In other news…

Here’s something to make you feel real good about your own lives:

Stay golden, Ponyboy.

I don’t know what’s better about my outfit today — the fact that I am wearing a cardigan from Forever 21 with 14+ holes in it or that I am wearing a tube top as a skirt. I think it might be the former because people can actually tell that I look like a homeless person and every time I try to put my hair in a ponytail people around me stare at me like I’m on food stamps because I have 12 gaping tears in my armpits. No biggie. I’m kind of a hipster like that. Except that I’m so not. And my way of handling the fact that I wear ripped clothes and tube tops as skirts is by adding some pearl earrings and a headband. Everyone looks put together with pearl earrings and a headband. I’m not even kidding you people legitimately compliment me on my outfit on days where I’m pretty sure I had 13 minutes to get out of the door, am wearing my underwear backwards, and have runs in my stockings.

Let’s take today for example. Currently I am wearing a gold pleated flowy tube top that I decided to use as a slip to a dress Project-Runway-style because I’m stylish like that. And by stylish I just mean had no clean clothes, and by Project-Runway-style I mean I look like I rolled out of a dollar bin at Walmart. On top of said “slip” I am wearing a black A-line dress from Victoria’s Secret that I got on sale for I think approximately $9. On top of that I am wearing my holey old man black cardigan with a black belt that I’m pretty sure came off of a trenchcoat I owned 4 years ago. Top that off with black stockings that have a hole in the toe, and peeptoes where one can see said hole that then reveals my big fat toe that is now coated in “Jade is the New Black” green nailpolish by OPI, and you’ve got yourself a big. hot. mess.

The best part of all? People will often ask me why I dress so “fancy” for work. Fancy? I can’t even. Sir, this is what is the result of oversleeping, rummaging through a laundry basket, and falling asleep on the toilet at 9:14am. This is not a fashion statement. And if by some miracle you think this is what I look like when I “put myself together”, then I’m embarrassed not only for myself, but for humanity as a whole. Because, trust me, I do not look good.

That said, I have started this new thing where I shower the second I get home from work.  I don’t know, but I just felt adding greasy hair on top of the offensive outfits may just be borderline hateful. The last thing I need is to be pulled aside by the office psychologist to tell me my team is “concerned” about my “well-being”. I get enough of that from my parents. So if I can bring anything to the table, it’s gonna be clean hair.

To add more fuel to the fire, I also don’t own a hairbrush. You may think this is a joke. Or an exaggeration. It isn’t. I own zero hair utensils of any kind. I am the most low maintenance hair person you’ve ever met. Except, I will toot my own horn here because I so rarely do, I have sweet hair. It’s just magical. What hair do you know of that doesn’t get brushed or use products of any kind that still winds up flowy, perfectly waved and non-frizzed all the livelong day? YOU DON’T. It’s the one thing God gave me. The one thing. So essentially, my hair procedure goes a little something like this: Shower. Throw hair in towel. Wait 4 hours. Eat dinner. Play video games. Drink wine. Remove towel. Run hands through hair. Blow dry for 4.2 minutes. Go to bed. Wake up. Flat iron for 3.1 minutes. Leave house.

It’s that simple. And the end result? See below:

That’s right. That’s me. OMG OMG THE BIG REVEAL. Yup, that’s my actual face. And my hair. Except not my face. Except maybe it is. Maybe that’s actually what I look like. Would you still read this blog? Why do you think I am a recluse? Why do you think I hide behind this firewall of despair? It’s because I was born with a huge fucking yellow smiley across my face. Wouldnt’ you be the same way? You’re all so fucking insensitive. (PS – Jeff, try hard not to take this picture and retrofit it into every image available on google.com. It won’t work. Just end it now.)

But for reals. That hair has not seen a hairbrush in probably 5 years. I’m not even trying to brag here. It’s more just a marvel. I mean, I do shit that defies logic on a daily basis, but this — this actually works in my favor. I mean, I know girls that spend hours and hours on their manes only to come out looking like a 90s prom queen or Kelly Kapowski circa 1992. Sooo.. just let me have this ok. Just let me.

