Written February 23, 2009
Did I ever think when it was my generation's turn at the plate it was gonna be this fucked up? No, I sure didn't. Just like every generation thought before mine, "We'd rule this world if it was ours! We'd knock it outta the park!" Man, If we'd only known it'd be up on blocks with but a few sellable parts we would have never wanted it.
I hate to be a 90s girl on you but we thought we had this thing in the bag. With our grungy plaid, social causes and weed in hand you couldn't get any truthier than us. The 60s and 70s couldn't dream of the realism we were getting to the bottom of. We were gonna have better jobs, less wars and our kids were gonna put the way you raised us to shame. Then Al Gore lost. And just like God punished us all for the actions of Eve was the same way Ticketmaster bent us over and tore us up the backside for Eddie Vedder's. Capitalism reigns and all us coffee shop lovin' poets of the 90s will repent on our knee's somewhere in the middle of a Starbucks line.
You baby boomers coulda told us somethin' in the milk ain't right. If you'd really loved us you would told us in those damn career building classes to pick a job we could handle cause Lord knows we wouldn't be out doing the job we'd love. You shoulda said "What won't make you want to shoot yourself in the face while sittin' in the after 5 traffic jam? Okay then, go do that." But no. I don't know if it was false hope, absolute denial or pure cowardice that made you fail to mention or prepare us for The Heartbreak we'd all individually face.
Ah, The Heartbreak. Unrequited and lost love has nothing on this one. This is a deep well of sadness and darkness that takes a few years to really land on your ass in.
The first stumble backwards happens just around 21. Life is generally care free for most of us. But suddenly driving down some familiar road in your hometown you realize if you don't hurry the hell up you ain't never gonna be that rockstar you thought you were. Or European traveler, National Geographic journalist, ruler of the world, whatever. Whatever it was you thought you were gonna be at 16 reaches out to you for a hand in survival. Free falling, it screams at you to get your shit together before you have a nasty wife who's gained more weight than you can fathom and two kids you barely care to remember the names of. The kick in the gut is too hard to handle and easy to ignore. Life will just work itself out. You'll get there, little rockstar. The world is your oyster and all that shit. You're not going to let that happen to you.
Of course, until you're driving that same goddamn road you were before listening to the latest Top 20 Ear Rape, loosening the tie of that temporary, "stepping stone" job you've been in for the last 6 years. Boom! It piercingly strikes your brain that your dream never worked it's way to fruition did it. The heartbreak fully reveals itself. Ouch, kiddo. Year's in the making this is one painful revelation not even a kiss on the forehead could mend.
Stand up. Dust yourself off and look around. Not even Alice would believe the shit that's down this rabbit hole. How in the hell did we get here? Human bombs are going off in Iraq but so long as gas is under a dollar a litre and we've all got a little sex appeal we could really care less what's happening in those brown skinned countries. I'm sure Obama will take care of it. We've been so bruised and betrayed that we've lost ourselves. We got sold down the river, bought into every shit eating grin that was put before us and all we've got to show for it is high rent, student loans and ridiculous visa bills. We're too busy distracting ourselves from The Heartbreak to admit the cost of dreamin'. Disappointment is an ugly depression. But if you can scrape together enough for the prescription we've got a pill that can put you right back on the path of debt building delusion.
Man, there's something in this death, in this heartbreak that relates to every glass of wine your mother ever had after work, doesn't it? Especially when she had the whole bottle. Not only did she not become the "whatever" she'd thought she'd be, but her AND her children are celebrity obsessed, emotionally devoid, financially strapped standing at the foot of a greed induced recession.
Hey, some mornings the mirror doesn't relay the prettiest image. We struck a foul ball, 90s child. a very foul ball. If we had anything left from the good ol' years of honesty we'd admit to ourselves that bringing a cloth bag to the grocery store is not a good enough band-aid to this colossal boo-boo. We done fucked up. Congrats. You're an adult in the Doomed Generation. You might as well smile, even though hell, you're not even on candid camera.
Friday, November 27, 2009
Facebook: Diary of My Alter Ego.
Written July 6th, 2009
Never in all my recognition and awareness of totalitarianism did I think it would happen with such active, avid participation from we, the individuals.
what started as a whisper, a hobby, a slight waste of time, became something that grew into a brand new level of communication between humans. At this moment, this is the height of the internet. And at this moment it is the decided and preferred method of communication. If I so wanted, through out my day, I could 'Facebook' you. We are so dedicated to our new found connection that we go so far as to build pocket sized hand held machines so that at anytime we can pull the blinds on our real life and log onto the alter reality of our photo-shopped existence. Like Morse code or the telephone but with the added dimension of vanity. This is quite literally the strangest time for our human race.
