The Friendship Application

I can't believe old Co-Blogger Chris moves here THIS SATURDAY! Eee! I'm pretty excited about it. I enjoy Chris' friendship immensely and I'm really looking forward to being able to spoon with him on a more regular basis. That being said, I also like hazing Chris. A lot. Well not hazing, per se, but I like to play games with Chris. Rough, sadistic, childish games. Like "What Will Happen If I Give You a Back Rub With This Giant Tub of Icy Hot?", "Can I Tweeze Your Back Hair?", "Sit On The John And Read To Me From GQ While I Take A Shower" or my personal favorite, "I'm Going To Punch You On The Arm As Hard As I Can And Then You Punch Me." We're like brothers: we love each other a lot, we just have odd ways of showing it.

When I read Chris' post about how nervous he is to move here even though he already has friends in the city, I thought hello! An opportunity to fuck with him. Yes and please. So I've decided I'm going to make him fill out this friendship application before I'll be his in-city best friend again. Oh, don't worry Chris—it's just 81 brief essay-based questions. That should calm your nerves, tiger.

Is our friendship considered conventionally "healthy?" No. Is it fun? I'd like to think so. Although he might have another answer. And that answer might involve a lot of swears.

Official Application to be Best Friends with Meghan McBlogger
Please answer all questions in detail honestly and to the best of your ability

The Basics
1. Name:

2. Age:

3. Gender:

4. Hometown:

5. What is your Twitter name?

6. Quickly tweet something really, really nice about me.

7. What did you tweet?

8. Are you on Facebook?

9. If so, poke me for good measure and take a screen shot to prove it.

10. Are you, or are you not a known Ginger?

11. Do you, or do you not burn very easily at outdoor swimming pools?

12. Are you a gender queer and as a corollary, will "gender queer" ever not be one of my favorite phrases in the entire world?

13. Where in DC are you moving?

14. If that was a trick question because you are actually moving to the wilds of Northern Virginia, where in Northern Virginia are you moving?

15. How much longer do you estimate you'll be able to take me being an asshole about the fact that you're moving to Northern Virginia before it starts getting old and downright offensive?

16. How many metro stops separate my apartment from yours?

17. Is there a transfer involved?

18. Hmmm...

19. Do you see yourself having me over to your apartment for home cooked meals at least once a week?

20. Should I bring red or white?

21. Will you please stop eating my Mrs. Dash?

22. Should I stop injecting inside jokes into this public friendship application?


Day-to-Day Life
23. What is my standard coffee order?

24. I'm hungry, will you fax me a sandwich?

25. What is your pet name for me?

26. The building next to mine is on fire and I call you up to see if you want to get coffee and gawk at it all country-like with me. What would your answer be?

27. It's a random Tuesday at approximately 2pm in the afternoon. You have a voice mail on your work phone. Upon checking it, you discover that it's a solid three minutes of me heavily breathing in a suggestive manner. Are you:

a.) Annoyed
b.)Humored
c.) Aroused
or d.) Extremely aroused

28. It's a random Tuesday at approximately 2:30pm in the afternoon. You have a voice mail on your work phone. Upon checking it, you discover that it's me holding up my phone to my computer as Fleetwood Mac's Holiday Road blasts in the background. Are you:

a.) Confused
b.) Singing along
c.) Embarrassed
or d.) Extremely aroused

29. It's a random Tuesday at approximately 3pm in the afternoon. You have a voice mail on your work phone. Upon checking it, you discover that it's me talking in a robot voice pretending to be Stephen Hawking "singing" Gwen Stefani songs, accompanied by the "digital" ringtone on the iphone in the background for good measure. Are you:

a.) Offended for Stephen Hawking
b.) Stifling laughter
c.) Irritated that I keep calling you at work
or d.) a combination of A, C and extremely aroused

30. Are questions 27-29 things I have actually done to Alex?

31. Are you as amazed as I am that Alex is still my friend?

32. I can't find my pants. Where do you suggest I look?

33. My toilet seat cover mysteriously came off. Can you fix it?

34. Wanna get some froyo after work, sit in the circle and people watch?

35. Road trips: PRO or CON?

36. Remember the time it was really hot in our apartment so we went to Duane Reed to get a baby pool to fill with cold water and put in the living room, but then you wouldn't let me do that so we just laid around on the futon and watched porn all day instead?

37. If yes, would you be interested in doing that again?

38. Complete this sentence: Bottle-a-luuuuube; ____________ .

39. Can I trust you to be in my apartment and not fiddle with, take or unbend my Aspie's Clip?

40. What do you think Weekend Hair is doing right now?

41. You should join the Fitness First on L Street and be my gym buddy. Right?

42. Also you should totally do hot yoga with me and Becca. Riiiiiight?

43. I currently have Emma Bunton's Free Me stuck in my head. Is this:

a.) Typical
b.) Emma who?
c.) LET ME LOOSE TO LOVE YOU, OH HOW I LONG TO SEDUCE YOU!
d.) Well crap, now I'm extremely aroused


Social Life
44. I'm having a few people over to watch the premiere of Jersey Shore: Miami. What do you bring?

45. We're at happy hour and Alex keeps obsessively checking his Blackberry. What do you do?

46. Do you remember the first time you met Helena and she got drunk and told you, "I can see the homo in your eyes but the man in your arm hair"?

47. Is that not just as funny as it was when it originally happened, if not more?

48. What are your thoughts on being my wingman?

49. If positive, what wingman skills would you bring to the table?

50. REAL WORLD SCENARIO: We're at Little Miss Whiskey's. I'm at the bar waiting for a beer when a handsome gentleman slides up next to me and says something. Thinking he's hitting on me, I get all giggly and girly and seductively compliment his glasses. It is at this point I realize he's actually staring slightly past me and not hitting on me at all, but rather trying to order another beer from the bartender. I am horribly, horribly embarrassed. How do you ease my pain?