Tomorrow is a snow day regardless of whether it snows or not. I’m just not coming to work. Sooo, maybe I’ll grace you with another update. But don’t get too greedy. This has been two days in a row and I am not in the market of giving you guys hope. So just wait it out. We’ll see what happens. Maybe I will, maybe I won’t. Play it by ear. Live free. C’est la vie. Carpe diem. BYE.

Update. I actually realized my hair sorta looks drunk in that picture. So don’t judge me. Tomorrow I’ll post a better one. I’m just too lazy right now. And I’m scared of all of your judgment. Because I’m insecure like that.

UpDaTe~~*

UPDATE: I am now adding TAGZ to my posts! I know, stop hyperventilating — we’ll get through this. So anywho, be on the look out for irrelevant/self-deprecating tags alongside each future stream of consciousness. If it’s not the highlight of your day every. day. then you have irritatingly high standards and I’m not okay with it.

Happy Black History Month to someone I hope isn’t offended by the term “black”.

Hey uglies. Soooo. The super bowl happened. That was fun. I really lived it up in between my zone outs from my Xanax and bites of my tuna wrap. I really felt alive.

Aka that was the most boring game of my life. Not only did I not know who was in the Super Bowl until Saturday at approximately 4pm, I also really didn’t feel like leaving my apartment in the 25 degree weather to do anything remotely social. HENCEFORTH, I laid in bed. As I usually do. All night.

The one thing I was banking on this Super Bowl was for the Colts score to end in a 9 and the Saints score to end in a 7. I don’t do math as a rule so I sorta just checked back at the end of every quarter to see just how far away my dream of winning $300 became. And in the end, the chick who won it is this ghetto admin who deserves it like the rest of us deserve a swift punch in the abdomen. I was going to suggest in a polite email that she consider using it for birth control but figured that may or may not be “against HR policy” and wanted to avoid getting fired before I even got to work today. So instead she will likely spend it on: new lyrca hotpants, a new weave, black high tops, hoop earrings with her name in the middle, and/or acrylics. Money well spent, money well spent. Then again, who am I to judge? Replace new weave with 10 minute shoulder massages and acrylics with kegs and we’re pretty much the same person.

Anyway, the commercials were really disappointing. Is it just me or did the eTrade baby take a healthy dose of UGLY before it aired those bad boys last night? I mean, most babies are cute. Almost all babies are likable in some way. But this baby seriously looked like an Icelandic Nazi SS soldier in his toddler youth blended with Draco Malfoy’s infant son. Not a fan. I’d pretty much recommend any other baby. OR, to be totally philanthrophic, why not take a baby from Haiti and give them the best life they could ever possibly attain by receiving eTrade royalties until they’re 45? COME ON. If that’s not giving back, I don’t know what the fuck is.

The only commercial I did like was this one:

Because bitch please. When is a black baby slapping people around not hilarious? A white baby couldn’t get away with that shit. Blacks should feel luckier than they do, I’m serious. Only they can get away with slapping bitches and getting away with it. Let’s see what would happen if a white guy created a music video where he was hitting girls’ asses and pimpin’ hoes in different area codes. He’d likely get arrested and then be put on a nationwide alert list so he could never work again and would have to spend the rest of his life working as a toll booth collector in Newark (hey Grandpa!) So, just bathe in that shit, black America. It’s your month. Your babies are bad ass and you guys love Doritos. End of story.

That’s all the commentary I really have on this subject. Again, I only saw half of the commercials and I didn’t pay attention to the ones that weren’t about Doritos, babies, or beer, so I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I did however just open up a scab on my leg and stopped the bleeding with an old sock. So, there’s that.

The columns date all the way back to 1972.

Hey kids! Sorry for the hiatus, but don’t worry, I haven’t been doing anything interesting or productive in the interim. Instead, I’ve been doing the exact opposite and finding new ways to make myself completely useless (for example, downloading 3 tracks from 5ive’s 1998 self-titled hit album). Having said that, below are some ramblings that I hope you enjoy and distract you from the Super Bowl That No One Cares About (yep, I coined that. It’s trademarked. Don’t even tell me it isn’t.)

