I'm currently laying on my couch staring at a plate of burnt sausages while wearing my "I love BJ's" t-shirt...alone...proving that dreams really do come true. And if it isn't glaringly obvious, I've been reading The Secret so I totally fucking manifested this moment.
Feeling like a busted up hooker for the last 30 years on Sundays seems to be a pattern for me this summer. On Saturday nights I go out. Like I'm talking balls to the wall kind of out. I drink, act creepy, dance, become best friends with strange women in the bathroom at the bar, send some vulgar sexts to men I haven't spoken to in years, eat 7 slices of pizza, respond to sexts, come home, regret sexts, order more pizza, pass out and get banned from Pizza Pizza for missing my order, wake up on my couch and wonder why my hair is curly when it was straight last night, do double take in mirror when I realize I have cheese in my hair eat it and simultaneously discover more chin hair, sigh, exclaim "what the fuck" in the mirror, frantically search for my phone, realize it's dead and curl up in fetal position for 10 minutes on my couch with my heart racing wondering who I could have possibly texted, turn on my phone to read last night's sent messages, vow to never drink again, send a few apology texts, send text to find my wallet, lip gloss and dignity, walk to my kitchen and wonder what it's like to be an over achiever, stare in my fridge and wish I bought hot dogs, think about the recent hike in the price of hot dogs, pour a glass of water only to notice my hands are shaking, google "disorders that make your hands shake", call my mom to tell her Web MD says I'm dying, call my mom back after she hangs up, take a Xanax, hate my life, turn on TLC and hope to fuck there is a 48 Hours Mystery marathon on, realize nothing is fair in this life when it's a Say Yes to the Dress marathon, call my friend *Trixi* for my afternoon meltdown and recap of last night's events, yell "you've got to be fucking kidding me" into the phone, whip my phone across apartment only to remember I don't have a case on it, pick up phone, sigh, realize I'm so dehydrated that I haven't peed all day, go sit on toilet, cry, wash hands, lay face down on my couch and scream into my pillow, realize I'm still wearing last night's makeup, observe makeup on my $100 pillows and freak the fuck out, throw pillow, still don't wash my face, get distracted by the little Asian kid screaming outside my window, hope I'm not pregnant, order chicken balls, lift up my shirt in the mirror and jiggle my tummy, sigh, google fat blasting tips on the Internet created by skinny bitches,receive message from a Plenty of Fish user named "Noheadgames69" who asks if I like peanut butter sandwiches and morning sex, smash my head off my coffee table in fit of rage, black out, wake up, eat a ham sandwich, question the meaning of life, scroll through Tinder, wonder why I'm not getting any matches, finally get a match, wonder when the hell I liked this guy's photo, remember that I was doing some late night Tindering while drinking, receive creepy message, send mass text to all my girlfriends announcing I'm quitting dating, immediately upload new pics on Match.com, realize it's only 5pm and I should probably eat...again, make Kraft Dinner, eat entire pot, shame spiral on my couch, check my online dating account for this week's dick pics, get grossed out, take screen shot and send to my girlfriends, go out on my balcony just to say I've been outside today, say a little prayer to the heavens that one day Jay Z and I will be friends, notice a suspicious mole on my arm, come in and google "suspicious moles", call my mom and tell her Web MD says I'm dying, call mom back and ask her what she's eating for dinner, get jealous, order a pizza, watch TMZ, wish I could punch Justin Bieber in the face, remember Long Island Medium is on, practice Long Island accent during commercials, take a sleeping pill, cry because Theresa Caputo is the best, wonder how the hell she connects with dead people, wonder what I would do if I woke up and saw a ghost standing over me, turn on every light in my apartment, get in bed with the lights on, pull covers up over my face, worry I left the stove on, run to the kitchen, stare at dishes in sink, mutter "fuck it" under my breath, run back to bed, lay in bed and worry I didn't lock my door, run to the door-it's wide open, convince myself there is someone in my closet, get back in bed, think about signing up for a martial arts class, lay awake until 5am, get up at 5:03am for work and pretend Sunday never happened.
Whoever created the term "#Sunday Funday" was a total asshole.
ate an entire pot of Kraft Dinner and took a selfie.