51. ANOTHER REAL WORLD SCENARIO: We're at The Reef because it's 2006 and we don't know any better and I've had, let's just say, one too many Chardonnays. Sensing I'm about to vomit, I stand up to go to the bathroom but immediately fall right back down on my ass. When you come over to help me get up, I calmly tell you: "Chris. I am about to vomit and black out. You need to get me home."

WHAT IS YOUR GAME PLAN?

52. YET ANOTHER REAL WORLD SCENARIO: I have smoked too much pot and am having a panic attack while watching reruns of America's Next Top Model on UPN. I call you to calm me down. What do you say?

53. It's Sunday morning and we have brunch plans. You walk into my apartment to find me still in bed, nude, covered in cheese fries and laying next to a bottle of seltzer and a pair of Tweezers. What's going through your head?

54. I'm staying at my parent's house to cat-sit Evie for a week in June. Wanna come over, watch scary movies and use a little Barbie brush to comb Evie's hair with me?

55. Let's say I have a blind date in a few hours and I feel like there are sumo wrestlers thumping around my stomach I'm so nervous. How would you clam me down?

56. You're going to be here for my birthday this year. That should be a recipe for: ________ .

57. We're out at a bar and I get into a scuffle with some crazy bitch who don't know how to ackrite. Got my back, son?

58. It's the end of the night and I'm too lazy to take the metro home so I take a cab. Are you judging me?

59. I'm running late...are you mad at me?

60. I'm drunk and just binge-ate a few empanadas. Are you laying in bed next to me drinking seltzer and tweezing someone's eyebrows?


Complete the Sentence
61. Naps are:

62. Pants are:

63. Stefanie Skinner is:

64. Bee Movie is:

65. I lost my privileges to add movies to our Netflix queue because I:

66. Heidi Mousetag was:

67. I still think about her every:

68. Poppers and:

69. I'm a little bit Aspie's, you're a little bit:

70. I order my eggs:

71. My favorite brunch beverage is:

72. My favorite beer is:

73. Getting me out of bed in the morning is:

74. A good way to get me out of bed is to:

75. My stomach is usually sitting:

76. Lobster rolls make me:

77. My #10 jam is:

78. My #1 jam is:

79. Not mentioned on my "jams list" at all was:

80. Whereas your #1 jam was:

81. Which makes me a heinous:


Once you are done filling in your answers, kindly post it on tomorrow's blog. I will give it serious consideration over the weekend and should reach a final decision in 2-4 work weeks.

Thank you for your interest in being my BFF4lyfe and best of luck in all of your new endeavors.

Regards,
Meghan C. McBlogger

I am so tired, I might have got a little crazy

Dear My Brain, please explain to me why you will not let me sleep lately.

Seriously.

If you could give me some sort of sign or indication as to why you feel the need to keep me up at all hours of the night, I'd really appreciate it. Did you really want to see that infomercial for the Showtime Rotisserie again? I know you love to chant "Set it and forget it!" with the studio audience, but I'd really like to sleep. And once we finally are able to fall asleep, you decide that the asscrack of dawn is the perfect time to get up and get out of bed. If you could let me know you're reasoning, that'd be great, because then I could shut it down, and we both could finally get the rest we deserve. As it stands right now, I am too exhausted to lift my leg up over the tub in the mornings to get in the shower, so sometimes I'll just turn the water on and sit in the bathroom until I feel like I've heard enough water running to count as a shower. I have a matching 5-piece luggage set under my eyes right now. It's not pretty. They don't just call it beauty rest for the hell of it. And to be perfectly frank, I need some of that, because I'm starting to look a creature that would live under a bridge and ask you a riddle before you can pass.

What I don't understand is why you woke me up at 9:30 today. You and I both know that we don't have to be at work today. That ship sailed on Friday, when I finally told my job to peace out after 2+ years of getting hated on by nerds. We both know that this week is our only time to sleep in, because for some reason I told my new job I could start this monday. Oh wait. It was probably because I was so damn tired that I couldn't be slick enough to ask for an extra week off. Way to go, us. Way to fucking go. And what's worse is that now we have an actual commute to contend with in the morning. We're talking a fight your way onto a crowded metro at 8 in the morning commute. To get to our "business casual" office by 9 AM sharp. We can't just roll out of bed at 8:55, throw on the first article of clothing our hand touches and casually stroll to the office anymore. So we're going to have to start to get a little bit more sleep. Because if I have to shave every morning now, and I'm exhausted in the morning, I might slip and cut my carotid artery. Those five bladed razors are just four more blades of death when you're bleary eyed and shaving. And think of how pissed you would be if I accidentally killed us. I know I would be mildly upset.

I wish you weren't so resistant to falling asleep. You won't even let me drug you into sleep. While Meg can take 6 Tylenol PM and pass out in her nightie, those Tylenol PM would not have the same effect on me. Even if I was also wearing a revealing nightie and expecting the maintenance man to show up. (Sidebar: everyone knows Meg only claims this was an accident. She 100% intended for a porn plot to play itself out in her apartment.) The last time I tried to put you under using medication, you refused to fall asleep and I spent 4 hours feeling like I'd just chugged a keg. To the point of me being so out of it that I was legitimately scared. Why, brain? Why couldn't you just take the medicated hint and let me sleep? No, instead we were awake and trying to gchat with some people, which consisted of me palming my keyboard for 15 minutes, typing words with an inordinate amount of vowels and punctuation, before finally giving up and admitting defeat. Sure, you shut down our fine motor skills, but my body is still awake and kicking. It's not fair. Come to think of it, every time we've taken medicine that makes you drowsy before bed, you think it's funny to stay up, regardless of the drugs coursing through our veins. Tylenol PM, Nyquil, what have you. Nothing will make you go to sleep when you're supposed to. But the one time I take Sudafed before going to the movies because I was feeling a little congested, you pass out right after the opening credits. I still have no idea what movie it was that we saw. I have a vague recollection of Meryl Streep maybe being in it. She might have had a kinky threeway with Andy Dick and Rin Tin Tin, that's how little I know about the movie. Thanks a lot. That's eight dollars that I'll never get back.

