Welcome to The Grind.
On The Grind, you have two options:
1) Work
2) Die
Should you choose work, the transformation into a wage slave is rapid. Before you know it, the boring, passionless, slightly neurotic, "responsible" adult inside of you stirs from its deep slumber, rubs its eyes, and rolls out of bed to greet another weekday with perfect apathy.
Things that happen when you start working full time:
1. You find common ground with people who are in a different walk of life. You most likely work with people who are not all your age. And you never thought you would be sitting in a swivel chair having a conversation with your boss about maternity clothes. But it's happening, and you're shocked to find that somewhere deep, deep down, you actually have opinions about maternity clothes. Go figure.
2. You hit the coffee shop at peak hours. You and the rest of the nine-to-fivers check your watches and shift anxiously from foot to foot, peeking ahead to the front of the line where a bunch of youths cutting class are ordering impossibly complicated frappucinos. Tensions are running high and everyone needs caffeine.
3. People assume that because you have a job, you can afford fun things. That's a funny joke. After rent and bills and groceries and parking tickets (f*** you, LA Parking Enforcement) and locksmith fees from that one time you got locked out of your apartment, you have about -$40 of disposable income a month. That is a negative number. Which means you will be calling Dad this month. So no, I can't go to Magic Mountain this weekend. Sorry. I guess I'll just stay home and vacuum immaculate lines into my carpet.
4. You get rid of all your crop tops and jorts and sundresses. You pretty much alternate between work clothes and comfy pants with drawstrings, so you really have no occasion for all those cute digs. Unless you want to look super fly when you go to the laundry room.
5. You have no idea how to meet people. You basically only ever interact with your coworkers, your clients/patients/customers, Ruben at Ruben's tacos, and your neighbor who walks his dog at the same time every day right when you're getting home from work. Meeting new people just seems like more work on top of the 8 hours a day you already do.
6. The more you work, the more you get asked to work.
"Hey, can you come in on Saturday for a few hours? You came in last Saturday, so you obviously don't have any standing commitments."
"I--"
"Great. See you Saturday."
"...ok."
You hardly ever put up a fight because money. And also because...
7. You have no idea what to do on weekends. You have so little free time during the week that getting suddenly flooded with 48 hours of uninterrupted freedom totally wigs you out. By midday on Sunday you can be found lying on the floor in the middle of your apartment thinking about how weird knees are and debating on whether or not you should go for a third bowl of cereal. You always go for that third bowl.
8. Seasons mean nothing, but Wednesday means so, so much more than it used to. Especially living in LA, where there is very little seasonal variation, you have no means of measuring time. Every day is essentially identical to the one before it. Is it March or is it October? Does it matter? All that matters is that it's Wednesday, and I am 3 hours and 17 minutes from being exactly halfway done with this week.
9. You look forward to things that the unemployed version of you would have found to be pretty insignificant. Mid-morning snack! Getting mail! Painting my nails! Talking to Mom! Going to the gym! The office Christmas party in 6 months! YAY!
10. Lunch is sacred. *Phone rings* *Makes aggressive eye contact with coworker while slowly chewing sandwich*
"...You gonna get that?"
HAH. HAH.
11. You appreciate your parents soooooo much. My father did this all-day-every-day monotonous bullshit for 25 years so I could go to college so I could get a monotonous bullshit job and do the same thing for my children that he did for me. Like, wow. A real American hero. I guess when you commit to The Grind, it's not really The Grind that you commit to. You commit to the people you love.
12. You let yourself consider, for a moment, that maybe being a receptionist is not what you want to do for the rest of your life, and that's okay. Maybe you're just dipping your toes in The Grind but you're not ready to dive in just yet. Maybe you still have passions and ambitions and dreams that The Grind can't even begin to understand let alone snuff out. You're taking it slow. You've chosen to just be where you are for the moment, grinding away, but grinding with purpose. You go Glen Coco. Grind up, Glen Coco.
Tuesday, June 10, 2014
Monday, May 5, 2014
"Booze it or lose it," they told me
"Aren't you bored?"
If I had a dollar for every time I got asked this at a social gathering, I'd have like, at least enough to buy a large pizza. Which I would probably eat all of. Because pizza.
I don't let the fact that I choose not to imbibe keep me from situations where I might actually have fun despite *wut* being stone cold sober. And I do have fun, almost always, until someone asks me what I'm drinking and I'm like "I'm not" and I get this face:
That's kind of not fun.
And the uncomfortable sideways glances, the lingering tension, the feeling that I'm somehow unwelcome, that's not fun.
And the inevitable "why" questions, those are actually a huge fun-crusher.
"Is it like a religious thing? Are you in remission or something?" Ugh. NO.
"Do you not drink because you're Mormon?" UGH. NO. LABELS. ASSUMPTIONS. NO PLZ.
"Do you care if I drink?"
UGH. NO. FTLOG. Where would I get off judging someone for partaking in an activity that has been a staple of human existence since one Bronze Age bro called over his other Bronze Age bro and was like, "Bro, we left these grapes out too long and now my head feels totally weird. Try it."?
But just because I skip that part of existence, should I have to explain myself? Does it have to be a big deal? Does it have to be a "deal" at all?
I'll say this once (and maybe paraphrase it in the future. I haven't decided yet): My reason for not drinking is completely my own. And it's because I want to keep it 100% authentic, all the time. I want to see it all and feel it all through my own unadulterated faculties. I want to experience this moment in the same state of mind that I will remember it, fondly, in another moment.