Plagued with chronic dissatisfaction we collectively fed into celebrity obsession. We bred the Grass Is Greener Syndrome and support tabloid magazines to put together faces and stories. We don't even want the truth - just a stage to create the fairytale. That sated us just long enough until the envy became too much to bear that we created an outlet for our own self-adoration. Forget Sims. Forget World of Warcraft. I can create a character that looks just like me only with better hair and eyes that sparkle. Look all the backdrops I can photograph my character in. Suddenly wearing an outfit twice becomes a faux pas! And just like a celebrity's over the shoulder glance, we've come to know our own poses well.
We have all become corporate salesman. The product is ourselves and the potential gain is a successful alter ego. Does this sidewalk star come with cement imbedded with my hands and feet? Is there a place for my autograph? And the very strangest part about our socially created nether world is that we're not even unaware of our own self obsession. It's not like I'm Chicken Little screaming that they sky is falling - actually I am - but the point is that we're all well aware and we don't even care.
We're far too busy holding poses and documenting moments carefully painted with rose coloured glasses to care about insignificant situations where women are being snipered down in the middle of the street to protect basic human rights. Alter-ego creation included. I never once saw a reference to Neda on facebook, and if it was there, it was buried deep between the test to find out what sexual position you are and the test to showcase how tragically clever you are when it comes to obscure music. We've stayed so plugged in that we've conditioned ourselves to tune out. I repeat, we've conditioned ourselves.
You could argue that Facebook is a beautiful creation where we can easily access the ones we love, we can communicate with speed and bravado in a way that we never allowed ourselves to before. But it does not come without it's sickness. We have desensitized ourselves to what is morally real and humanly intense. We long so much for a fairytale that we forget to appreciate our reality. Nothing is good enough. We are becoming incredibly ill.
We are standing in the middle of history. You are living in what will undoubtedly be a chapter in someone's textbook. We need to lift our heads from this digital cloud or internal combustion will be a definite option for the near future. I know I'm not stating ground breaking information here, but I'm most certainly calling us on our bullshit.
Never in all my recognition and awareness of totalitarianism did I think it would happen with such active, avid participation from we, the individuals.
what started as a whisper, a hobby, a slight waste of time, became something that grew into a brand new level of communication between humans. At this moment, this is the height of the internet. And at this moment it is the decided and preferred method of communication. If I so wanted, through out my day, I could 'Facebook' you. We are so dedicated to our new found connection that we go so far as to build pocket sized hand held machines so that at anytime we can pull the blinds on our real life and log onto the alter reality of our photo-shopped existence. Like Morse code or the telephone but with the added dimension of vanity. This is quite literally the strangest time for our human race.
Plagued with chronic dissatisfaction we collectively fed into celebrity obsession. We bred the Grass Is Greener Syndrome and support tabloid magazines to put together faces and stories. We don't even want the truth - just a stage to create the fairytale. That sated us just long enough until the envy became too much to bear that we created an outlet for our own self-adoration. Forget Sims. Forget World of Warcraft. I can create a character that looks just like me only with better hair and eyes that sparkle. Look all the backdrops I can photograph my character in. Suddenly wearing an outfit twice becomes a faux pas! And just like a celebrity's over the shoulder glance, we've come to know our own poses well.
We have all become corporate salesman. The product is ourselves and the potential gain is a successful alter ego. Does this sidewalk star come with cement imbedded with my hands and feet? Is there a place for my autograph? And the very strangest part about our socially created nether world is that we're not even unaware of our own self obsession. It's not like I'm Chicken Little screaming that they sky is falling - actually I am - but the point is that we're all well aware and we don't even care.
We're far too busy holding poses and documenting moments carefully painted with rose coloured glasses to care about insignificant situations where women are being snipered down in the middle of the street to protect basic human rights. Alter-ego creation included. I never once saw a reference to Neda on facebook, and if it was there, it was buried deep between the test to find out what sexual position you are and the test to showcase how tragically clever you are when it comes to obscure music. We've stayed so plugged in that we've conditioned ourselves to tune out. I repeat, we've conditioned ourselves.
You could argue that Facebook is a beautiful creation where we can easily access the ones we love, we can communicate with speed and bravado in a way that we never allowed ourselves to before. But it does not come without it's sickness. We have desensitized ourselves to what is morally real and humanly intense. We long so much for a fairytale that we forget to appreciate our reality. Nothing is good enough. We are becoming incredibly ill.
We are standing in the middle of history. You are living in what will undoubtedly be a chapter in someone's textbook. We need to lift our heads from this digital cloud or internal combustion will be a definite option for the near future. I know I'm not stating ground breaking information here, but I'm most certainly calling us on our bullshit.
Monday, November 23, 2009
Are We Not Men?
Written November 23, 2009
No. We're not. And that's just the way I'd like to keep it.
This particular frustration of mine is so deeply rooted to the core of my being when every now and then I'll come across an objection to femininity it will set about an internal fury that threatens the otherwise quaint manner I carry myself in. (...)