We're going to need to change this little repartee you and I have going on, because it's getting pretty tired. And I don't mean that in an ironic way. I know that right now you're probably just feeling a lot of emotions about the upcoming move. I think that's normal. If we weren't nervous, I'd be a little bit more concerned. But really, we just have to make sure we catch out train on Saturday and we're good to go. And the only way we're going to do that is by getting some sleep this week. Because if you choose to let me sleep in on the one day we have something to do, it will not be a pretty sight. I will go Fight Club on our ass.

So, in conclusion, please act right and let us sleep a little bit more tomorrow. It's all well and good that we're up now, because it's sunny and we should probably get out and do some New York City related activity while we don't have to work but are still living in the city. Had we slept in today, we would have missed a solid three hours of sunshine, which has been mighty rare these past few weeks. Can't waste any of that. Now that I've finally given you the piece of my mind I've been hanging on to, let's work on cooperating better in the future. Deal? Deal.

Love,
Chris

Just stackin' some donuts on my dick. (Happy Tuesday.)

Man. For a while there it looked like a recap of last night's episode of Kell On Earth was not meant to be. I was over at Laura's last night for a lovely dinner (God I love having friends who cook) when I realized at about 10:20ish that Chris' TV is probably sitting in Rosslyn while Chris is probably sitting in New York and I should probably stop sitting here binge eating coconut rice and go home to catch the 11 o'clock repeat. But that wouldn't be too hard to do, right? I just had to zoom down the red line from Van Ness to Dupont; a mere four stops. Shouldn't take more than two shakes of a lambs tail, right? WRONG! Wrong, wrong, wrong. Because when the DC metro isn't catching on fire or killing somebody or cracking in half like an Easter egg, it's a 525,600 minute wait until the next train. Christ.

But that's OK! I figured I could always stay up writing my inner monologue until the 2am repeat like last week. I had some ruminations about flags I could share with you. BUT NO! Directly after Kell On Earth, Bravo showed A Few Good Men for the next 900 hours. Which, as it turns out, was pretty good movie. I think that's a known fact though. I hear there's this new animated movie called Aladdin that's out and supposed to be really good! Maybe I'll catch that next.

I woke up early this morning to see if last night's episode was online yet, but it wasn't. I tried looking on obscure sketchy Korean youtube sites, but it was just anime and reruns of The Marriage Ref. I gave up and decided I should download it from iTunes but they don't sell individual episodes, just a season pass. Figuring I shouldn't spend my remaining 10-tree-house-dollars on a season pass to a show I've already seen 80% of, I decided sorry but eff that ess. Then I realized I simply have to scroll to the right to buy an episode individually. HA HA...oh me. A physics major, I was not. So I went ahead and bought it on iTunes and now we can all enjoy a Kell On Earth recap. That's how much I love you all. $1.99's worth. But remember I'm Jewish, so that's like $199 to us. You're welcome, world. L'CHAIM!

Kell On Earth Episode 7: Tough Times

If Terrance Howard taught me anything in the major motion picture Hustle and Flow, it's that it's hard out there for a pimp. And by a pimp, I believe he meant Kelly Cutrone. Kelly is hurtin' from the recession, you guys, in a big, big way. Bitches don't pay their bills (which reminds me, I need to pay my cable bill...) and homegirl has to run around town hauling people's asses into Small Claims Court to get the money they owe her while trying to find new business to bring in while trying to decrease overhead and increase revenue and UGH! Good job, Recession. (Side note: the fuck? I'm watching TV and Nicole Sullivan is doing Jenny Craig commercials?.........is it 1992?? That would suck. How old was I in 1992? 7? 8? Why can't I do that math? I literally just opened a new tab to type "How old was I in 1992?" into google. That's sad. Why am I typing any of this?)

Speaking of money issues, People Revolution needs to hire a new Account Executive to replace Vorhees and fast. Robyn interviews a tiny little stick bug of a thing who's chin could skewer shish-kebab meat named Mallory. Mallory used to work with Michelle, PR's Lifestyle Director. If I forgot why I love Kelly Cutrone, this scene reminded me why. At a certain point during Mallory's very serious interview with Robyn, Kelly opens the door and is like, "Excuse me, I don't mean to be unprofessional...BuT rObYn Is ThIs YoUr HeAdBaNd CoLlEcTiOn?!?!1" and wacky kazoo music plays. I don't know. It just really struck a chord with me. Kelly goes on to explain that she lost her hiring privileges when she started meditating in an interview and Robyn got really pissed at her. OH KELLY! What will you do next?

I'll tell you what she won't do—give you free advice, asshole! Kelly is sick and tired of people trollin' around the office asking her for free advice and favors. I'm sorry, but she has got a business to run, mouths to feed, 15" MacBook Pros to buy for 8-year-old girls who don't even know what "server space" is (I'm sorry, I'm not going to let it go) and she can't afford any of this by giving shit away for free. AND THAT MEANS YOU, GEORGE WAYNE!

