Mar 15, 2015

What happens to your brain on crime shows?

Hi I'm Nanners and I'm addicted to porn crime shows.

Nothing makes me tingle in my panties more than coming home on a Friday night, curling up in a ball on my kitchen floor covered in Nutella and sobbing  on my couch in my pyjamas and watching Dateline. I've loved shows about murder and haunting tales of betrayal since I was a little girl and watched Angela Lansbury solve crime like a boss on Murder She Wrote. 'Memba that show? I used to love Sunday nights because after my bath my mother would give me a tiny bowl of chips (also known as the "please shut the fuck up for 5 minutes" game) and we'd sit and watch this old bat solve crime.
I mean c'mon, look at that face. If that doesn't scream "I love dead bodies and writing", I don't know what does.
 
 If you're unfamiliar with this show, Jessica Fletcher (Ang Lansbury) was a successful writer/amateur detective who lived in a town called Cabot Cove where everyone seemed to get murdered and the cops were totally fucking useless, so she was all like "I got this" and solved a ton of murders. Ummmm call me crazy, but if everyone in my neighbourhood ended up dead, that would be a leading indicator to get the hell outta dodge.
  This is me during my last STD test 

Since Murder She Wrote, I`ve developed an unhealthy obsession with a plethora of TV's hard hitting crime shows dramas such as;
Criminal Minds: (in which the creepy killer often reminds me of most of my dates)
Law & Order: SVU: (not gonna lie, when Stabler left Benson, I was a hot mess. I never understood how Olivia could ride around with him all day, and not tap that. Seriously)
Dexter: (so sad it's over, but I've never been more attracted to a serial killer...Only problem is the amount of saran wrap he used...In my opinion, saran wrap was created by the Satan himself, and I've never been successful in tearing the appropriate amount off that fits over anything and doesn't stick together and make me feel like a complete and utter asshole),
The First 48: (real people catching real killers. Whoa. Shit`s gettin`real.)...

And lastly but DEFINITELY not least, and the whole reason why I turn down all dates on Fridays and because no one asks me....Dateline.



Look at that face...nothing and I mean nothing gets by Keith Morrison. If you live under a rock, Keith Morrison is Dateline's best correspondent who has the eerily soothing voice of a creepy uncle. I actually become enraged when I see Josh Mankiewicz or Dennis Murphy are reporting...


Dateline typically reports on mega important stories like spouses who kill each other. Fun! And perhaps because I'm perpetually single, I get off on this.

BUT...although I am admittedly addicted to crime shows in all their glory....It does make me assume a lot of things I probably otherwise wouldn't if I were addicted to Home & Garden Television.

The thoughts that run through my head on any given day are probably a result of being hyper-aware of my surroundings and now believing through the miracle of television that everyone is just a shady fuck. I often find myself thinking:
  • There is always someone behind my shower curtain, waiting to pounce on me... but not in the way I was pounced on during my prom night.
  • When I'm alone, any noise that happens when I turn off all my lights and get in bed is automatically a killer that has been secretly living in my closet for the past couple days, just waiting for his perfect moment to smother me with my pillow
  • Every time I get into my car at night, OBVIOUSLY a face is gonna appear in the rear view mirror and yell "drive bitch"
  • If I'm walking anywhere alone at night, of course I'm being followed
  • When I walk to the gym at 5am, clearly someone is waiting for me in the bushes
  • Ever since I saw an episode of Criminal Minds when a killer was whistling, I now believe that any stranger that whistles has some fucked up hidden agenda and possibly heads in their freezer.
Well, now that I've shared my inner most thoughts on what I believe is really happening in this cold, morbid reality we live in, I'm going to sign off and check the locks on my door. And possibly touch myself.

Night Night
Nanners

See what prime time TV has done to me? 






Mar 1, 2015

Things I Wish I Could Go Back and Tell my 21 year-old Self



So do you want the good news or bad news first? Okay fine, good it is: I just got in the ultimate face-off with my purse in round 233428 of the game 'WHERE THE FUCK ARE MY KEYS?' I didn't find my keys but this is where the good news comes in...I did find an extra Ativan at the bottom of my purse, so I just popped that bad boy and I'm imagining that this is how Lindsay Lohan feels on a Sunday- really fucking calm.
*I'm totally popping an Ativan tomorrow morning during my commute to the office. It will feel like I rode a unicorn to work. Everyone wins.
**I feel like I may have one or two emotionally stable readers who don't know what Ativan is. Up yours.  Essentially, Ativan is a little tiny white pill of joy that you stick under your tongue when you're feeling very much like an anxious Joaquin Pheonix in the movie Signs.

But.... what you really want to feel is "alright, alright, alright"...like Matthew McConaughey in Dazed and Confused.
 
Get it? Got it? Good.

