I have booty shorts and a rock collection — I could probably never be your woman.

I've lived alone in my studio for about a year and a half now and guess what? I love it. I want to be buried here. No offense to anyone I've ever lived with, but if you put a gun to my head and made me choose between repeating my middle school experience or living with a roommate again, guess what I'd chose? Cyanide pill. That's how much I love not having a roommate.

Why do I love not having a roommate? Um, gee, I don't know. Perhaps because I can eat cereal for breakfast, lunch and dinner without a smug roommate shooting me dirty looks from the kitchen while they cook "chicken", "vegetables" or other such "proteins" and "nutrients"? Or maybe because I can plop down on the couch and watch a Deadliest Catch marathon and drink grain alcohol from 5:00pm until whenever I pass out, free of judgment? Or perhaps because I can wear my Second Skin (Fall & Winter: wife beater and Jack Daniels pajama pants; Spring & Summer: wife beater, booty shorts and thigh-high knit socks.) (Seriously. Find me an outfit more comfortable than one of those two and I will blow my head off because my entire universe just folded in upon itself.) day in and day out without feeling like a total slob? Although to be fair, I did recieve the following text message last week from College Roommate Danielle:

I am totally wearing thigh socks and teeny pajama shorts dancing around the room drinking tequila. and it makes me think how i used to LOVE when you would put on your thigh socks pajama shorts and dance with your t-square! I for reals miss you.

And shortly thereafter:

Wow, I really hope you remember doing that otherwise I sound SUPER gay right now.

Of course I remember that. Because I still do it. And save for Danielle because we're kind of gay for each other, I couldn't with a roommate.

When I tell people that I live alone, I usually get one of two reactions:

1.) The person gives me a knowing look and says, "Living alone is (or, must be) awesome."

or 2.) The person looks horrified and in only a slightly judgmental tone says, "OH GOSH, I could never live alone—you must get so lonely."

I don't understand that. Because I have friends; I just don't want to live with them. And to be fair, they probably wouldn't want to live with me. Because my personality is a lot like cigarettes: not immediately addictive and hazardous to your health upon prolonged exposure. I just think it works better for all parties involved when I live alone. Which kind of worries me and adds to my whole emo "I'M NOT LOVABLE!!!!" life-fear that was seriously exacerbated upon turning 25. When I moved back home from New York, I had a sit-down with my parents (married 37 years last Thursday) and was honestly like, "How the FUCK do you live with another human being for that long?" It boggles the mind. Because as my last blog post can attest, I can't be alone for 37 minutes without wanting to break my lease if it means getting away from myself. I remember them giving me a really good and comforting answer at the time, but I can't remember what it was for the life of me. So fuck me.

But the point being, in the entirety of my living alone, I've only gotten lonely twice. The first time was, of course, during the Snowpocalypse. Because that was a long time to be shut-in alone. (Although said loneliness was quickly remedied when I threw my ironic Barack Hussein Snowbama party and when Helena snowed herself in with me for the last half of the week, bless her heart.) The second time I got lonely happened this past week.

I was taking a little break from my productivity streak to clean my apartment (being productive even when taking a break from being productive? The end is nigh.) and guess what ultra randomly came on my iTunes shuffle? White Town's "Your Woman". And I swear to god, I said (out loud and to know one in general) "HOLY SHIT" and looked around my apartment for someone to be like, "OH MY FUCKING GOD!!!!1 DO YOU REMEMBER THIS SONG?>!1?!?!" with.

That was a lonely moment. Because, OH MY FUCKING GOD!!!!1 DO YOU REMEMBER THAT SONG?>!1?!?! I mean, talk about things that transport you directly back to middle school. Fuck chamomile tea; listening to that song was like stepping into a time machine. I can remember exactly where I was the first time I heard it: I was in my mom's car, the radio was on and she was giving me and Teresa a ride to Lake Forest mall, where I was probably going to spend my allowance on rocks at the Natural Wonders store. (Yes I had a rock collection. No I don't want to talk about it.)

I have such vivid memories of being so utterly confused by that song. And apparently it doesn't take a lot to confuse the gender norms of an 11-year-old girl because I was very much like, "I DUN'T GET IT! THE WORDS ARE 'I COULD NEVER BE YOUR WOMAN,' BUT A MAN'S SINGING IT! WHHHHHAAAAA?!?!?!" This was of course before the days when you could Google song lyrics, so I distinctly remember working it out in my head and reasoning, "Maybe he's saying 'I could never be A woman.' That would make sense. Because boys can't be girls. BOYS CAN'T BE GIRLS!!!!!" Nowadays nothing shocks these young kids, what with the Katy Perry kissing girls and liking it and Brandon Flowers and his whole, "somebody told me that you had a boyfriend who looked like a girlfriend that I had in February of last year" conundrum. Back in my day we had White Town. And we were confused, thank you very much. Simpler times...