George Wayne is a friend of Kelly's and a writer at Vanity Fair and I can't understand a god damn word that comes out of his mouth. Seriously. I can't tell if his accent is British or Jamaican or Creole or if there's a mop in there, but I just barely get out that he wants People's Revolution to throw together a fabulous event for him. For free. In four days. Lofty goals sir, lofty goals. He also wants them to find "somebody fabulous" to host the event, so Michelle hops on her blackberry and shoots off an email to her friend in the Mayor's office. "EXCUSE ME! EXCUSE ME MISS PDA!" George mumbles/shouts (mouts) at Michelle, "THAT IS RUDE! WHAT ARE YOU DOING ON YOUR BLACKBERRY WHEN I'M HERE?" ...Says the man who refuses to take off his sunglasses in a meeting. Now, if I were Michelle I'd probably fly across the table, rip off the white piping on his little suit and choke a bitch with it, but Michelle handles things with a bit more grace and ease. She eventually gets her revenge though when Kelly refuses to do the event and she's allowed to be the one to call him and break the news. MUHAHAHA. I like that Michelle. I like her moxy. She should get more face time instead of Robyn, who I want to punch in the camel toe every time I see her on screen.

Speaking of Robyn, she decides to go ahead and hire Mallory and give her the completely reasonable salary of $70K a year. ZUH?!?! 70,000 dollars a year?! AMERICAN?!?!? I wouldn't even know what to do with myself if I made that money. The possibilities are endless. I think I'd probably just buy a gilded bathtub, fill it with cocaine and sniff my way out. Just because I could. In which case I guess it's a good thing that I'm unemployed........Anysnort! Monday morning rolls around and everyone comes back into the office, cracks open Page Six and finds giant story about how old Mallory stole $97,000 worth of jewelry at her last job. OOOOF. Good call, Robs. "You know why Mallory didn't call Robyn back to accept a position at People's Revolution?" Kelly asks the camera, "BECAUSE SHE WAS IN THE CLINK!"

Kelly Cutrone...please don't ever change.

Whereas last week we got to learn a little more about the private life of Andrew M, this week we learn about Stefanie Skinner. I really like Skinner. I know Co-Blogger Chris doesn't share those sentiments, but whatever. We rarely see eye-to-eye on anything so it kind of makes sense. I loved Bee Movie. He hated it. I have a heart and a childlike sense of wonderment. He does not. I loves me some Stefanie Skinner. He's frightened by her.

I appreciate that Skinner lives in a realistic downtown New York City apartment vs. Andrew's de-luxe apartment in the sky or Kelly's entire city block. Skinner's apartment is small, on the ground floor, doesn't have a dishwasher and costs $1550/mo. PREACH. Likewise, her love life is also kind of in shambles. DOUBLE PREACH.

Skinner's been dating a young gentleman named Alano for a little over a year. Ahhh Skinner and Alano. A love story for the ages. One day Skinner was at a bar with her old boyfriend when she spied young Alano across the bar. Taken aback by his sparse little mustache and girlish figure, she wrote her number on a cocktail napkin in eyeliner and slipped it into his pocket. The next day he texted her and as they say, the rest is history. How much do I love that? It's kind of scandalous. Kind of romantic. Definitely involves a cocktail napkin. Perfect. Unfortunately, Alaro's patience for Skinner's hardcore work ethic is waring thin. Skinner loves her job and doesn't see that changing any time soon though. She's like, I can't sit here and eat scrambled eggs with you all day, dude. WAMP, WAMP. It's very Devil Wears Prada meets lastnightsparty.

Kelly decides to leave Ava in the care of her MacBook Pro for a week and head to the LA office to check in and try to find some new business for them outside of the fashion world. Namely, "My Studio," an aduio/visual high def recording studio for malls. "America loves a contest on a Saturday night in a shopping mall," Kelly says. And how!

Kelly also wants to team up with her old friend Rock Ross, owner of Delicious Vinyl, to do some events in his "beat driven/street driven/dance driven/design driven" art space, "Freak City." Uhhhh, don't give me that look, peasant. Everyone's been to freak city from MIA to Peaches. GAWD! I'm pretty much only mentioning this scene because on her way there, Kelly picks up the phone and does some light rapping/spoken word poetry. No, really. I'm not kidding. She used to be signed to Atlantic Records for it. Kelly Cutrone Def Poetry Jam. The taste we got last night? "If you're over 30 and you want to make some money/ I'm down for the deal/ like Remington Steele." Geinus. If you don't get it, you are clearly a fucking faggot.

Back in the office Andrew M and Skinner are working hard and bonding hard. He makes her a little Givenchy-inspired spiked headband and they go on an adventure to get Red Bull. He thinks she looks beautiful and would definitely date her if he weren't into dudes right now. They should probably just fuck on his Versace chair and get it over with.

DVR TEASER: I think it's true that everything happens for a reason because I am so, so glad I own this episode and can watch this week's DVR Teaser whenever I want. Because it very much features Andrew M talking about stackin' some donuts on his dick. Yep. "It's like ring toss." Andrew M: much like your mentor, you make us better as a people and a nation.

While Kelly is in LA, Robyn hires another Account Executive named Grace who came highly recommended from New York magazine. She has a lot of PR experience (read: four years) and didn't Twitter about her job interview or steal the Hope Diamond, so everyone's pretty stoked on her. I'm not her biggest fan though because she inadvertently gets my BFF Skinner in trouble in this week's Most Pointless Fight of All Time.

Ughhhh...do I even have to go into it? Sigh. The rule at People's Revolution is that nobody goes home unless they can all go home. Grace didn't know this because it was her first day. When she was done with her work, she went up to Skinner and was like, "Yo. I'm done with my work, need help?" and Skinner was like, "Nope, I got it under control," and Grace was like, "Cool, peace," and left. Then rumors starting flying around that Skinner told Grace she could go home, all hell broke lose and Kelly got super cunty with Skinner, Grace and Emily.

It wasn't really a big deal though because a day later Alano breaks up with Stefanie and Kelly is back to giving Skinner advice and letting her cry on her KA-KA-CRAZZZZYYY poncho-ed shoulder.


FIN!

Enlarged holes and thicker poles. (Happy Monday.)