I don't drink because I so desperately want it all to be real.
....
....
....
"Aren't you bored?"
My response: "Aren't you sad?"
Aren't you sad that when you want to let loose and say screw it all and dance like a total weirdo, you need a bottle in your hand to make that an acceptable thing to do? Like, aren't you sad that you can't...just...dance?
Aren't you sad that when you aren't okay you have to alter your brain chemistry to make it okay, instead of just sittin around with your best and brightest homies and accepting the fact that sometimes it's okay to not be okay?
Aren't you sad that in order to tell someone how you really feel, you need to feel...a little bit less...like yourself?
I don't know. I guess you can't knock it till you try it. I just want it to be real.
If I had a dollar for every time I got asked this at a social gathering, I'd have like, at least enough to buy a large pizza. Which I would probably eat all of. Because pizza.
I don't let the fact that I choose not to imbibe keep me from situations where I might actually have fun despite *wut* being stone cold sober. And I do have fun, almost always, until someone asks me what I'm drinking and I'm like "I'm not" and I get this face:
 |
And the uncomfortable sideways glances, the lingering tension, the feeling that I'm somehow unwelcome, that's not fun.
And the inevitable "why" questions, those are actually a huge fun-crusher.
"Is it like a religious thing? Are you in remission or something?" Ugh. NO.
"Do you not drink because you're Mormon?" UGH. NO. LABELS. ASSUMPTIONS. NO PLZ.
"Do you care if I drink?"
UGH. NO. FTLOG. Where would I get off judging someone for partaking in an activity that has been a staple of human existence since one Bronze Age bro called over his other Bronze Age bro and was like, "Bro, we left these grapes out too long and now my head feels totally weird. Try it."?
But just because I skip that part of existence, should I have to explain myself? Does it have to be a big deal? Does it have to be a "deal" at all?
I'll say this once (and maybe paraphrase it in the future. I haven't decided yet): My reason for not drinking is completely my own. And it's because I want to keep it 100% authentic, all the time. I want to see it all and feel it all through my own unadulterated faculties. I want to experience this moment in the same state of mind that I will remember it, fondly, in another moment.
I don't drink because I so desperately want it all to be real.
....
....
....
"Aren't you bored?"
My response: "Aren't you sad?"
Aren't you sad that when you want to let loose and say screw it all and dance like a total weirdo, you need a bottle in your hand to make that an acceptable thing to do? Like, aren't you sad that you can't...just...dance?
Aren't you sad that when you aren't okay you have to alter your brain chemistry to make it okay, instead of just sittin around with your best and brightest homies and accepting the fact that sometimes it's okay to not be okay?
Aren't you sad that in order to tell someone how you really feel, you need to feel...a little bit less...like yourself?
I don't know. I guess you can't knock it till you try it. I just want it to be real.
Wednesday, April 30, 2014
Purple Soup
You watched me and smiled. You told me I had such beautiful things inside of me.
My fingers slithered listlessly over the piano keys and back again, moved by invisible forces.
You called them doodles. They felt like they belonged to someone else.
You said you loved me. Intensely.
And you followed me to the end of a narrow, twisting path into an enchanted womb of perpetual twilight. Stars blinked through the layered purple haze, the air was warm and heavy.
Moonflowers bloomed from the mud on the banks of murky water, where luminescent creatures floated weightlessly, whispering promises of drowning in inconceivable depths.
Beautiful things are dark. They are cumbersome. They are always starving and always aching and always leaning.
You left me alone in that thick, purple place, that world that no one can find unless they already know where it is.
I believe you will wander back here.
You will get tired of the world above ground. The memory of that place will come back to you in pieces, making you drunk and nauseated with sheer wanting.
Wanting for the weight that you don't wholly understand. Wanting to disintegrate into eternal soup.
Wanting for me.
My fingers slithered listlessly over the piano keys and back again, moved by invisible forces.
You called them doodles. They felt like they belonged to someone else.
You said you loved me. Intensely.
And you followed me to the end of a narrow, twisting path into an enchanted womb of perpetual twilight. Stars blinked through the layered purple haze, the air was warm and heavy.
Moonflowers bloomed from the mud on the banks of murky water, where luminescent creatures floated weightlessly, whispering promises of drowning in inconceivable depths.
Beautiful things are dark. They are cumbersome. They are always starving and always aching and always leaning.
You left me alone in that thick, purple place, that world that no one can find unless they already know where it is.
I believe you will wander back here.
You will get tired of the world above ground. The memory of that place will come back to you in pieces, making you drunk and nauseated with sheer wanting.
Wanting for the weight that you don't wholly understand. Wanting to disintegrate into eternal soup.
Wanting for me.
Saturday, April 12, 2014
PSA: A Comprehensive Guide to your Basic Bitch Girlfriend
Congratulations!
You are dating a basic bitch. What is a basic bitch, you may ask? This is a concept that I had recognized but been unable to put a name to for a long time until some genius on the internet came up with the Basic Bitch. The BB is pretty much every female age 18 to 25 who, due to social influence and sheer lack of awareness, has failed to distinguish herself from all other 18 to 25-year-old females. It is an ambiguous archetype which may lead us to ask more complex questions about the nature of concept formation. Is there a standard of "chair-ness" that leads us to define something as a chair? Is there a sense of "cat-ness" that makes something a cat and something else not a cat? Is there one true "basic bitch" to whom we compare all other basic bitches? The world may never know. That is, until someone on the internet figures it out.