It now being 2010 and the future with our hovercrafts and meals in pill form and silver go-go boots and all, I decided to utilize our advances in technology to eradicate my 11-year-old confusion about White Town and the song "Your Woman" via Google once and for all. AND EVERY FACT I LEARNED BLEW MY MIND MORE THAN THE LAST. Behold:

1.)

That's what the gender-bending, sex pot voice of White Town looks like?! Are you fucking kidding me? He looks like Al Roker pre lap-band surgery. For some reason I always imagined him looking like Boy George, circa Worried About the Boy:

Which thereby makes me feel even more country that anybody who breaks gender stereotypes must automatically look like Boy George in my mind.

2.) According to the FAQ section of the official White Town website, this is what "Your Woman" is about:

I love 'Your Woman' *BUT* what is it about??? Are you a man/woman/transsexual?

Ummmm ...well, that's a toughie. When I wrote it, I was trying to write a catchy pop song that had more than one perspective. Although it's written in the first person that viewpoint isn't the same as it may
sound. So, these are *some* of the things it's about:
Being a member of an orthodox Trotskyist / Marxist movement (as I was for three years in the 80s).
Being a straight guy in love with a lesbian (ditto).
Being a gay guy in love with a straight man.
Being a straight girl in love with a lying, two-timing, fake-ass Marxist.

The hypocrisy that results when love and lust get mixed up with highbrow ideals :-)

First and foremost, discussing Marxist/Trotskyist ideals in the same sentence as an emoticon is sort of a hard pill to swallow.

Secondly, Jesus Christ. "The hypocrisy that results when love and lust are mixed up with Marxist/Trotskyist ideals"? That sounds like something that would come out of the mouth of someone I'd date because he's an artist and just had a show at Galapago's and we can be nonconformist and artsy together. Except when I say that I'm nonconformist and artsy, I mean that I want to be reincarnated into Tom Servo and would rather sit at home and eat Hot Pockets than go to a thumpin' club—more commonly called being a "loser"—and when I say he's nonconformist and artsy, I mean he talks about things like "the hypocrisy that results when love and lust get mixed up in highbrow Marxist/Trotskyist ideals"—more commonly called being an "asshole." And yet, I agree to let him stay with me in DC for the weekend because I haven't had sex since the '00s and why the hell not, except I forget that he talks about things like "the hypocrisy that results when love and lust get mixed up in highbrow Marxist/Trotskyist ideals" and suddenly setting myself on fire is seems like a completely viable option for getting myself out of this situation. Unfortunately, I don't have renter's insurance, so instead I make Andrew of The Great Juno Debate come hang out with us because I don't trust myself to be alone with him without stabbing either him, myself, or a combination of both of us in the eye with a salad fork and then that night when we go out, I make every single person I've ever met come with and threaten Dan and Andrew Not The Great Juno Debate with bodily harm when they want to go home at the completely reasonable hour of 3 o'clock in the morning.

That's a totally hypothetical situation, by the way.

3.) In everything I read about White Town, lead singer Jyoti Prakash Mishra makes a point of mentioning that they're a "self-financed band." I don't get that. Why would you want to draw attention to the fact that you're self-financed? Isn't that just pointing out that nobody wants to invest in your project? Although I might just be projecting because this is a "self-financed blog."

4.) The White Town Wikipedia page was last edited at 9:15pm on May 5, 2010. Which makes me laugh. Because I bet it was by someone who's name rhymes with Schyoti Schrakash Shishra.

5.)

I find it shocking that White Town has 1,481 fans on Facebook. Because that means 1,481 people are willing to publicize to the world that they are one of the 1,481 fans White Town has on Facebook. (Kimberly and Joe: I'm lookin' at you.)

6.)

How bad do I want an official White Town mug? Rull bad.

7.) You know how on Bravo reality shows, there's that jaunty little jazz music that plays when one scene is transitioning to the next? I've decided that if Bravo ever gave me my own reality TV show, this is what I'd want to play during my scene transitions instead (before you press play, close your eyes and picture me walking out of my apartment on my way to brunch with big sunglasses on and Ichabod the Rasta Pug in a Sorr About the Bag tote at my side):


I mean, am I wrong in thinking that a Nintendo-ized version of "Your Woman" is just nerdy and cracked out enough to be the soundtrack to my everyday life?

Bravo TV, you know where to reach me. (...At the Natural Wonders store in Lake Forest Mall.)