I fall in love incredibly easily. Not like, for realsies love though. Because that would involve a certain level of putting myself out there emotionally to another human being that I'm not down with because it sounds really stressful and time-consuming and I'm already behind on two episodes of Real Housewives of New York and I don't have any food in my apartment and blah blah blah there are only so many hours in the day so whooooo—thanks, but no thanks. But falling in love with strangers? I'm a pro at that. Ben from Ace of Cakes? Anthony Bourdain's special effects guy? Michael Showalter? The waiter at Big Hunt with the colorful tattoos and the Kermit the Frog wristband? The bartender at Big Hunt with the ridiculously long beard? Yeah. I'm in a committed, monogamous and deliriously happy relationship with each and every one of them. And they don't even know it. Bless their hearts.

Those men aside, there exists a group of people who I can not physically interact with without falling head over heels, knock-me-over-the-head-with-a-two-by-four, stupid in love with: tattoo artists and body piercers. There. I said it. I was honest. Am I aware that it's childish and stupid? Yes. Do I feel better having admitted it? Slightly.

I don't really know what my hang up here is, but I've fallen in love with every single person to tattoo or pierce me in the history of modifying my body. (Except for the woman who pierced my ears at the Afterthoughts in Lake Forest Mall, circa 1990.) (Although let's not lie, she had a shape to her too...) I'm sure you could make some terribly pseudo-psychoanalytical point here about how you give your body to a tattoo artist and/or body piercer and they penetrate you and it's kind of like sex when you think about it so how could you not be left with some attachment to them? But I'd rather chalk it up to: you're hot and heavily tattooed + I'm into that + now you're touching me = I have a lady boner.

And the physical attractiveness of said tattoo artist/body piercer is a complete non-issue. You could look like a cross between Sloth from The Goonies and Phil Spector and I'd still bang you out six ways from Sunday and buy us monogrammed towels if you've got a needle in your hand.

The very first piercer I ever fell in love with was a young gentleman known as American Dan who had a little piercing stand in an oxygen bar on the boardwalk of Ocean City, Maryland. (Hi. I caught crabs just from typing that sentence.) As is the tradition of Beach Week, I spent the week between the last day of high school and our actual graduation ceremony at Talia's grandparent's beach house in Bethany and we'd frequently go into Ocean City to explore the night life of America's preeminent White Trash Playground.

One night, we decided we'd all head to the boardwalk and get something pierced, as is another grand post-high school, pre-college rebellious tradition. (Except I don't think what I did could technically be defined as "rebellious" as I pussed out and only got my mid-cartilage pierced and called my mom first to make sure it was OK. But, you know, the road to rebellion is paved with small, cubic-zirconia-studded steps.)

Once seated in American Dan's sketchy back office, I immediately fell in love with him. Which is odd because if I remember correctly, American Dan had a Jew-fro and a dick tattoo, but still, there I was—a young girl smitten. He was all I could think about for the remaining week. I was convinced I'd let my one shot at true love with American Dan (god...) slip between my fingers, so when my friend Ali decided to go back a few days later and get her nose pierced, I immediately shotgunned being the supportive friend who got to go with her and hold her hand. It was our last night at the beach and I walked into that oxygen bar (Jesus Christ...) dolled up and ready to make my intentions known.

I had a very concrete plan on how to do this.

Step 1: hold Ali's hand and act incredibly cool. And apparently acting incredibly cool meant lying to American Dan and telling him that I was a 20-year old Sophomore at AU. Which, to be fair, was sort of true. Kind of. If you ignore...most of the truth. American Dan asked me where I hung out in DC and I swear to god I replied, "Well, we hang out in Adams a lot, but that scene is getting kind of played out." "Yeah, I totally know what you mean," American Dan responded. I was mentally peeing my pants. I had no idea where that line came from and I was shocked it actually worked. Because I didn't know shit about DC nightlife when I was 18. On any given weekend night in high school, I was doing one of the following three activities:

1.) Sitting in a booth at the T.G.I. Friday's on Rockville Pike eating a brownie sundae with my girlfriends, shamelessly hitting on male waiters to the point of border-line sexual harassment.

2.) Awkwardly holding a can of Busch Lite and desperately wishing I knew how to talk to the opposite sex at a field party in the middle of bumble fuck nowhere Howard County, Maryland.

3.) Driving around in my friend Billy's SUV getting high, ordering a gross number of apple pies from the McDonald's late night drive-through menu and acting extremely paranoid.

Those three activities were my high school experience in a nutshell. Never did we do anything remotely interesting in the city. So kudos to me for remembering some random shit I must have heard my sister say and being able to get it out with a straight face.

Step 2: Slip a note into American Dan's tip jar when he isn't looking and wait for him to fall in love and call me. What did the note say?

HERE'S A TIP: CALL ME! 301-221-####. - MEG

I wish I were kidding. But I'm just not. And the thing is, I thought I had such fucking game with that line. I sat down with pen and paper for like a solid 30-minutes trying to phrase that perfectly and when I was done I gave myself a high-five and walked around the house thinking I was a sex goddess.

So later that night, sexy note a-burnin' a hole in my pocket, I sat there holding Ali's hand in American Dan's piercing shack waiting for the perfect moment to slip it in his jar. (That's what she said.) (She being me.) (AND HOW!) Now, American Dan's tip jar was located on the counter directly above the drawer where he kept his packets of sterile needles. I waited until American Dan had all of his instruments set up on a tray and had his back turned to clean Ali's nose. Then I seized the moment, folded my note in half and silently slipped it into his tip jar. "SLAM AND DUNK!" I thought to myself.

And then the worst thing that could have possibly happened, happened: right before he pierced Ali's nose, he dropped the needle. I saw that son-of-a-bitch fall to the floor in slow motion and my heart stopped. He couldn't use a dirty needle—he'd have to go back over to the tip jar area to get a new one. Remember the tip jar? That giant glass tip jar I had just put my pathetic little note in? The one you can see into? And the only thing in it was a folded note that wasn't there 30 seconds ago...?