I’ve decided in the past week that I have two new diseases: fibromyalgia and ADD. First and foremast, what the fuck is fibromyalgia? I read the symptoms online and here they are:

• Chronic muscle pain, muscle spasms or tightness, weakness in the limbs, and leg cramps
• Moderate or severe fatigue and decreased energy
• Insomnia or waking up feeling just as tired as when you went to sleep
• Stiffness upon waking or after staying in one position for too long
• Difficulty remembering, concentrating, and performing simple mental tasks
• Abdominal pain, bloating, nausea, and constipation alternating with diarrhea (irritable bowel syndrome)
• Tension or migraine headaches
• Jaw and facial tenderness
• Sensitivity to one or more of the following: odors, noise, bright lights, medications, certain foods, and cold
• Feeling anxious or depressed
• Numbness or tingling in the face, arms, hands, legs, or feet
• Increase in urinary urgency or frequency (irritable bladder)
• Reduced tolerance for exercise and muscle pain after exercise
• A feeling of swelling (without actual swelling) in the hands and feet
• Painful menstrual periods
• Dizziness

So. I’m a little concerned. Mainly because I have had every single of these at one point or another in the past year, and I’m pretty sure you all have too. So by transitive property, fibromyalgia is just a fancy term for YOUR PERIOD. I mean, besides the IBS, which one of these symptoms have you not had this year so far during your last period? I’m pretty sure I wake up everyday wanting to kill myself, with a headache (72% of the time that headache can be attributed to a hangover, but you’re not my mom), with muscle stiffness and fatigue. And, I mean, in general, I often wake up feeling like one of my limbs has been torn off due to sleeping on my own leg or throwing myself onto the floor in the middle of the night, so I’m just really disturbed that all of these symptoms can combine into one big disease that has a fancy name and commercials about it. And it’s all like, Oh, women have it more than men. OBVIOUSLY. And fibromyalgia isn’t just a euphemism for “menstruation” — it’s also a euphemism for “I hate my job” “My boyfriend just broke up with me” and/or “Jersey Shore is a repeat tonight”.

So come on girls. MAN UP. Or actually. Let’s not. Let’s just get whatever medication these docs are pushing on us for fibromyalgia! I love free meds! (I’m so going to hell.) I mean, look. I know that someone reading is going to have had their mom/dad/brother/neighbor/dog affected by this thing, so I apologize in advance for being the heartless, manipulative, really fucking tired person that I am… but I just really really like free pharmaceuticals, and you should too.

In addition to fibromyalgia otherwise known as my period, I also most definitely have ADD. We may have talked about this before – who the fuck knows (that’s another symptom) – but I just wanted to reiterate that I have it. Why do you think I can only sit down once a week to write these poorly written excuses for blog entries? Why do you think I can no longer DVR 1-hour long television shows? I JUST. CAN’T. FOCUS. I can’t! I CAN’TTTTTTTTTTTTTT. I don’t know what the fuck to do! I have 16 browser windows open at one time. I consider 600 different dinner options before I pick one. I DVR 254 different TV shows and only bring myself to sit down for long enough to watch 3 of them. I can’t finish reading a magazine over 25 pages, let alone a book of any kind. I’m just… I’m just in a really bad place. I need solace. I need someone to put me in a fucking box and force me to sit there and finish 200 Sudoku puzzles and then listen to the entire Spice Girls Greatest Hits album on repeat 52 times in order to cure me of this fucking thing. Something’s gotta give, people. Your cures are welcomed. If they include vodka, it would be especially appreciated.

In other irrelevant news, I spent today in complete darkness rotating between the following: watching Bev Hills 90210, taking naps, playing Alanis Morisette “Uninvited” on repeat, and pretending to be asleep when my super came in to fix my toilet to avoid human interaction. The Wednesday Addams thing is starting to look grimly accurate.