My First Chatroulette Experience (NSFW)

Tuesday night was supposed to be my night of extreme productivity. Xtreme productivity, even. I got into the most comfortable combination of pajamas I own, grabbed my laptop and headed to the roof where I had painstakingly set up a little outdoor office for myself. The feng shui of my workspace was perfect, the view inspiring and I was reclining in the most comfortable chair my roof has to offer with my legs propped up on another. It was magical. "Bitch's gonna get some work done," I thought to myself. Then I cracked my open laptop only to discover that I don't get wireless internet on the roof; mighty irritating considering everything I had to do involved emailing. Sigh...I was so god damn comfortable too. That's when Andrew of the Great Juno Debate fame sent me a text telling me to come over to his place for beer and Chatroulette. Deciding that my night of productivity was a wash and being curious about this new "Chatroulette" fad all the young kids are talking about, I packed up and (still in my jammies) headed over to Andrew's side of the circle.

Now, I don't want to say that Andrew's a "Chatroulette Addict" because who am I to make that call, but I will say that his addiction has affected his life in the following ways:
- He admits to doing it once alone but, "prefers doing it socially"
- Has only ever done it drunk
- Pushes his friends to do it
- This was sitting on his counter the night I showed up to do it with him:

He claims that's just "flour" and a can of club soda that "exploded in the freezer," but if Chatroulette turns out to be a gateway drug for crack, I'm calling Jeff VanVonderen on that boy's ass faster than you can say "I see a bunch of people here who love you like crazy." I'm sorry Andrew. I just care about you too much.

After our near crack intervention, we grabbed some beers and sat on the couch. "Now, there's a good chance you're going to see some things on here that you might not like," he explained to me, "but just remember, nothing can hurt you." "Andrew, are we doing shrooms tonight or going on Chatroulette?" I asked. Having had enough of my sass, we signed on and got paired up with our first partner of the night, a wee little shrimp scampi of a boy who told me that I was very pretty and signed off. "Ooo! I like this!" I said as it searched for another random person for us to chat with.

Next partner? Dick. Just a big 'ole dick tryin' to make it in this crazy, mixed-up world if it can. NEXT. More dick. NEXT. Person reclining in a chair with their fly open. NEXT. Enter an extremely attractive lawyer from Madrid who I pretty much immediately fell in love with. I told him that I had just been to Madrid (cough...four years ago) and liked it and he suggested that my husband take me back again sometime soon. "WHAT HIM?!" I asked as I physically shoved Andrew out of the frame, "HAHAH, what? No. HAHA. We're not married. Or dating. We're just friends. I'M SINGLE. HAHA...verrrrry single." 10 minutes later my Spanish boyfriend bid me adios, never to be seen again. Sigh. NEXT!

More dick. Except this time we stayed and watched, because, well, what's a Tuesday night for if not getting ridiculously drunk and watching a stranger jerk off in real time with your best friend? (Answer: nothing.)

+50 points to that guy because he totally came, which according to Andrew not of the Great Juno Debate fame means "we won." We watched that man go from limp, to erect, to jerkin' it, to busting a nut in his own hand in two minutes flat. How absurd is that? You can't even order coffee that fast at Starbuck's! Too bad he nexted us when Andrew told him, "that was kind of fast, no?" God, I love Andrew. Anyone who can out-asshole the person anonymously jacking off on Chatroulette is someone I am proud to call my BFF.

After all is said and done, I think I can adequately say I got the full Chatroulette experience. I saw a lot of dick; got repeatedly asked to see my boobs; was told that I'm pretty; was told I'm an ugly bitch (to which Andrew said, "don't worry, the Internet is a mean place." Yes, thank you. I, of all people, am more than aware that the Internet is a mean place.); talked to a few hot guys smoking pot in Russia; talked to a guy in Switzerland who via graphic hand gestures told me and Andrew to make out; became besties with a college bro in Michigan after I told him I chew Peach Skoal (HA HA...oh alcohol! The wacky things you make me say!); talked to a sock puppet in LA; received a marriage proposal; and physically dove off the couch and onto the floor in a fit of hysterics when someone told Andrew to quote, "lick my nipple."

Chatroulette: been there, done that.

My final summation? I find it just as terrifying as I did before I tried it. I'm sorry. I wanted to like it. I really did. But Chatroulette terrifies me for the same reason that Second Life terrifies me: it's just seems like a way to detach yourself from reality and use the Internet to do all the things that you're too scared to do in real life. Like flirt. Or yell at people. Or jerk off onto strangers. For me, it's promote this blog. How come when it's time to promote the blog to MTV I clam up and ramble about pugs for a few hours, yet give me a six-pack of beer and Chatroulette and suddenly I'm like Billy Mays on crack? (R.I.P...)


Andrew and I alternated holding up three different signs to the camera:

So when we weren't harassing strangers to dance or cum already, we were promoting the blog hardcore on the back of a Newsweek envelope.
(Side note: I don't want to live in a world where 2birds1blog isn't the most trust name in the news.)