*Must now sing: "Fat guy in a little
(If you don't get that movie reference, please
there is a good chance I'm going to vomit on my keyboard or launch myself from
my balcony before completing this post. My hangover also inspired me to eat
one of those giant muffins from Costco as an appetizer,but I haven't been to
Costco in 2 years so don't ask where the hell I found this muffin. But what
happens behind closed doors in my paradise is my business.
week in the spirit of poverty and beauty, I spent the last 60 bucks in my wallet
(Yup, I spend each pay cheque like I'm Charlie Sheen in a whore house...right
down to the last penny), and made a trip to the Aveda Academy to get my hair
did. It started to look far too Bon Jovi circa 1989, so I had to take matters
into my own hands to correct this dilemma. And if I wanna get married within
this lifetime, I'm certainly not going to attract my future coochie tickler lover,
looking like a washed-up hybrid of Courtney Love and Bon Jovi I love you
JohnFrancis Bongiovi, Jr., with roots past my jaw line. (And for you
fuckers thinking "Um that's ombre, Nanners"-shut up, it's my blog).
if you've never been to the Aveda Academy, I encourage you to do so as it's
always in the student's best interest to not fuck it up. Ya feel me? Basically,
you're paying them in high fives and not the $24,293,42 it costs to get three
bleach-filled tin foil strips on your noggin in downtown Toronto. The first
time I got a consultation in Toronto to get my hair done, I needed to change my
diaper as I shit my pants in the hairdresser's chair, when that bitch told me
like Nelson Mandela, something comes over me when a great injustice is done in
the world, which includes but is not limited to: bullying, racism, receiving
dick pics in my online dating inbox, and charging people a mortgage payment for
some highlights. Why can't the entire world adopt the IKEA pricing model??
Meaning BASICALLY FREE. Did you know that at Ikea, it costs you a whopping
$1.50 for a fountain pop AND a hot dog??!!!! The first time I discovered this I knew
God existed and he really wanted me to have nitrates, badly. Sometimes (meaning
always), I go in the exit and hangout at the hot dog counter. As you can see, I
take the term 'YOLO' quite seriously.
getting off topic here. But seriously, I would eat hot dogs for every meal
if I didn't know that ingesting that many nitrates would put me 6 feet under by the
time I was 40. UGH. Momma told me this life would be hard. Where
was I? Oh yeah, Aveda=WINNING.
first time I went into the salon, I noticed my neck twitch was acting up
because I was super-mega-ultra nervous (like losing your virginity type of
nervous..HAHAHA. Oh wait, I blacked out that night), to have fresh meat at the
academy touching my luscious locks. And truth be told, despite my best efforts
to look like Claudia Schiffer on a daily basis, I'm not a vein person. In fact,
I ignore mirrors and reflective surfaces for 99% of my day, but I take pride in
my hair so I really didn't want some virgin hairdresser messing with it.
to my appointment, I was told by the receptionist that it would be a student
named "Bob" doing my hair. Call me useless, but I assumed from the
name it would be a lucky gentleman tousling my locks and falling victim to my
charm that day. However, to my surprise when I arrived at the salon, I was
greeted by a very female "Bob" who happened to be a 23 year old girl,
who admitted she only knew "some stuff" about doing highlights. Wicked!
my 17 hour appointment, I came to know and love Bob for her misery, honesty and
the ability to not crack one smile when I made a joke. C'mon Bob, I brought out
some of my best material and still nothing? Pfffft. However, despite Bob's
clinical depression, she did an amazing job, which is part of the reason I keep
going back. The other part of the reason is that to get to the salon, I have to
walk by Prairie Girl cupcakes and I get a lady boner from the sweet smell of
sugar and lard each time I go by. (Again, I'm a hardcore YOLO'er).
how I think I look when I leave the salon with the wind blowing in my hair
and Roy Orbison's Pretty Woman playing in the background.
But in reality....
... I'm just a really annoyed asian woman who's gonna have
some serious fucking knots in her hair.
sit here and write this, I literally have no idea where I'm going with this or
why I started writing this in the first place. This could be due to the fact
that I made love to a vodka bottle and some Jager shots at the bar last night.
I'm also really
distracted by the show 'My 600lb Life' which I'm watching on TLC right now. The doctor
just lifted up one of her rolls and suddenly I'm feeling deathly skinny. Like Dallas
Buyers Club kind
of skinny. (*I
whip off my shirt and do a headstand). I should probably grab a hot
also distracted by some texts that I'm receiving right now from a few potential
online suitors. Oh and don't take this as bragging. (I'm actually laughing and
typing). I'm sure by Tuesday evening I will be calling Rogers asking if my
phone service is down as it will be silence on the wireless waves (*imagine the sound of crickets)...my suitors will have
disappeared. It used to make me sad when they would disappear, but now that I'm
somewhat of a seasoned pro to the dating game, I know that I'm not the reason
they've disappeared...they are just swamped with masturbating in their mother's
basement so I don't take it personally.