Good luck tomorrow to two teams  I couldn’t give 2 shits about. (Though if your scores could end in 7 and 9 at the end of each quarter so I can win $300, I’d really appreciate it.)

Insert funny saying about doppelgangers here.

Sooo… doppelgängers (you love that fucking umlaut!).

I have to tell you the truth: I didn’t know what the word doppelgänger meant until approximately 3 months ago. I’m not proud of that, but I think the fact that I heard it on Jeopardy and then looked it up in my pocket size dictionary redeems this fact. Having said that, if this past week has taught me anything, it’s that people have severely warped ideas about their appearances.

I get the idea behind Facebook Doppelgänger Week. It’s a way for guys and gals to put up pics of celebrities that may have one or two similar features but in no way actually look like them because they are either 20 lbs lighter or 80 times hotter, in order to make their exes look at their profile and be all, “OMG Tara really does look like Tiffani Amber Theissen!!!! WHY DID I BREAK UP WITH HER?!??!?!?!~~!”

But what this idea has actually done is created ideal fodder for this blog. Below are a few examples of people who clearly need their eyes checked and/or are on crack cocaine if they think these celebrities resemble them in any way shape or form. If any of you are the people below, I’m not sorry. You need to be taught how this shit rolls. If you NEED to put up a doppelgänger, you put up someone like Cameron Manheim or Tori Spelling. You put up someone you’re HOTTER than as a way for all of your friends to be like, “HAHAHA OMGAHHH that Facebook friend of mine is SO FUNNY and laid back and doesn’t care about upping her own status by putting up an attractive doppelgänger!! She must get sooo much ass!” (That’s exactly the inner monologue, so don’t even try to edit that shit.)

doppelgänger 1

Actual Photo

Ummmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm. We need to talk.

doppelgänger 2

Actual Photo 2

Wrong again, sparky! (Jesus these people have high impressions of themselves. It’s almost scary.)

Ok guys. Rule #1: You’re not hotter than a celebrity. So just deal with that, let’s cry about it, grab some tissues, eat a donut, move on. Rule #2: Nobody cares who you look like. #3 I’m really mainly bitter that I don’t have a doppelgänger. Ever. I’ve asked pretty much everyone on my gchat for one goddamn doppelganger and all I got was “Jennifer Aniston… sometimes.” Jennifer Aniston? Really? Good thing I have dark brown hair and olive skin. Sooo that kinda kicks that theory to shit because apparently NOBODY KNOWS ME. I’ve also gotten “Kim Kardashian… but not really” and “Lacey Chabert… but not really”. So, I “not really” look like a lot of hot people. Thanks guys. I appreciate the sentiment. You’re too kind. But in the meantime, while I don’t look like anybody hot ever, take your unrealistic celebrity photographs off your Facebook profiles before I blow up your spot to the empty silence of the internet. Because I’m not above that. I’m not above anything. Because I don’t have a doppelganger. So I pretty much lose in every area of life. And if I’m gonna sink to the lowest depths of depravity, I’m taking you all down with me.

UPDATE: I have recently succumbed to the pressures of Facebook and updated my profile picture to the following:

Despite the fact that I found it via google, I hope all of my coworkers notice that it was obtained through a site called “Suicide Kitten” and then rethink their decision to allow me to own scissors.

I don’t understand Tyler Perry.

(OMG how much do you love my new header graphic? I spent t minus 7 hours on it so you fucking better. I also like it because it looks like a ransom note and serves as an icy reminder of how insane I am and that at any moment I might kidnap you and/or your entire family. I like people feeling threatened into reading this site. Just an FYI.)

I’m taking a personal day tomorrow. Normally people take personal days by calling in sick but I decided to be a legitimate human being and take a real day in order to make people think I actually have a personal life. (I don’t.) Nope. Instead, I’m taking this day to run some very necessary errands during normal business hours. And by necessary, I mean things I could easily do by taking a long lunch hour but am so incapable of living in the real world that I need an entire 24 hours to gather myself into composure and make moves.