I don't know where I got this sudden surge of confidence in promoting the blog from, but there it was. At one point I shoved the 2b1b sign into my bra and started chatting people all, "WANNA SEE MY TITS?! HOW BAD DO YOU WANT TO SEE 'EM? BEG FOR IT!!!" and then would rip open my shirt to expose my naked URL. The fuck? Where did that come from?? I get bashful sexting, for Christ's sake! Oh also, apparently this conversation happened:



In case you can't read that, it's someone telling me that I'm pretty, to which I say, "OBV, now show me dem titties."

..................OBV. NOW SHOW. ME. "DEM". TITTIES. What's happening here?? Who am I?? It just...it all makes me very uncomfortable. I woke up yesterday morning feeling dirty, ashamed and grossly hungover.

Not to bash Andrew's newest hobby though. Because on one hand, I totally agree with him that it's pretty cool to be transported to some random person's living room in Russia and yeah, when else would you have the opportunity to sit down and talk to an entire dorm full of nice Australians, but you just have to wade through too much creepiness to get there. You can't deny that the creepy to cool ratio is heavily skewed, Andrew, you just can't. Too much of my day is already spent trying to avoid the dicks of the world—why do it online too?

...That is, of course, unless you're talking to this guy or my Spanish boyfriend. In which case, viva Chatroulette!

I poofed my hair for this?

Today is going to be a grab bag of a post. Because I'm so fucking hungover. Probably going to vomit. Hope nobody's in the bathroom when I do. Hurts to make sentence structure. Want hug. But not too hard. Or will vomit.

- First things first: remember last Friday when I jokingly asked somebody to make me a ringtone of The Situation whispering "That's a lot of pickles" from Jersey Shore? Well reader Candace M. actually did. BOOM! So, thank you Candace. Give me your address and I'll send you my first born child.

- Re: my job—I got an email this morning from Boss #1 and #2 saying that we need to sit down and have "a talk" this afternoon. This does not bode well for me. I'd go into how I called my mom crying and how my stomach feels like a 300-pound man is breakdancing inside of it, but where's the humor in that?

- Instead let's talk about what a bust J-Woww and Pauly D's appearance at McFadden's last night was. What the fuck was up with that, you guys? Dan, Andrew V (not Andrew of The Great Juno Debate fame) and I got Gudio/Guidetted up (seriously, check out Andrew's Pauly D hair. It was a work of art,) drained my Jäger tap and headed over to the bar at about 10:30ish. First of all, there was a line to get in. STEEERIKE ONE! I have a theory that any establishment with a line, cover charge, or raffled happy hours is probably about as cool as a pair of Bugle Boy jean shorts. So, basically speaking, my theory is that McFadden's is probably about as cool as a pair of Bugle Boy jean shorts. HOWEVER! You don't get the opportunity to fist pump with J-Woww and Pauly D everyday and I'd do just about anything for a good story (or a free t-shirt,) so we got in line. Then we found out that the cover charge was $40. STEEERIKE TWO! 40 fucking dollars?! Are you kidding me?! I was ambivalent when I thought it was five! I don't think I'd pay 40 dollars to get into a burning house to pull a family member out, nevertheless gawk at two reality TV stars across a crowded Bro bar. We briefly considered pulling a "I'm somewhat-borderline-almost-kind-of-just-a-little-bit-of-a bloglebrity. Wanna knock a zero off for me?" but I think the only person impressed by that is my mom ("impressed"..."upsest"...semantics) and it probably wouldn't pull that much weight with the bouncer. Plus he point-blank told us we were asking him too many questions and to go away. That was also a nice little clue. Suddenly cameras started going off in front of the entrance, as J-Woww and Pauly D had shown up and were doing a TV interview with Christ only knows who on the saddest little cat fashion show of a red carpet I have ever seen. I took a picture with my digital camera but it wasn't nearly interesting enough to justify searching through my closet to find the USB cord to upload it onto here. Sorry about that. After a few minutes the dynamic duo went inside and we decided to take advantage of the line of people and promote the blog. And when I say "we" promoted the blog, I mean Andrew V and Dan promoted the blog while I awkwardly lurked by the trashcans playing with my hair because self promotion makes me heinously uncomfortable. And then we ran out of stickers. And started sobering up. STEEERIKE THREE! We were outta there. We hopped in a cab and went over to Big Hunt (where our ironic Guido outfits were no longer obviously ironic) and drank our dissapointment away.

Final summation: Jersey Shore night at McFadden's was a total bust and in no way worth the 10 dollars I spent on the powder blue cheetah print hoodie and matching bra strap headband I wore to it.


(Turn up sound!)

Welp! Off to go have my meeting with The Axis of Evil. I'm going to channel my idol, Kelly Cutrone, and utilize some of her many words of wisdom: "Be brave and always tell the truth. And don't take any shit" and considering what's probably about to happen, I will specifically be utilizing: "If you have to cry, go outside." Will do Ms. Cutrone. Will do.