Why date a basic bitch?
Because she is hot. I could leave it there for brevity, but we would be missing out on a crucial maneuver that makes the BB so universally appealing to men. I call it the "Triangle Choke" (which is also the name of a basic choke move in Brazilian Jiu Jitsu). The Triange Choke is a three-part power play in which control of the relationship is passed back and forth between the male and BB.
The BB first comes on strong with (false) confidence and security. Men love the first stage of the Triangle Choke because the BB does it all for him and it requires zero effort on his part.
In the second stage of the Triangle Choke, BB plays hard to get. She pretends that she can do better, causing the male to get up off his ass and chase her because what essentially drives males is the idea of other males winning.
In the third stage of the Triangle Choke, BB allows herself to be "caught" and from then on out becomes pathetically dependent on the male for all emotional validation. The male is all about this, because he loves to feel needed. Relationships are all about power, and it is a powerful ego boost for the male when he knows that he is the one true source of BB's happiness and can take it away at any time.
In a nutshell, BB hands you the reigns and all the materials you need to be in control of the relationship while making it appear that she is not doing that.
Communicating with your BB
Communicating with a BB is notoriously difficult. She can't tell you what she wants because usually people just GIVE it to her before she has to ask for it. She doesn't always speak her mind, which you like because it makes her appear mysterious and all the more desirable. In reality, she just doesn't have a lot on her mind. She doesn't experience many original thoughts; most were borrowed and maybe slightly altered from the quote app on her iPhone or a listicle on Buzzfeed. At some point, most likely out of absolutely nowhere, she will pick a huge unnecessary fight about how you "never share your feelings" with her. You will not win this fight.
Feeding your BB
You never really know what BB will or will not eat because she is always on some kind of fad diet. "No I PROMISE, ketchup has so many health benefits!" If she is currently on a juice cleanse, she will swear that she feels amazing, but whatever you do, do NOT piss her off. She is a hungry bitch and she will ACTUALLY EAT YOU IF YOU CROSS HER. She talks a lot about kale, but you have never witnessed her eating kale. Boba and cupcakes are always a safe bet.
BB also loooooooves brunch, so take her to brunch at any opportunity. Make SURE that wherever you choose to go, they have bottomless mimosas. While she's talking at you about how "this is LITERALLY the best egg white scramble I've ever had ever," you and I will make knowing eye contact from across the cafe. I will be the one reading Middle Eastern poetry and not eating anything because I'm poor and currently surviving on instant coffee.
Grooming your BB
She does her makeup while sitting in the bathroom sink, which you used to think was an adorable quirk until you REALLY had to poop and she refused to move because she was only halfway through putting on liquid eyeliner. BB has one of those fold-out makeup castles which contains approximately 2376832 products she has used twice. She gets all of it at Sephora because she mistakenly believes that spending more money on cosmetics will make her hotter.
She sheds. A lot. You wonder how she still has hair on her head at the end of the day when all of it is in your shower drain. She will also use your razor to shave her legs. You can try to hide it, but BB regularly snoops in your apartment while you're playing FIFA and she will eventually find it.
Clothing your BB
BB has two walk-in closets and one of them is solely for shoes that she spent way too much (of her dad's) money on. She owns no less than 15 sundresses, 10 cardigans, and 5 infinity scarves. She has an entire drawer for leggings and Lulu yoga pants even though they all look exactly the same.
While you're out on the town, BB may want to "run into Urban real quick" because she saw something in the window that would "LITERALLY be PERFECT for ___." You end up holding her purse for an hour and a half while she tries on crop-tops and shapeless, floral items in muted colors. She will end up purchasing for $78 some weird one-piece thing that she thankfully only wore once.
Exercising your BB
She busts her ass at the gym, and you can tell because she has an impossibly hard body. It would be very admirable if she were doing it for the right reasons. You know she doesn't work out for her health, otherwise she wouldn't chain-smoke cigs outside the club with her European girlfriend. She also doesn't care about looking good for you; she knows you couldn't do better if you tried. BB works out because she LOVES to look hot for other guys who are not you. She absolutely can't resist doing anything that will get the attention of males who can't have her, and having the perfect bust-waist-hips ratio will do just that. She also LIVES for the hundreds of "likes" on Insta mirror selfies at the gym with captions like "#fitandfabulous" and #strongisthenewskinny."
Hanging out with your BB
God forbid you want to watch a sporting event on TV, she will sit there with her arms crossed and pout, waiting for you to ask her what's wrong. "Can we at LEAST flip to John Tucker during the commercials?" BB STRONGLY dislikes it when you give more of your attention to something else than you do to her. She will probably try to seduce you to get your attention back to her, DON'T FALL FOR THIS TRICK. She doesn't want you, she just wants to be more important to you than the Lakers.
Sexytimes with your BB
BB is usually pretty passive in most settings, but quickly turns into Bossy McGee in the bedroom. If she "wants to try that thing in Cosmo," SAY NO FTLOG. She is also loud. It's not because you're an Avenger in the sack, in fact you're probably pretty mediocre; she is just used to making everything she does appear better than it actually is.