I guess you're waiting patiently for the bad news I didn't get my period and I don't know who the father is. The bad news is that I'm having somewhat of a crisis over the thought that I'm no longer 21, and life as I know it is slipping through my fingers. I witnessed a large table of friends out to celebrate their friend's 21st birthday at the restaurant I was at last night and I instantly got chest pains. Well, technically those chest pains could be caused from my 4 diet cokes, fries and large quesadilla that was stuffed with 7lbs of cheese. It sounds like I'm complaining about my dinner but I promise you I made sweet love to every last bit of that quesadilla.

Anyway, it got me thinking... what would I be doing if I were 21 right now? What if I could go back and give myself advice, perhaps a good slap or two upside the head? I laid awake for quite a few hours last night fighting with my booty call just thinking of what I would say if I could go back in time and have my 33 year old self talk to my 21 year old self.  There would be a lot of swearing, I'm sure of that.

Here's the best advice I could come up with to myself at 3am this morning:

Don't put that in your mouth: This includes but is not limited to, poutine after the bar at 3am, that last shot of tequila at Jim Bob's which ultimately made you smash your face off the train tracks and get a black eye, stray penises (I shall not elaborate), that 'joint' that homeless guy gave you outside a formal you were attending, that bagel you were found eating in a closet during your university ski weekend. Yes, I was in a closet eating a bagel, but I blame my friends for hot-boxing the car I was in earlier-I have sensitive nostrils and lungs, okay? In a nutshell, whatever doesn't bring your taste buds and your dignity pleasure at 3am, don't put it in your mouth.

Put down the hotdog: Not only have I recently read a bunch of scientific data on what nitrates really do to your body, I also probably didn't need to be eating hotdogs all over the city at 2am just for the sake of my waistline. It also wasn't my fault that I was charming enough back then that these hotdog vendors would let me watch their stand after the bar and help them flip some dogs on the grill. If I never knew that pleasure, never looked in the eyes of a hotdog vendor and asked "can I eat the burnt ones?" then maybe today it wouldn't cause me so much pain?  At 21, I had no idea that my love for hotdogs would eventually lead me down a slippery slope.  At 33 I'm finding myself planning evenings out, around the nearest hotdog vendor (especially the one that plays Latin music all year round), because it's a lot fucking easier than cabbing to one. So let me be frank, if there ain't a hotdog vendor close to where I'm cocktailing, I ain't going. Ugh. If someone had only stopped me years ago.

Bank that coin, girl: From what little money I had in my 20's, I would go back and give myself a fresh one right across the face for not really ever saving a dime. Not realizing that everything in your life after university graduation was going to cost 99% more than you ever anticipated, and you'll be paying bills until you take your last breath, would have been a helpful tip to know. My parents kept saying "just wait until you get into the real world, little girl" but it wasn't really enough to scare the shit out of me and prepare me for the miserable world of personal finances. I watched a ton of The Real World on MTV, and it looked pretty fucking fun to me, so in my head  I was all geared up to YOLO in the real world.
Actually my parents told me I lived on another planet all the time, but I just assumed it was because they realized their daughter was a comedic genious when it comes to accents and the monologues that I would present to them during dinner as a child.
They also coupled their "you live on a different planet" statement with stories of them walking barefoot in the snow to school, blah, blah, blah. Ya, sure you did, but just in case, I went out and bought 4 pairs of boots so that wouldn't happen to me.

Honey, the stress is only gonna get worse. Admittedly, my biggest concern when I was 21 was that I wouldn't make it home in time from Stats class (if I went), to be able to go to the liquor store and squeeze in a shower to freshen up my luscious locks for the bar that night. Frizzy hair to me back then (and still absolutely is), was the one thing that sent me into dark place. Wow. I couldn't sound more superficial if I tried right now.
                                                                             #selfie

My point here is that when you take a good hard look at what you find stressful when you're 21 vs, real stress now, it's quite comical. I bet I would never guess that I'd be fighting with my cell phone carrier once a month, worrying about paying my rent, worrying about my parents aging health, worrying about my own health, worrying about work, worrying about these dicks that take you on dates and then disappear, worrying about carbs, worrying about restraining yourself from killing an annoying passenger on the subway, worrying if Olivia Pope and Fitz will ever really make jam in Vermont, worrying that you may be banned from Pizza Pizza over an incident with a cab driver and a drunk patron, worrying that the rash on your body is not fabric softener related, worrying each month that you're pregnant and single....THESE are legit worries.

That jock you were crying over, will be a fat, balding asshole who plays video games and is addicted to porn in his 30's so it ain't worth it sister. Is it just me or do you get a wild sense of delight when your former crush morphs into the loser that he always was, but you couldn't see it? But hey, let's face it, being blinded by charm and sexual attraction happens to everyone at some point. Add booze to that mix and that's a typical weekend for me. All you can do is arm yourself with CIA-like stalking skills and a Facebook account, and you can see for yourself that these former 'big man on campus' types have actually turned into closeted masturbators who play Halo until 4am in their parents basement. So THANK YOU for breaking my heart..you did me a serious favour.



Well, that's all I got for now. I'm sure once my Ativan wears off, I will have thought of 8495302 more pieces of advice, but for now this'll do.

Night, night,
Nanners