I’m not even joking. I am taking tomorrow off to do the following:

-Go to the bank and threaten them into lowering my absurd interest rate.

-Go to my leasing office and threaten them into taking off the $250 overage they decided to post on my rent invoice.

-Go to the post office.

Yup. That’s what I need to do tomorrow. And I needed an entire day to do it. NO. BIG. DEAL. I also need to do laundry and buy some more soap, so that will take some time. Ugh. I’m so pathetic. Why can’t I handle life like normal people. Why can’t I be one of those people that’s all, “Hey! I have a few errands to run! I’m gonna take public transportation and make 3 very logistically sound stops along the way to get all of my pressing matters taken care of in a timely manner! Then I’m going to read a book! And make some tea! And knit a sweater!” Uh, where do these people even come from? Doing 3 errands takes me a full 9 hours. Here is how tomorrow will play out:

Set alarm for 10am. Wake up at 1pm. Roll around. Stare at blackberry. Check Facebook. Roll off bed. Stare in mirror. Wince. Brush teeth. Pee. Fall asleep on toilet. Wake up. Watch episode of Beverly Hills 90210 where Val has sex with someone and Kelly does something stupid. Ignore work emails. Consider going to the bank. Reconsider. Roll around. Put on sweats. Eat a sandwich. Food coma. 3pm. Treck to bank. Cause a scene. Interest gets raised for being a public disturbance. Cry. Cab it to the leasing office. Cause another scene. Get bitch slapped. Write check for $250. Cry. Cab it to post office. Wait in line behind drooling man and woman with a beard. Ship shit. Lose delivery confirmation. Get yelled at by ebayers. 6pm. Another sandwich. Nap. 8pm. Roll around. Check Facebook. Ignore more work emails. Watch Jeopardy. Drink bottle of wine. Take valium. Smile.

The end! I can’t waaaaaaaaaaaait.

PS – Moral dilemma. Do I sell my Muse tickets that I bought at $50 a piece online where they’re going for $275 a piece? I so tots love Muse. I so tots wanna go. But I also love money. A lot. Thoughts? Takers? I love you?

Those KGB commercials sort of make me want to kill myself.

So, I’m starting to get amped for summer. Too soon? Suck it. I’m beside myself with glee imagining myself passed out on a beach with a floppy hat over my face and a sandy can of Bud Light fastened to my right hand.

Having said this, I think I need to find a “look” for myself this summer. I have a lot of “looks”. It’s mainly because I don’t know myself and need to do a lot of internal exploration everyday in order to figure out what I’m going to wear to work, but since I base my entire self-worth on how cute my outfits are, it’s important that I put together a plan of action for my summer wardrobe. Here are the elements I am currently exploring:

Denim cut offs

Old man holey t-shirts

Straw hats in various colors and sizes

kanye sunglasses

gladiator sandals

dark lipliner and no lipstick

blingage

Don’t ask me why this list went from white trash farmer to ghetto rap star, but that’s just how I roll. And imagine all of these stylish trends rolled together in one daunting summer ensemble! Ugh, it’s too much to handle. So I’m kinda rollin’ with this idea of being as unstylish as possible in order to be stylish in that “ohhh my god I so don’t care about y’allz, I’m sooo chill and hip dancing on this table rolling around on this mad cool beaach, [insert emo lyric/quote from Jersey  Shore here].” So I’ll keep you apprised of that situation. Also, don’t think I didn’t notice that the chick in the 2nd picture is wearing a neon pirate earring. Don’t also think that this too hasn’t gotten a mental ‘check’ in the definitely “DO” column of my summer “Do’s and Don’ts” list.

And now my current top 5 of “Stuff that Grinds My Gears”

-People in the elevator who are going to the top floor and stand by the fucking doors without moving when the elevator opens at a floor below theirs. Um, HELLO? There are OTHER PEOPLE in the elevator for a reason. We’re getting out. So move your polyester-clad ass away from the fucking doors if you know you’re going to the top. I love how they also act like they’re doing a HUUUGE favor by moving for you. SHUCKS THANK YOU. No, I’m not even overreacting. I tolerate a lot of shit in elevators, but selfish people in polyester is not one of them. I’m just… I’m just angry ok.