BB at parties
The second you walk into a party, BB will jump squealing into the arms of some chick you've never seen before exclaiming so the whole party can hear her "OHHH MYYY GAWWWD I HAVEN'T SEEN YOU IN FOREEVVVVERRRR!!!!" BB and Some Chick will disappear for a while, presumably to catch up on dumb shit in their lives that the other doesn't actually care about. BB will spontaneously reappear the second you start talking to another girl, wrap herself around your waist and whine your name with an "-ey" on the end to declare her ownership of you. Jealousy is a shallow and transparent emotion, which means BB experiences it in droves. She introduces you to one her "best guy friends," and you don't know whether to hate him or give your fallen bro a pat on the shoulder, since he was clearly only ever "friends" with BB to get into her 25" waist Joe's.
You leave the party when she wants to leave the party. She rolls her eyes at you when you ask if you can stop at a taco truck on the way home.
BB at the club
BB frequently needs a "girl's night," which you should most definitely grant her. You can take this opportunity to play FIFA with your bros, assuming your bros haven't abandoned you due to the astounding amount of maintenance your relationship with BB requires.
BB will straighten her hair and wear her most revealing NastyGal strapless dress to the club. She and her girls will stand in a circle and shake their asses and yell the words to "Timber" off-key while clutching vodka-sodas in one hand and raising the other into the air. The hand they raise into the air serves as a signal to desperate bros to come buy them more vodka-sodas. When the bro that has been buying your BB vodka-sodas starts to get handsy, BB will yell "I HAVE A BOYFRIEND, YOU CREEP!" and storm off holding hands with her girlfriends. When it's time to go, BB will go fetch her drunker, less attractive friend from the ladies room where she has been puking in her own hair. BB is SUCH. A good friend.
Breaking Basic
One fateful night, you will "accidentally" hook up with a basic-er, bitchier girl at a party or something. You will convince yourself that you don't need to feel bad about it, because this was a necessary step in realizing that knowing where your next BJ is coming from is not a good enough reason to put up with BB any longer.
You break up with BB over text. She unfriends you on Facebook. You deal with the breakup by playing FIFA, drinking beer, and trying to reconnect with your bros, who hate you. She deals with the breakup by listening to Taylor Swift and writing a verbose Thought Catalog article rich with cryptic imagery from your relationship.
A few months after you break up, you will be lonely and horny one night and decide to text her. She will respond with, "If you can't handle me at my worst, you don't deserve me at my best."
And hopefully after that, you will grow the f**k up, stop trying to take the easy way, and find a woman with some substance.
*This PSA has been brought to you by Jouissance, the complete resource for social critics.
You are dating a basic bitch. What is a basic bitch, you may ask? This is a concept that I had recognized but been unable to put a name to for a long time until some genius on the internet came up with the Basic Bitch. The BB is pretty much every female age 18 to 25 who, due to social influence and sheer lack of awareness, has failed to distinguish herself from all other 18 to 25-year-old females. It is an ambiguous archetype which may lead us to ask more complex questions about the nature of concept formation. Is there a standard of "chair-ness" that leads us to define something as a chair? Is there a sense of "cat-ness" that makes something a cat and something else not a cat? Is there one true "basic bitch" to whom we compare all other basic bitches? The world may never know. That is, until someone on the internet figures it out.
Why date a basic bitch?
Because she is hot. I could leave it there for brevity, but we would be missing out on a crucial maneuver that makes the BB so universally appealing to men. I call it the "Triangle Choke" (which is also the name of a basic choke move in Brazilian Jiu Jitsu). The Triange Choke is a three-part power play in which control of the relationship is passed back and forth between the male and BB.
The BB first comes on strong with (false) confidence and security. Men love the first stage of the Triangle Choke because the BB does it all for him and it requires zero effort on his part.
In the second stage of the Triangle Choke, BB plays hard to get. She pretends that she can do better, causing the male to get up off his ass and chase her because what essentially drives males is the idea of other males winning.
In the third stage of the Triangle Choke, BB allows herself to be "caught" and from then on out becomes pathetically dependent on the male for all emotional validation. The male is all about this, because he loves to feel needed. Relationships are all about power, and it is a powerful ego boost for the male when he knows that he is the one true source of BB's happiness and can take it away at any time.
In a nutshell, BB hands you the reigns and all the materials you need to be in control of the relationship while making it appear that she is not doing that.
Communicating with your BB
Communicating with a BB is notoriously difficult. She can't tell you what she wants because usually people just GIVE it to her before she has to ask for it. She doesn't always speak her mind, which you like because it makes her appear mysterious and all the more desirable. In reality, she just doesn't have a lot on her mind. She doesn't experience many original thoughts; most were borrowed and maybe slightly altered from the quote app on her iPhone or a listicle on Buzzfeed. At some point, most likely out of absolutely nowhere, she will pick a huge unnecessary fight about how you "never share your feelings" with her. You will not win this fight.
Feeding your BB
You never really know what BB will or will not eat because she is always on some kind of fad diet. "No I PROMISE, ketchup has so many health benefits!" If she is currently on a juice cleanse, she will swear that she feels amazing, but whatever you do, do NOT piss her off. She is a hungry bitch and she will ACTUALLY EAT YOU IF YOU CROSS HER. She talks a lot about kale, but you have never witnessed her eating kale. Boba and cupcakes are always a safe bet.
BB also loooooooves brunch, so take her to brunch at any opportunity. Make SURE that wherever you choose to go, they have bottomless mimosas. While she's talking at you about how "this is LITERALLY the best egg white scramble I've ever had ever," you and I will make knowing eye contact from across the cafe. I will be the one reading Middle Eastern poetry and not eating anything because I'm poor and currently surviving on instant coffee.
