apartment he had available and that's when the interrogation began.

"What are you looking for?" he demanded.
"A one bedroom," I replied. "Do you have any availab-?"
"Smoker or non?" he blurted out before I even had a chance to finish my sentence
"Uh, non."
"Yeah. Wha-"
"What is your min, max and desired rent?"
"What do you have available?" I countered, totally thrown off guard by the barrage of questions. I mean, shouldn't I be the one asking the questions here?
"Tell me your min, max and desired rent," he droned.
"Well, why don't you tell me what your one bedroom is renting for and I'll tell you if I'm still interested," I said, starting to get weirded out and pissed off at the same time.
"$950 and up," he scoffed giving me a disgusted glance as though I was a dirt and excrement encrusted street person who was clearly wasting his time.
"That's fine," I said, "Can I see an apartment?"
"What color panties are you wearing and do you moisturize regularly?"
Okay, he might not have said that last part, but he may as well have. He was obviously thrown off his game when I didn't flinch and asked to see an apartment. Clearly he's used to running people off with his atrocious manners and crazy, crazy, crazy eyes. He whirled on his heel and walked inside. We followed and the foul stench of serious body odor, frustrated masturbation (and let's face it, dismembered bodies) wafted out from his "office," which he carefully used the door to shield from our view, probably so we wouldn't see the blood splatter.

He thrust a "survey" in my face and told me I'd have to fill it out in order to see an apartment. A cursory glance revealed that the "survey," included income, credit rating, social security number and all kinds of other stuff you should never have to give out unless you are actually applying for the apartment. The most I have ever been asked for is my identification and it's not like we're talking about some sweet ass apartment in a gated community or some shit. Chances are, the apartment was probably barely livable.

"Oh, I'm not sure I want to apply, I just want to see what you have to offer," I said. I mean, this ain't my first rodeo, cowboy. I don't have to fill out shit for you to show me an apartment. I definitely wasn't going to give this freak any information about me that would facilitate his hunting me down, tearing me limb from limb and drinking my blood. I knew the second I laid eyes on this psycho I would never ever live there, even if they paid me $950 and up, but I wanted to see the damned apartment out of curiosity.

"Every prospective tenant must fill out this survey completely in order to assure my safety, your safety and the safety of our residents. You may not see an apartment without one."
My eyes began to water from the stench and I was done playing his game, so I just thrust the clipboard back at him and said, "I don't think so."

Anyway, I'm pretty sure he was trying to get rid of us because he was busy exsanguinating the unfortunate owner of the abandoned handbag. And I'm also pretty sure I'm next.

I'm off to wedge a chair under my doorknob and buy a shotgun. Pray for me.