-When cab drivers tell me they don’t take credit cards… halfway through my ride.

-When I convince myself all day that I left my hair iron on and have a moral debate every hour on the hour of whether I should go home and check or whether I’d rather let my apartment burn to the ground than make the actual physical effort required to physically get in a cab and go home to make sure.

-Abused animal commercials. COME ON. I’m watching Chelsea Lately for shit’s sake and then up comes Sarah MacLachlan trying to make me kill myself with images of eyeless puppies and 3-legged cats. Do you really need to do this? A simple public service announcement is cool. It won’t change my understanding of the situation. But instead now you’ve bummed me out for the next hour and I can’t even enjoy the tasteless racism of my regularly scheduled programming. Those damn animals. Selfish as usual.

-The fact that nobody will give me mono. I’m just getting a little annoyed about this. I’ve put up ads, flyers, Facebook statuses. Nothing. I really am looking for a way to get out of work slash become anorexic in like 4 weeks and I think this would be my best bet. Who fucking knew it takes superhuman effort in order to obtain a simple contagious virus? If anyone wants to send me a letter and seal it with their mono-infested saliva, I’m down. I just really need to get a head start on this. I’m not getting any younger and my job is not getting any more enjoyable.

Just think about it. I’m out.

I don’t really give two shits about Conan O’Brien.

So. A lot of the times I talk about being drunk on this blog. This time I actually am. Soemtimes I say it because I’m all like OHHHHHHHHHH my gah I am so cool I drink sooooooo much this blog is sooooooo totally hilarious. But this time… I’m physically intoxicated. So I apologize in advance for all spelling/grammatical/life errors.

I spent tonight stumbling around Midtown West, finally bopping on into a Trivia Tuesday at Joshua Tree with my eyes set on the prize. If you don’t know already that I have no shame, you’ll know it for a fact when you see me play trivia games of any kind. Since I refuse to lose anything but my digital camera/dignity on a Tuesday night, you can bet your ass I’m going to do every single kind of underhanded move possible to emerge victorious from my weekday trivia. So there I am, “slyly” googling answers on my blackberry under the table while the chick with the beat up face from the table on the left gives me the death stare, and I’m all, “OMG I SO TOTZ KNOW THE ANSWER” and she’s all, “You dumb fucking liar” and I’m all, “YOU NEED PLASTIC SURGERY LOLZ” and she’s all, “WHO CHEATS AT TRIVIA” and I’m all “WHO GAVE YOU PERMISSION TO BREATHE” and she’s all, “DIE” and I’m all “NO, YOU” and then I wake up because none of that actually happened except in my mind where I imagined it and simultaneously made corresponding facial expressions at her while this mental conversation transpired. The worst part of all? We still came in third to last place.  And to be honest, cheating in trivia is a lot harder than just getting the answers wrong. It involves moves. Maneuvers, if you will. (The fact that I spelled that right in this state of mind deserves me a fucking Nobel prize.) But all in all, as all of my life endeavours wind up, it was worthless. The Emily Valentine Float Committee (don’t act like that’s not the best trivia team name ever) lost as usual. God never lets me win.

Anyway. Sorry about all of this. But a new topic is upon us. Money. I have none of it. I need to get some. Because clearly I’m not above debasing myself for financial gain, I’ve considered everything from prostitution to surrogacy. But I have some boundaries, and getting pregnant for your 60-year-old mom is one of them. BUT.  Then I remembered from 7th grade health saw a sign in the subway that told me I could get $8,000 for donating my eggs! WHAT! That is amazing! That’s the easiest $8,000 I could ever make sans that trip to Guantanamo Bay freshman year of college to do some “psychology experiments” but who’s counting! So I’m all, Sign me the fuck up!

Then.

I read the requirements.