Grooming your BB
She does her makeup while sitting in the bathroom sink, which you used to think was an adorable quirk until you REALLY had to poop and she refused to move because she was only halfway through putting on liquid eyeliner. BB has one of those fold-out makeup castles which contains approximately 2376832 products she has used twice. She gets all of it at Sephora because she mistakenly believes that spending more money on cosmetics will make her hotter.
She sheds. A lot. You wonder how she still has hair on her head at the end of the day when all of it is in your shower drain. She will also use your razor to shave her legs. You can try to hide it, but BB regularly snoops in your apartment while you're playing FIFA and she will eventually find it.
Clothing your BB
BB has two walk-in closets and one of them is solely for shoes that she spent way too much (of her dad's) money on. She owns no less than 15 sundresses, 10 cardigans, and 5 infinity scarves. She has an entire drawer for leggings and Lulu yoga pants even though they all look exactly the same.
While you're out on the town, BB may want to "run into Urban real quick" because she saw something in the window that would "LITERALLY be PERFECT for ___." You end up holding her purse for an hour and a half while she tries on crop-tops and shapeless, floral items in muted colors. She will end up purchasing for $78 some weird one-piece thing that she thankfully only wore once.
Exercising your BB
She busts her ass at the gym, and you can tell because she has an impossibly hard body. It would be very admirable if she were doing it for the right reasons. You know she doesn't work out for her health, otherwise she wouldn't chain-smoke cigs outside the club with her European girlfriend. She also doesn't care about looking good for you; she knows you couldn't do better if you tried. BB works out because she LOVES to look hot for other guys who are not you. She absolutely can't resist doing anything that will get the attention of males who can't have her, and having the perfect bust-waist-hips ratio will do just that. She also LIVES for the hundreds of "likes" on Insta mirror selfies at the gym with captions like "#fitandfabulous" and #strongisthenewskinny."
Hanging out with your BB
God forbid you want to watch a sporting event on TV, she will sit there with her arms crossed and pout, waiting for you to ask her what's wrong. "Can we at LEAST flip to John Tucker during the commercials?" BB STRONGLY dislikes it when you give more of your attention to something else than you do to her. She will probably try to seduce you to get your attention back to her, DON'T FALL FOR THIS TRICK. She doesn't want you, she just wants to be more important to you than the Lakers.
Sexytimes with your BB
BB is usually pretty passive in most settings, but quickly turns into Bossy McGee in the bedroom. If she "wants to try that thing in Cosmo," SAY NO FTLOG. She is also loud. It's not because you're an Avenger in the sack, in fact you're probably pretty mediocre; she is just used to making everything she does appear better than it actually is.
BB at parties
The second you walk into a party, BB will jump squealing into the arms of some chick you've never seen before exclaiming so the whole party can hear her "OHHH MYYY GAWWWD I HAVEN'T SEEN YOU IN FOREEVVVVERRRR!!!!" BB and Some Chick will disappear for a while, presumably to catch up on dumb shit in their lives that the other doesn't actually care about. BB will spontaneously reappear the second you start talking to another girl, wrap herself around your waist and whine your name with an "-ey" on the end to declare her ownership of you. Jealousy is a shallow and transparent emotion, which means BB experiences it in droves. She introduces you to one her "best guy friends," and you don't know whether to hate him or give your fallen bro a pat on the shoulder, since he was clearly only ever "friends" with BB to get into her 25" waist Joe's.
You leave the party when she wants to leave the party. She rolls her eyes at you when you ask if you can stop at a taco truck on the way home.
BB at the club
BB frequently needs a "girl's night," which you should most definitely grant her. You can take this opportunity to play FIFA with your bros, assuming your bros haven't abandoned you due to the astounding amount of maintenance your relationship with BB requires.
BB will straighten her hair and wear her most revealing NastyGal strapless dress to the club. She and her girls will stand in a circle and shake their asses and yell the words to "Timber" off-key while clutching vodka-sodas in one hand and raising the other into the air. The hand they raise into the air serves as a signal to desperate bros to come buy them more vodka-sodas. When the bro that has been buying your BB vodka-sodas starts to get handsy, BB will yell "I HAVE A BOYFRIEND, YOU CREEP!" and storm off holding hands with her girlfriends. When it's time to go, BB will go fetch her drunker, less attractive friend from the ladies room where she has been puking in her own hair. BB is SUCH. A good friend.
Breaking Basic
One fateful night, you will "accidentally" hook up with a basic-er, bitchier girl at a party or something. You will convince yourself that you don't need to feel bad about it, because this was a necessary step in realizing that knowing where your next BJ is coming from is not a good enough reason to put up with BB any longer.
You break up with BB over text. She unfriends you on Facebook. You deal with the breakup by playing FIFA, drinking beer, and trying to reconnect with your bros, who hate you. She deals with the breakup by listening to Taylor Swift and writing a verbose Thought Catalog article rich with cryptic imagery from your relationship.
A few months after you break up, you will be lonely and horny one night and decide to text her. She will respond with, "If you can't handle me at my worst, you don't deserve me at my best."
And hopefully after that, you will grow the f**k up, stop trying to take the easy way, and find a woman with some substance.
*This PSA has been brought to you by Jouissance, the complete resource for social critics.
Monday, February 3, 2014
Love Will Not Keep Us Together
In honor of Valentine's Month. For the Lonely Hearts Club.
I don't know how to get to you.