My eyes were as wide as saucers. My breath caught in my throat. "OH SHIT. OH SHIT. MAYBE HE WON'T SEE IT," I thought to myself, "SHOULD I RUN? DO I RUN? I CAN'T LEAVE ALI. OH SHIT. OH GOD. OH SHIT. MAYBE HE WON'T SEE IT?!?!?!?"

American Dan stopped looking through the needle drawer and glanced up at his tip jar with a raised eyebrow. "What's that?" he asked.

"UHHHHHH. UHHHHHHHH....IT'S. NOTHING. I. THAT'S FOR. YOU? NO IT'S NOT. YES IT IS. HI." I not-so-suavely responded.

He reached into the jar, took out my note and started reading it. I thought I was going to explode from embarrassment.

He started to laugh. "Did you leave this for me?" he asked me.

"I MEAN. I GUESS. YEAH. TECHNICALLY, YES, THAT IS YOURS NOW. UNLESS YOU DON'T WANT IT. WHICH WOULD ALSO BE FINE. OR WHATEVER."

"Does this say, 'Here's a tip: call me'?"

"...................It's a clever play on words. OK. BETTER PEIRCE ALI NOW, HUH??!!"

Oh yes, and Ali. My dear, dear friend. What was she doing at this point? Laughing. Just shamelessly laughing at me and my misfortune and watching me squirm. I can't really blame her though because I would have done the exact same thing. But you better believe the second American Dan was done piercing her, I dropped that girl's hand like third period French and flew out of the room and back into the oxygen bar (Jesus...) like a bat out of hell.

To answer the obvious question, no, American Dan never called me. Not like I'd know what to do even if he had. I had just turned 18 and still felt the need to get my mom's permission before rebelling—I think a sexual rendezvous on the beach with someone with flames tattooed on their dick was kind of ambitious. But it did spark a burning love for tattoo artists/body piercers that is still very much alive today.

A few weeks ago, I decided to go to Jinx Proof with Alex to get my nose re-pierced. I originally got it pierced there when I was a Junior in college and I liked having it. It was small and understated. Jazzy and elegant. But then I moved to New York where I had so many emotions and felt the need to express those emotions by driving a huge gold barbell through my right eyebrow as a statement. When I moved back to DC, I took both piercings out as an act of "IT'S A BRAND NEW CHAPTER OF MY LIFE! NEW DAY! NEW YOU! STARING AT THE BLANK PAGE BEFORE YOU, LOOKING OUT THE DIRTY WINDOW..." etc etc, but I always kind of missed my little nose piercing. And now with not having a job or an office dress code anymore, I figured fuck it! Why not get that puppy back, right?

The second I saw the body piercer at Jinx Proof, I fell in love. He was dreamy and covered in classic American tattoos and-a-tee-hee-hee-hee we talked about the weather and he touched my face and I came in my pants and blah blah blah. I tried to be as sexy as I could, which was incredibly difficult with his finger up my nose and my left eye tearing up uncontrollably in pain. I over-tipped him, ran home to Internet stalk him and I found out via Myspace that he's married to an obviously smokin' hot woman. I then cried, ate an entire cheesecake, danced to Whitney's I'm Every Woman and moved on with my life. It was pretty par for the course for the experience that is me going to get something pierced or tattooed.

But then I starting having some problems. You see, because I got my nose re-pierced in the same exact same location as before, the hole has stretched out a bit and my little gold stud keeps slipping through and I almost lose it every time I wash my face or blow my nose or use a shower with adequate water pressure or apply positive pressure to my cheek in the very least. It's starting to get annoying.

I realize the answer is to simply go back to the shop and ask for a different nose ring, but given how dreamy I find this man and how in love I am, I just can't physically bring myself to walk up to him and say, "Excuse me sir, my hole is stretched out and I think I need a thicker stud to fill it."

I just...can't. It's mortifying to think about. I keep trying to think of a different way to phrase it, but when I think about him and then the word "hole" or the phrase "slipping through" at all, I start giggling uncontrollably like a school girl. Unfortunately both are kind of key in explaining the situation. Sigh.

God damnit. God damn my complete and utter inability to NOT fall in love with tattoo artists/body piercers and god damn how absurdly hard I fall, AND MOST OF ALL—god damn my giant, stretched out, been around the block a few too many times, gaping hole. In my nose.

Thank you.

Better late than never, right?

I would like to grossly apologize for how late I'm posting this afternoon. It's all my fault. I shoulder the blame 100%. I had a wee bit of an accident last night that left me incapacitated until about, oh, T-minus 30 minutes ago? Perhaps if I tell you what happened you'll be slightly more understanding. Although given what happened, I probably still wouldn't be...

Last night I went out to dinner with Alex and my parents and I wasn't feeling "great," per se, but I forged ahead and had a lovely time anyway. As my parents drove me back to my apartment, I started to get a splitting headache and felt like I was going to puke all over god's green earth at any given moment. Welcome to Migrainetown, USA. Population: me. Ocne back in my apartment, I did what I always do when I get a migraine—I chugged some Pepto and took 6 Extra Strength Tylenol. I generally take Tylenol on a sliding scale: 2 for minor pain, 4 for pain-pain and 5-6 if I feel like I'm going to die. What's a "dosage" anyway if not just a friendly recommendation, am I right?!

Confident I'd be feeling better soon, I turned on Project Runway and started cleaning up my apartment a bit while I wrote what was to be today's blog post in my head. Suddenly I got rull sleepy. "Hmm," I thought to myself, "I am getting rull sleepy. This is odd because it's only 10:30 and I normally don't get tired until the wee hours of the morning. This is very uncharacteristic of me. OH SWELLS! I'll just lie down on this comfy bed here for a hot second and rest a bit."