Now, unlike the normal online questionnaires I take such as “Do you have bipolar disorder” and “Are you pregnant” this one seemed to be something I might be able to pass. I mean, I’m white. People looking for surrogates love white people! I’m young. 24! My eggs are farm fresh! I have a mind-blowing IQ. I write a freakin’ literary blog for shit’s sake! AND I’m from Long Island. I mean, please. If that’s not qualifications times a bajillion, then you’re a dirty liar.

So I’m amped, ready to let someone harvest my children when I start to read up on how this shit actually goes down. And let me tell you there was NO warning of this on the 2×4 sign on the fucking subway. Now granted, after I read the real qualifications, I fit none of them as can only be expected with my unhealthy living habits and addictive personality, but come on. On some level if God won’t give you a kid, shouldn’t you take it as a sign and be happy to take what you can get? I mean really. I’ve got precious commodities here! But nooooooo. Apparently my eggs aren’t good enough to be fertilized and implanted into a 45-year-old barren woman with IBS’ uterus! Read on.

As can be seen here, below is a list of requirements and preparations I need to take in order to become an egg donor. Right after them you will read why it is -14% impossible for me to ever donate eggs ever in my life…ever.

• Get a complete physical examination – I could do .5 pull ups in high school and even less sit ups so the possibility of me passing htis exam is slim to none.
• Get a pelvic exam – That’s what she said.
• Get tested for STDs – This could go either way. I’m not proud.
• Get blood tests – I can’t guarantee that my blood won’t contain 15% alcohol and traces of rophynol but if your baby is willing to take that risk, so am I.
• Get at least one psychological consultation – HUUUUUGE fail. Have you read this blog? If not, hi. My name is Clinical. Let’s take this outside.
• Get a full record of your own and your family’s medical history - My medical history may or may not include broken face, 3 abortions and 15 Valium overdoses but who’s keeping score?
• Be able to give yourself injections (oh, did we mention the needles? You’ll read more about them later.) – Unless you’re injecting me with morphine or liquid diet coke (editor’s note: liquid diet coke? as opposed to the other kind of diet coke? god i’m drunk.), that would be a no.

Soooooo. One more thing I can check off on the “underqualified” list. Apparently the side effects of donating eggs are “gain weight, take hormones, have surgery”. Uhhh. Having surgery isn’t a side effect. And hormones? UH. I didn’t agree to dope myself up on steroids in order to have your kid but thanks for the offer. Not even $10,000 is worth looking like a bloated ragdoll with extra emotions and needles sticking out of my veins. I get enough of that from my period.

Let me know if any of you decide to go ahead with it though. I’m rooting for you. That’s a lie.

I’m not even proofreading this. Eat shit.

I am the f*%king princess of f*%king Poughkeepsie.

OH HEY bitch tits. I bet you’ve all been wondering like wHaT iZ uP and in case you need some help here is a fill in the blank puzzle!

My  to_let  just  flood_d  my  ap_rtme_t  with  two  feet  of  wat_r.

Gee golly that was rough. In case you couldn’t figure out that doozy, here’s a quick recap:

Last night I got the feeling that the toilet was going to overflow. It probably has something to do with the fact that I thought 8-ply napkins would be a good substitute for being too lazy to replace my fucking toilet paper. But in my rational brain I just shrugged and was all, Oh well! At least I can pee now without having to go to Duane Reade, and I’ll just suffer the consequences later LOLZ. And suffer I did.

So this morning I do my daily wake up pee and realize, Oh snap. Maybe I shouldn’t flush just in case. So, yep. Just left the pee. No big deal. We’ve all done it. Don’t even look at me like that. You probably have pee lingering in your toilet as we fucking speak. Stop giving me those judging eyes! Whatever, so I went to “work” and I bump into my ghost of a roommate on the way back home. She legit does not live here. She pays rent and all that fun stuff, but she actually doesn’t dwell in this apartment. It’s actually pretty grand, so complain I do not ever. Then I realized though, oh shiiteee. This means she was in the apartment before I could get to my lingering morning pee to flush in the hopes that my overflowing potential had been minimized after a day of no flushing. So by transitive property, carry the two, add 1… yep, she saw my pee. Along with her boyfriend. Nooo problem.