It's disturbing how easily you're able to shut me out. Life must be a damn skip in the park for people like you who can flip a switch when things get heavy. I am not afforded that luxury; I can't make feelings vanish. I'm so stubborn I can't even admit that they exist. I can only condense them and cover them and stash them away in a remote corner of my heart.
I'm willing to do that now. I'm willing to put you away forever if you'll let me. And I'll tell you why...
I didn't used to think that happiness was a noble goal.
I used to think that there were more important things than being happy, like:
1. Truth
2. Identity
3. Making a perceptible change in the world
That was before I experienced true unhappiness. I don't mean my normal baseline discontented angst, I mean dark, suffocating, lifeless unhappiness. It didn't even feel like a thing. It felt like the absence of a thing. The absence of everything.
But it was necessary, because it snapped into focus all the truly, profoundly happy times in my life. And I realized something in the midst of all that nothing:
I do not need, nor have I ever needed, anyone else to make me happy.
Sure, someone can supplement your happiness.
Just like the absence of someone can supplement your unhappiness.
But no one can make that happen for you.
That's all you, bro.
I'm letting you know, with all finality, that I do not need you.
I don't need you. I have never needed you. In fact, I'm led to believe that your conspicuous absence in all the truly happy times in my life is not a mere coincidence.
I don't need you. But I worry about you. I worry that unlike me, you believe you need someone else to make you happy. It's why you can't stand to be alone. It's why you think that if you love her enough, it will create an endless positive feedback loop and you can finally fulfill that deep, clean, aching for bigger and bolder love. I worry that she will disappoint you, just like I have.
I don't need you. But dear god, I love you. I told you that. You didn't seem to understand that there are a severely limited number of things "I love you" can actually mean. If I'm being completely honest, loving you has been one of my greatest victories. Some might consider unrequited love to be sad and pathetic; I disagree. If you can care about someone unconditionally, regardless of whether you get anything in return, you are a master of love. And a master of pain.
I don't need you. But I need you to let me go. I need you to acknowledge that this was how it was always going to end. That you need someone, but you will always need me less. I need you to break me properly so I can heal the right way. I am capable of making myself happy again. And I deserve to do that for myself.
 |
| Hopefully at some point they figured out that love is NOT all you need. A bulletproof vest, for example, is sometimes helpful. *gasp* Yes I just went there. |
I don't know how to get to you.
It's disturbing how easily you're able to shut me out. Life must be a damn skip in the park for people like you who can flip a switch when things get heavy. I am not afforded that luxury; I can't make feelings vanish. I'm so stubborn I can't even admit that they exist. I can only condense them and cover them and stash them away in a remote corner of my heart.
I'm willing to do that now. I'm willing to put you away forever if you'll let me. And I'll tell you why...
I didn't used to think that happiness was a noble goal.
I used to think that there were more important things than being happy, like:
1. Truth
2. Identity
3. Making a perceptible change in the world
That was before I experienced true unhappiness. I don't mean my normal baseline discontented angst, I mean dark, suffocating, lifeless unhappiness. It didn't even feel like a thing. It felt like the absence of a thing. The absence of everything.
But it was necessary, because it snapped into focus all the truly, profoundly happy times in my life. And I realized something in the midst of all that nothing:
I do not need, nor have I ever needed, anyone else to make me happy.
Sure, someone can supplement your happiness.
Just like the absence of someone can supplement your unhappiness.
But no one can make that happen for you.
That's all you, bro.
I'm letting you know, with all finality, that I do not need you.
I don't need you. I have never needed you. In fact, I'm led to believe that your conspicuous absence in all the truly happy times in my life is not a mere coincidence.
I don't need you. But I worry about you. I worry that unlike me, you believe you need someone else to make you happy. It's why you can't stand to be alone. It's why you think that if you love her enough, it will create an endless positive feedback loop and you can finally fulfill that deep, clean, aching for bigger and bolder love. I worry that she will disappoint you, just like I have.
I don't need you. But dear god, I love you. I told you that. You didn't seem to understand that there are a severely limited number of things "I love you" can actually mean. If I'm being completely honest, loving you has been one of my greatest victories. Some might consider unrequited love to be sad and pathetic; I disagree. If you can care about someone unconditionally, regardless of whether you get anything in return, you are a master of love. And a master of pain.
I don't need you. But I need you to let me go. I need you to acknowledge that this was how it was always going to end. That you need someone, but you will always need me less. I need you to break me properly so I can heal the right way. I am capable of making myself happy again. And I deserve to do that for myself.
Monday, November 25, 2013
22
"My name is Brett Ann Lalli. I recently graduated with a bachelor of arts in cognitive science, and I am.... "
Pathetic.
I keep reading about this archetype of a jaded, impoverished post-grad in a series of gifs on Buzzfeed, watching it play out on the latest episode of "Girls," thinking "thatisnotmethatisnotmethatisnotme."
It's me.
I'm slumped over on my unmade bed amongst piles of laundry that I did four days ago and still haven't folded. I'm in my room, a cluttered, undecorated room I rented out in a dirty house belonging to a 70-year-old retired schoolteacher that has a yellow lab and doesn't ever leave the couch or god forbid turn off the television for five bleeding seconds. She is currently out there, on the couch, watching the Katie Couric Show or 60 Minutes or the Home Shopping Network or whatever mind-numbing program baby boomers are into these days. I can't leave my room or else she will try to engage me in a conversation about her vericose vein surgery or the desalination plant or the napkin holder she bought at Goodwill. So I have to bring my jar of peanut butter and box of cereal in my room.