Except I didn't lie down. I Chris Farley-style face planted on my bed. (Side note: I couldn't find a youtube clip of Chris Farley face planting on a coffee table—which is completely ridiculous—but I did find this video:

How much does that portly young gentleman hate his life? You just know that when all the high-fives are exchanged and the Natty Lite is gone, he goes home to his dorm room alone and cries and cries, and cries and cries and cries because he just wishes people would think he's cool without having to hurt himself or emulate a man who died in a pool of chicken wings, coke, prostitutes and self-loathing. Poor kid...Blokay, carry on!)

As I lay there face down on my bed, drooling every so slightly on my duvet cover, it struck me that I felt sort of odd. I felt sleepy, yes, but more than that, I kind of felt like someone had lit my veins on fire and miniature devils were dancing around on the ashes with their pitchforks of regret. It was a familiar feeling. But when had I felt like this before?....Wait a minute, this is exactly how I feel when I take NyQuil and/or DayQuil, which is why one of my life motto's is, "I don't fuck with Quils." But I had taken Pepto and Tylenol, a classic combination none too strange for a person like myself who's forever sick. Why, oh why, was I so Quilled-out to the gilled-out?

And then it hit me: I didn't take 6 Extra Strength Tylenol. I took 6 Tylenol PM. Two little letters that make all the difference in the world.

*BLACK & WHITE CSI-STYLE FLASHBACK!* You see, to avoid this very confusion, I always keep my Tylenol PM in the table in the hall and keep the Extra Strength Tylenol in the medicine cabinet in the bathroom. However, just weeks earlier, I opened the medicine cabinet in the bathroom only to discover I was out of Extra Strength Tylenol. Frustrated and desperate to get rid of a headache, I got the Tylenol PM out of the table in the hall, went into the kitchen, poured myself a glass of water and took the pills, leaving the bottle on the counter when I was done. Later that night as I tidied up my apartment, as I always do between the hours of 11 and midnight as I am a highly neurotic person who can't sleep if things are out of place, I picked up the bottle of Tylenol in the kitchen and out of habit returned it to the medicine cabinet instead of the hall table where it belonged. Last night, distracted by the pain of the alleged migraine, I went into the medicine cabinet, blindly grabbed the Tylenol bottle, poured myself a handful and took the pills with a swig of water. What I didn't know is that due to my own absentmindedness and penchant for a place for everything and everything in it's place, I had just taken a handful of Tylenol PM—pain reliever and potent sleep aid. *END OF BLACK & WHITE CSI-STYLE FLASHBACK!*

"God damnit," I thought to myself as I lay there face down, fully aware I was about to pass out in about three minutes. I knew it was going to take way more than 6 Tylenol PM to kill me, but I was slightly concerned about peeing my pants. Not gonna lie. I briefly debated calling my mom to let her know what had happened and ask if she'd call me in the morning to make sure I wasn't dead, but sadly, as you know if you follow me on Twitter, this wasn't the first time I'd done this.

A few days after I got fired, my sister was supposed to swing by the apartment to pick something up on her lunch break. Wanting to prove to her that I could be unemployed yet not a total waste of space, I went to embarrassingly elaborate lengths to make myself look like a productive member of society. I got into gym clothes, threw my hair up in a pony tail and set a sensible lunch (turkey sandwich and a side salad) on the coffee table, conveniently located next to my copy of The Washington Business Journal, of which I was on the front page. As Becca's lunch hour neared, I put on my reading glasses, casually sat down on the couch and sipped some Pellegrino as I thoughtfully read business emails, ready for her to come in and discover me in all of my productive glory.

Unfortunately for me, I mistakenly took 2 Tylenol PMs between making my sensible lunch and arranging WBJ on the table at the perfect angle and suddenly felt overwhelmingly tired. "God damnit!" I thought to myself, "I put the Tylenol PM back in the wrong place." I sat up and looked around for something to keep me entertained. Because I would NOT let myself fall asleep. I kind of picture my sister like a more attractive version of myself who actually has her shit together and the last thing I wanted was her to think that I'm using my unemployment as time to catnap on the couch with a half-eaten turkey sandwich dangling out of my mouth. It's far too predictable. So I called my mom, told her I had accidentally taken Tylenol PM and was getting sleepy.

"So? Just take a nap," she said.

"NO! I CAN'T. YOU ARE A BAD, BAD INFLUENCE, MADAM," I slurred. She then suggested I take a shower and let me tell you fine people something—taking a shower while trying to resist the urge to fall asleep on Tylenol PM is almost as fun as getting drunk and brushing your teeth. Almost.

The real bitch of it is that Becca didn't even show up that day because she was too busy at work. So not only did I waste a perfectly good sandwich and side salad, I also wasted what could have been the best nap of my life. (I did, however, set the scene up again the next day which, thankfully, she saw. She even marveled at how I had food in my fridge! WIN!)

The point of this story being, I really didn't want to call my mom again all, "O00o0OOopsies! I took-a-the sleepy-sleepy pills again! Bout to go nightieroodle! Call me tomorrow to make sure I'm not deadsies! LOVES YOUUUuu!!!!1" Plus I couldn't really lift my head to find my phone...so that didn't help. Finally, I gave in and passed out.

As I drifted off to sleep, not only was I slightly nervous I was going to pee my pants, I was also nervous that my building's maintenance guy was going to come into my apartment first thing this morning to fix my shower. You see, sometimes I wear lingerie around my apartment just for funsies. I don't really know what to tell you about that. I have it. It rarely sees the light of day. Why not wear it while Swiffering and watching Project Runway, right? DON'T JUDGE ME! Anyway, I happened to be wearing a mildly racy, see-through black nightie when I crashed face first onto my bed last night, thereby leaving my bare ass hanging out to the world. Now, I live in a studio apartment. You walk in to fix something and you walk into my bedroom. Good morning to you. As my eyelids got heavier and heavier a little voice shouted in my head, "NO! YOUR ASS! YOUR BARE ASS IS IN DIRECT VIEW OF THE DOOR! FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, MUSTER ALL OF YOUR STRENGTH AND PULL THAT SLUTTY LITTLE NUMBER DOWN, YOU LONELY, LONELY WOMAN!" My fingers twitched slightly but it was too late. I was out like a light.