I’m not embarrassed too easily. So much shit has gone down in my life that it’s just gotten harder and harder to thaw this icy exterior of shame and defeat. I rarely feel genuinely jaw-clenchingly humiliated. And this wasn’t gonna be one of those times. Nah. I mean, would I be embarrassed if I had some kind of horrific UTI where I peed blood? Sure, maybe. Would I be embarrassed if I left a used tampon in there? Most likely. Would I be a little put off if I had given premature birth to an infant I didn’t want and left it in the toilet to be the next chick’s problem? Yeah, that would sorta be awkward especially if that chick was my roommate. But pee? Fuck that! Pee is tots natural and I don’t curr.

Having said that, upon having my nightly pee an hour ago, I flushed and realized some shit was goin’ down in there. It just wasn’t flowin’ all natural and in concentric circles and shiz. Plus it made a gargling noise after it was done flushing like it had just eaten up a small animal. So I was a little concerned for the next go around and was pretty sure it would overflow. So I plunged for 2.5 seconds, wiped my hands of it, and went along my merry way.

Cut to an hour later. I was feeling cocky. I wanted to ensure my plunging job had taken care of that weak mess. So with zeal and bravado, I flush… the flush from fucking hell.

Now keep in mind. I have seen a lot of overflown toilets in my day. I use too much toilet paper always and forevs, so I used to overflow various toilets in my parents house on a weekly basis. However, it becomes a tad more inconvenient when you’re responsible for cleaning it up yourself. So just picture this: the toilet stars to clog. You know it’s happening. You can’t stop it. Then, you realize it’s slowly reaching the brim and not settling. You start to panic. Fear strikes in your heart, and you wonder if you will live through this. Then… the overpour. The water starts to trickle down… and… it doesn’t stop.

You know how sometimes toilets overflow a touch and you’re all, Aw shit now I gotta put a towel down? Yeah, that wasn’t this. No. This toilet kept the fuck on overflowing. It was legit FLOODING my apartment. And it wasn’t stopping. It just kept pumping out water on top of fucking water. I started screaming. I ran. Down the hall, to my doorman, who speaks no English, asked him if the Super could come and rescue me. Had to tell him my toilet was overflowing my apartment as hot guy walked in. Wearing old man’s t-shirt, no make-up, hair in poof, feet wet with toilet water. Doorman looked at me like I was certifiable. “I can’t help you.” YOU CAN’T HELP ME? So what exactly would you like me to do?!  SWIM myself to sleep? I ran back upstairs. Still overflowing. Started screaming again. Now the water was in my closet. And my foyer. Screamed some more. Ran back downstairs. Doorman still looked at me like I was certifiable. Ran back upstairs. Grabbed plunger. Standing in 3 inches of toilet water ready to cry. Started plunging. Splashed toilet water on self. Kept plunging. One minute passes. Water still overflowing. Finally, 2 minutes in, I hear the glorious sound of release. The water is going down. Doesn’t even matter. Still standing in a kiddie pool ready to kill myself. Wiped off feet with Clorox wipes. Almost took a razor blade to my own face. If this isn’t an actual FML situation (god I hate that acronym but it always applies), then tell me WHAT the fuck is.

So now, here I sit. Writing to you all. Watching anything on the floor of my linen closet collect mold. Watching toilet water seep into the crevices of my bath tiles and most likely leak on top of the post office I live above. Sitting on my bed in awe at the sheer misfortune and shame of my own life. I can’t pretend I’m not going to exaggerate this story to all of my coworkers tomorrow in order to gain sympathy points, but I’m not even sure how much I’m going to need to hyperbole this shit all things considered. I mean, THIS IS MY LIFE. God does not miss a fucking opportunity and for that, I thank him. Without your tomfoolery, God, I wouldn’t even have a blog. So… 3 inches of toilet water or this website? God has made my decision for me. And you’re welcome.