Scoop. Dip. Scoop. Dip
That is me scooping peanut butter into a giant spoon and dipping it into a mug of Honey Bunches of Oats. I like the way the cereal sticks to the peanut butter and the peanut butter doesn't even have to try. It's just like "Yeah, I'm sticky. Look how things just stick to me." A bit of corn flake drops indifferently down the front of my fluffy robe. Between the robe and the $20 space heater I named Saving Grace, I should be toasty, but I just want to huddle deeper and cover myself with more layers, more hot air and carbon monoxide.
Scoop. Dip.
I am staring at a blinking cursor. The sense of depletion is awfully familiar. I used to stare at blinking cursors all the time in college, everyone did.
College.
Me: "I think I'm just going to stay here, get a part time job while I look for a better part time job while I look for a full time job while I save up to go back to school."
Pop: "You don't need to do that. You're a bright girl. You have a great degree."
Things I wanted to say: "You realize that means absolutely nothing, right? It's been 30 years since you had to get a job. You lived in a flourishing world. There were opportunities like doorknobs, now there are only opportunities like the last bit of toothpaste you have to squeeze out of a tightly rolled tube.
Dad, I wish you had never told me I was extraordinary. I wish no one had ever told me I was exceptional, that I was bright, that I was beautiful, that I was some grand gift to the world like a second Baby Jesus. Low self-esteem doesn't come from never having heard those words, it comes from having heard those words and then realizing one rude day that that they were never true."
He still pays my rent, so I refrain from tripping those wires.
How the HELL do you write a cover letter?
Stupid question. I know how. I've written dozens. Dozens of lines of bullshit about how OH HEY NAMELESS FACELESS EMPLOYER, I AM AN ANGEL SENT TO YOU FROM GOD TO FILL THIS RECEPTIONIST POSITION. I AM EVERYTHING YOU EVER WANTED. OF COURSE THIS IS WHAT I WANT TO DO FOR THE REST OF MY LIFE.
Turns out they don't even read them. You don't matter. You're not a person, you're a soulless list of fluff-things that you half-did in college between your last mixed drink and your next warm body. It doesn't matter if you aren't a soulless list of fluff-things. That's what they make you feel like. You don't even know who they are, but you resent them because you need them.
People keep telling me that I need to apply in person, just show up in all my personhood, wearing person clothing and flashing a big person smile. Could I play the part of a "person" well enough during a 20 minute interview that they wouldn't smell my animal-like desperation?
I love animals. They're so simple. They have needs and that's it. They don't have to pretend. I work with animals right now, at my unpaid internship. I work ten hours a day for no money and I don't care. I chop fish and scrub sea lion poop and wear rubber boots that are too big and squelch when I walk. I love it. I want to do it until I die. I have never been happier, but I don't even get to enjoy it. I don't get the luxury of being. I have to move. I have to push. I have to squeeze the tube.
But what I really have to do is write this *#!%$ cover letter.
My name is Brett Ann Lalli. I recently graduated with a bachelor of arts in cognitive science and I am interested in pursuing...
That damn blinking cursor.
Pathetic.
I keep reading about this archetype of a jaded, impoverished post-grad in a series of gifs on Buzzfeed, watching it play out on the latest episode of "Girls," thinking "thatisnotmethatisnotmethatisnotme."
It's me.
I'm slumped over on my unmade bed amongst piles of laundry that I did four days ago and still haven't folded. I'm in my room, a cluttered, undecorated room I rented out in a dirty house belonging to a 70-year-old retired schoolteacher that has a yellow lab and doesn't ever leave the couch or god forbid turn off the television for five bleeding seconds. She is currently out there, on the couch, watching the Katie Couric Show or 60 Minutes or the Home Shopping Network or whatever mind-numbing program baby boomers are into these days. I can't leave my room or else she will try to engage me in a conversation about her vericose vein surgery or the desalination plant or the napkin holder she bought at Goodwill. So I have to bring my jar of peanut butter and box of cereal in my room.
Scoop. Dip. Scoop. Dip
That is me scooping peanut butter into a giant spoon and dipping it into a mug of Honey Bunches of Oats. I like the way the cereal sticks to the peanut butter and the peanut butter doesn't even have to try. It's just like "Yeah, I'm sticky. Look how things just stick to me." A bit of corn flake drops indifferently down the front of my fluffy robe. Between the robe and the $20 space heater I named Saving Grace, I should be toasty, but I just want to huddle deeper and cover myself with more layers, more hot air and carbon monoxide.
Scoop. Dip.
I am staring at a blinking cursor. The sense of depletion is awfully familiar. I used to stare at blinking cursors all the time in college, everyone did.
College.
Me: "I think I'm just going to stay here, get a part time job while I look for a better part time job while I look for a full time job while I save up to go back to school."
Pop: "You don't need to do that. You're a bright girl. You have a great degree."
Things I wanted to say: "You realize that means absolutely nothing, right? It's been 30 years since you had to get a job. You lived in a flourishing world. There were opportunities like doorknobs, now there are only opportunities like the last bit of toothpaste you have to squeeze out of a tightly rolled tube.
Dad, I wish you had never told me I was extraordinary. I wish no one had ever told me I was exceptional, that I was bright, that I was beautiful, that I was some grand gift to the world like a second Baby Jesus. Low self-esteem doesn't come from never having heard those words, it comes from having heard those words and then realizing one rude day that that they were never true."