When I woke up this morning (and by this morning I mean 2pm) I was groggy, black eye makeup was smeared all over my pillow and at some point in the night I had flipped over onto my back, exposing an entirely different view to the maintenance guy. I stumbled into the bathroom to see that my tub was still clogged (thank you Jesus) and I looked into the mirror and shook my head slowly at the hot roofie mess staring back. I knew what I had to do. I went into the kitchen, grabbed a sharpie and gave into the fact that I am a small child who should not be left alone.


So, that's what happened to me last night. I apologize again for the delay in posting. Hopefully next time I reach for the Tylenol I won't take my "sleepy pills" by accident and all will be right with the world. And speaking of all being right with the world, it's T.G.I. HAGMAN!

As of 4:24 on March 19, 2010, Larry Hagman is.........alive! AND HOO-ZAH! That's what I call a good way to start the weekend!

As per always, thank you so much for reading and spreading the 2b1b word. We love you more than JR Ewing and chemically induced sleep combined. Have a great weekend and see you right back here Monday morning. Bye!

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!

A change would do you good

Can I just share with you something? I am 176% averse to change. So needless to say I've been freaking out for the past couple of days as my move date looms ever closer. It's like my body is having a physical reaction to the upcoming change. I haven't slept longer than three hours in days. I spent last night tossing and turning for a solid 5 hours before putting myself to sleep by Wikipedia-ing JoJo of "Leave (Get Out)" fame. And I wish that was a lie. But sadly it's not. Prior to last night, I had been putting Baby Mama on in the background and setting my TV up in sleep mode. While it helped lull me to sleep (the banter of Tina Fey and Amy Poehler is so soothing...I really hope they are friends in real life), I could recite that movie word for word at this point, which gets embarrassing when I do because not very many people have seen it.

Not only have I not been able to sleep, but I've been breaking out like a 13 year old. It is the opposite of ok. This happens to me every time I've got a big event coming up in my life. I can guarantee you with near certainty that I'm going to roll up to my first day of work at my new job (!!!) with a pimple the size of Madagascar on my face. People will be undecided as to whether to address me or my pimple. I figured that once I grew up, I'd stop breaking out. But noooo, I'm doomed to be Vanessa Williams, in a lifelong ad for Proactiv. Was I surprised when I woke up this morning, glanced in the mirror and saw Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer staring back at me? No, of course not. It's all to be expected.

So as far as the change is concerned, it's really all downhill at this point. All I have to worry about is catching my train on the 27th. Pretty standard fare, but you and I both know that I'm going to be sick to my stomach until then. Because my subconscious makes unhealthy choices for the rest of my body. Everything else I've got to do is done. The entirety of my apartment is en route to DC as we speak/type, which makes for a very echo-y apartment (also not conducive to me sleeping). I've already got a job, an apartment, and friends in the city. I need to just suck it up and stop worrying.

But with me, when something is about to change, I just want it to change already. Like ripping off a bandaid. No, better yet, ripping off the gauze over a tattoo. (Get it?!) I've been like this for as long as I can remember. Every time I've moved, those intervening weeks between apartments was the worst. When I was graduating college...well, I self-medicated with Busch Light, so I probably had much less anxiety. My first day of school, I was a nervous little 5 yr old. Did I pee my pants? I wouldn't put it past my 5-yr-old self. I wouldn't even put it past my 25-yr-old self.

Why does change freak me out so much? In every instance of change, it's been a good thing. When I got this job, it ended up working out like gangbusters, to the point that I'm almost sad I'm leaving. Almost. When I moved the last time into my own apartment, wasn't that amazing because then I could literally come home from work, take my pants off, and not have to worry about when my roommate was going to walk in? When Rachel Leigh Cook changed from dumpy Laney Boggs to hot Laney Boggs, didn't she finally land her dream guy AND figure out who she was in the meantime? Also, did that movie give us the best/most realistic prom dance sequence ever or what?

It's not like I can do anything to stop all this (though I did make several jokes as we're moving all my stuff to the BF re: breaking up. They did not go over well). Change is pretty much inevitable. If it weren't my life would be heinous. God, imagine what hell my life would have been if I'd never changed from the awkward, fat, insecure middle schooler who wore hoodless sweatshirts from Eddie Bauer to school. If you can't imagine, I can tell you: it would be horrible. Braces, a bowl cut, chubby cheeks; I was like a post-op Ugly Betty. Instead of handling rejection like a champ, I'd probably go home and cry into a bowl of Jell-O Instant pudding. (I just go home and cry into a salad bowl now. Much healthier.). What was I talking about? Oh yea, change is going to happen. It's probably best to get used to it. Which is like saying get used to root canals. Or get used to filing tax returns.

Besides, isn't everything pretty much cyclical anyway? Didn't bell bottoms make a come back (whether you called them flares or not, they were still bell bottoms)? Is 1950's Mad Men styled hair coming back? I don't know, take a look at my head and you tell me. Did music suddenly take a very 1980's/1990's synthpop turn all of a sudden? The answer to all of these question is yes. So eventually, I can expect to be that scared little kid peeing in my pants at the thought of something new all over again. Except I will be armed with Depends for the Elderly at that juncture. And will have lost control of not just my urinary tract, but also the thoughts in my head, the ability to drive a car without leaving my blinker on, and my bedtime. Who wouldn't be looking forward to that?!