here's another tid bit of information for you...I've actually lowered my dating
standards so much that when a guy responds to my text, I run out and buy the
latest issue of Modern Bride. AND if it's been 10 days and he hasn't sent me a
creepily cropped picture of his penis, (that I didn't ask for) and he hasn't
told me that he's on unemployment, I hit up Tiffany's for some ring
Theresa Long Island Medium is on and this is the only time I have scheduled
this week to work on my Long Island accent so I should probably get back to
Well, last time I posted I was quasi miserable about my dismal dating prospects/experiences. AND YOU'LL NEVER GUESS WHAT'S HAPPENED....IT'S GOTTEN WORSE. As it turns out, dating shady fucks in your 30's is a serious epidemic. And no, I'm not addressing dating in your 20's (as I'm sure it's the same but with less cellulite), but I avoided dating like the plague in my 20's and as it turns out, it was for a very good reason. Hmmm let's see....as of late, I've met the following...(I've changed the names of these motherfuckers because I'm a lady) and I've slept with most of them. There was Bojangles, he was a real dick that made the waitress repeat the specials about 9 times, then tried to barter a cheaper price for the BEER THAT WAS ON SPECIAL. There was Warren Buffet who conveniently forgot his wallet and his personality on his kitchen table. Then there was the Green Giant who loved fake laughing and staring at his watch like he had a bomb strapped to his body. Then..my favourite... Mr. WeShouldDefinitelyDoThisAgainSometime, who sits on the board of directors of the 'I'm A Giant Pussy' foundation. He asked to see me again but I'm assuming his phone exploded in a rare iPhone malfunction which effects every 100,000 men in 100,001 men...I'd say it's safe to assume that he lost all his contacts which is why I haven't heard from him. *Cue sad violin music. I've actually decided to stop dating. (I'm being serious. I literally just finished googling "how to be okay with being alone." No joke). I've decided to stop this blissful experience solely because a straight jacket is far to confining for a gal who has self diagnosed herself with hyperhidrosis and a bad attitude. ( And yes, hyperhidrosis is a real condition for you fuckers that are all like,"brrr. I've got a chill!").
Well, you know what I've got? A sweaty upper lip and inexplicable breast sweat, so please, shut the fuck up. It's basically a problem where you sweat profusely from almost every pore...even in the arctic. (Or as my luck would have it, my frigid panties). Thanks to the Real Housewives of NYC, I recently learned that Botox in the affected areas can fix this condition. But who has an extra 500 kicking around?
Maybe Ramona does, but not this bitch. I've chosen to blow my last 500 dollars on furnishing my new apartment with Ikea products to make it look like a Swedish dollhouse. Mmmmm Ikea meatballs... Yup, that's right, a small slice of heaven. Speaking of my new apartment, I recently moved and I am currently living at the corner of Purgatory and Spinster Avenue. What a busy intersection! I've got it all decked out in furniture that will help with my posture since most of it is made of wood. All I need is a slight aroma of cat piss and I'm set to die alone. AND...guess what? As it turns out, my neighbours across the hall are having enough sex for the entire apartment building, so I literally can just listen to that for an eternity and I never have to have another man touch me again! #YOLO. In all seriousness, I reallllly do love my new apartment. It's super spacious and has lots of windows for me to hone in on my inner voyeur. BUT the only complaint I have about having lots of windows, less masturbating, less eating chocolate in my underwear, more creepy neighbour watching, no dancing naked is having too much natural lighting. If you're a woman in your 30's, I suspect I'm getting a few nods of agreement right now. Natural lighting is the WORST for discovering wrinkles, zits, unsightly moles, and worst of all CHIN HAIR. I'm getting so much facial hair in my 30's that I literally wasn't sure if I was looking at my reflection, or Zach Galifianakis made a guest appearance in my washroom this morning while I brushed my teeth.
It was actually my pencil dick dermatologist that brought my freakish chin hair/sideburn growing capabilities to the forefront at my last appointment. Don't get me wrong, I'm not in denial, I knew it was there, but it's hard enough to keep up with shaving your legs, cooter, armpits, (and my arms since I got high percocet and shaved them a couple summers ago, I have to shave them all of the time now) and now...my face. C'MON. I swear I must have murdered puppies in a past life, because I've been getting a bad taste of some universal karmic backlash over the past 30 years or so. I'm hoping my recent surge of facial hair and shitty dates is the last of it. "Hmmmmmm (my doctor says as he puts hot rollers in my chin hair) we should really clean up these areas next time you're in." I love when people offer me unsolicited advice. He also told me that I should put a filler in my bottom lip to align it with my top lip because I'd look soooooo much better and far more symmetrical. Needless to say, upon hearing this advice, I came home and met up with my old friends Pinot and Dominos and stared in the mirror for 2 hours trying to pull my bottom lip up over my top one.
So.... there you have it. That's what I've been up to. I'm not dead, despite recent speculation. In fact I'm so alive that I'm entering a bearded lady competition in September.