He still pays my rent, so I refrain from tripping those wires.
How the HELL do you write a cover letter?
Stupid question. I know how. I've written dozens. Dozens of lines of bullshit about how OH HEY NAMELESS FACELESS EMPLOYER, I AM AN ANGEL SENT TO YOU FROM GOD TO FILL THIS RECEPTIONIST POSITION. I AM EVERYTHING YOU EVER WANTED. OF COURSE THIS IS WHAT I WANT TO DO FOR THE REST OF MY LIFE.
Turns out they don't even read them. You don't matter. You're not a person, you're a soulless list of fluff-things that you half-did in college between your last mixed drink and your next warm body. It doesn't matter if you aren't a soulless list of fluff-things. That's what they make you feel like. You don't even know who they are, but you resent them because you need them.
People keep telling me that I need to apply in person, just show up in all my personhood, wearing person clothing and flashing a big person smile. Could I play the part of a "person" well enough during a 20 minute interview that they wouldn't smell my animal-like desperation?
I love animals. They're so simple. They have needs and that's it. They don't have to pretend. I work with animals right now, at my unpaid internship. I work ten hours a day for no money and I don't care. I chop fish and scrub sea lion poop and wear rubber boots that are too big and squelch when I walk. I love it. I want to do it until I die. I have never been happier, but I don't even get to enjoy it. I don't get the luxury of being. I have to move. I have to push. I have to squeeze the tube.
But what I really have to do is write this *#!%$ cover letter.
My name is Brett Ann Lalli. I recently graduated with a bachelor of arts in cognitive science and I am interested in pursuing...
That damn blinking cursor.
Thursday, September 19, 2013
Foods that you can't think too hard about
There are certain foods that you can't think too hard about or else you will immediately feel sick and never want to eat them again.
It usually happens when you are halfway through eating that food.
*any "facts" cited in this post may not be completely accurate
1. Egg salad sandwiches.
The unfertilized gametes of the descendents of gargantuan reptiles are cooked, chopped up, mixed with an emulsified mixture of gamete placenta and vegetable oil, and served between two pieces of bread.
2. Berries.
Plant ovaries. Bananas are berries, thus bananas are female gonads shaped like a male reproductive organ. Doubly unsettling.
3. Yogurt.
Bacteria in milk ferments and coagulates to become "creamy." In some more "healthy" brands of yogurt, more bacterial colonies are artificially injected so they can line the walls of your intestines and help you produce more gut mucus. Leaving a glass of milk outside on a hot summer day for a few hours= homemade yogurt. Sometimes it forms that watery protein layer on top, which can either be stirred in or drained off like the pus out of an infected wound, which, honestly, is probably less gross than the reality. Throw some plant ovaries in your coagulated bacteria for a yummy parfait.
4. Anything strawberry flavored.
"Natural" strawberry flavoring doesn't actually come from strawberries at all. It comes from the anal glands of beavers. So next time you are licking a delicious strawberry ice cream cone, you are basically licking a beaver's bunghole. Heaven FORBID you ever eat strawberry flavored yogurt.
5. Hot dogs.
For all the obvious reasons.
6. Mushrooms
Mushrooms are a fungus, and are therefore in the same kingdom as the stuff that grows on the bottoms of your feet if you leave your sweaty gym socks on all day. Toss in a salad, bon appetit!
7. The little oranges you sometimes find inside big oranges.
These are NOT a juicy, tangy bonus treat. These are the half-formed fetuses of the momma orange. Your orange was basically trying to have a baby. Do you like eating babies? Didn't think so.
I sincerely hope I have ruined at least one person's lunch for the day.
It usually happens when you are halfway through eating that food.
*any "facts" cited in this post may not be completely accurate
1. Egg salad sandwiches.
The unfertilized gametes of the descendents of gargantuan reptiles are cooked, chopped up, mixed with an emulsified mixture of gamete placenta and vegetable oil, and served between two pieces of bread.
2. Berries.
Plant ovaries. Bananas are berries, thus bananas are female gonads shaped like a male reproductive organ. Doubly unsettling.
3. Yogurt.
Bacteria in milk ferments and coagulates to become "creamy." In some more "healthy" brands of yogurt, more bacterial colonies are artificially injected so they can line the walls of your intestines and help you produce more gut mucus. Leaving a glass of milk outside on a hot summer day for a few hours= homemade yogurt. Sometimes it forms that watery protein layer on top, which can either be stirred in or drained off like the pus out of an infected wound, which, honestly, is probably less gross than the reality. Throw some plant ovaries in your coagulated bacteria for a yummy parfait.
4. Anything strawberry flavored.
"Natural" strawberry flavoring doesn't actually come from strawberries at all. It comes from the anal glands of beavers. So next time you are licking a delicious strawberry ice cream cone, you are basically licking a beaver's bunghole. Heaven FORBID you ever eat strawberry flavored yogurt.
5. Hot dogs.
For all the obvious reasons.
6. Mushrooms
Mushrooms are a fungus, and are therefore in the same kingdom as the stuff that grows on the bottoms of your feet if you leave your sweaty gym socks on all day. Toss in a salad, bon appetit!
7. The little oranges you sometimes find inside big oranges.
These are NOT a juicy, tangy bonus treat. These are the half-formed fetuses of the momma orange. Your orange was basically trying to have a baby. Do you like eating babies? Didn't think so.
I sincerely hope I have ruined at least one person's lunch for the day.
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