Whilst flipping through the literary journals known as the 24 Hour 'news', I came across an inane article regarding Twilight. (Forget about that, listen to the point.) Some one actually got paid to write an article about how helpless Bella is as a woman and what a terrible terrible role model she is for young girls. Yes, my eyes hurt from rolling. It's a book. Even more so it's a romance novel. The general, mundane, true to life way in which women keep a man's world together isn't usually the premise.
An even deeper response was to knock the lights out of the girl who wrote the article, and the UVic gender and politics professor who also gets paid to spout off at the snout. Oh and the UBC professor too, "He's not just rescuing her emotionally, he's also rescuing her economically. It's never just a matter of love. It's also a question of money..." Mary Mother of God, Woman Studies.
Lovely Ivory Tower you've put yourself in, the view looking down on us must be incredible. What is it about girls who attend a Woman Studies class getting a hate on for their own kind? How very dare you tell me that I can't dress in revealing clothing, wash the dishes, tend after my man and produce an image of womanhood worth emulating?
How very dare you tell me that I can't, with a clear mind and high self esteem, lust after a male suitor's attention, get excited about his domineering disposition, put in my place once or twice and ask for more. Why does it never occur to you that we enjoy some of these stereotypes. You mean to tell me you don't think any one of the suffragettes didn't like a good spanking in bed? Please.
I don't mow the lawn. I don't change my own oil. I haven't a clue how to fix a computer and my brain will literally shut down if you attempt to talk to me about sports. I prefer to not break a nail and putting air in my tires is not the kind of dirty job I'm interested in. And did you know, I even have my very own little bank account! The shock.
Docile. Niave. Helpless. Not general terms used to describe me, or any other females I surround myself with, who I gather enjoy a shopping expedition or feast on bon bons when the situation arises. The world is made of shades of gray my dear feminists. Which means I could clean the house wearing only heels and an apron and still have the capabilities to read a book and stand up for myself.
I will exercise my right to fret over a potential mates phone call, just as much as I will exercise my right to reject the throwaways. While this may seem like games to you, there's only so much fun this world offers. And I prefer to play mine in pink frilly underwear.
The next time one of you militant females see a woman engaged in behavior you'd like to label weak, pathetic, helpless you may want to remember the dictionary also includes words like paradox, dichotomy and best of all, variety.
No. We're not. And that's just the way I'd like to keep it.
This particular frustration of mine is so deeply rooted to the core of my being when every now and then I'll come across an objection to femininity it will set about an internal fury that threatens the otherwise quaint manner I carry myself in. (...)
Whilst flipping through the literary journals known as the 24 Hour 'news', I came across an inane article regarding Twilight. (Forget about that, listen to the point.) Some one actually got paid to write an article about how helpless Bella is as a woman and what a terrible terrible role model she is for young girls. Yes, my eyes hurt from rolling. It's a book. Even more so it's a romance novel. The general, mundane, true to life way in which women keep a man's world together isn't usually the premise.
An even deeper response was to knock the lights out of the girl who wrote the article, and the UVic gender and politics professor who also gets paid to spout off at the snout. Oh and the UBC professor too, "He's not just rescuing her emotionally, he's also rescuing her economically. It's never just a matter of love. It's also a question of money..." Mary Mother of God, Woman Studies.
Lovely Ivory Tower you've put yourself in, the view looking down on us must be incredible. What is it about girls who attend a Woman Studies class getting a hate on for their own kind? How very dare you tell me that I can't dress in revealing clothing, wash the dishes, tend after my man and produce an image of womanhood worth emulating?
How very dare you tell me that I can't, with a clear mind and high self esteem, lust after a male suitor's attention, get excited about his domineering disposition, put in my place once or twice and ask for more. Why does it never occur to you that we enjoy some of these stereotypes. You mean to tell me you don't think any one of the suffragettes didn't like a good spanking in bed? Please.
I don't mow the lawn. I don't change my own oil. I haven't a clue how to fix a computer and my brain will literally shut down if you attempt to talk to me about sports. I prefer to not break a nail and putting air in my tires is not the kind of dirty job I'm interested in. And did you know, I even have my very own little bank account! The shock.
Docile. Niave. Helpless. Not general terms used to describe me, or any other females I surround myself with, who I gather enjoy a shopping expedition or feast on bon bons when the situation arises. The world is made of shades of gray my dear feminists. Which means I could clean the house wearing only heels and an apron and still have the capabilities to read a book and stand up for myself.
I will exercise my right to fret over a potential mates phone call, just as much as I will exercise my right to reject the throwaways. While this may seem like games to you, there's only so much fun this world offers. And I prefer to play mine in pink frilly underwear.
The next time one of you militant females see a woman engaged in behavior you'd like to label weak, pathetic, helpless you may want to remember the dictionary also includes words like paradox, dichotomy and best of all, variety.
Monday, November 16, 2009
"I'll Meet You Under Freddie Mercury."
Written June 6, 2008
The story of Danny Piert.
I met Danny ages ago when I first moved back from Texas on a journaling site. (Clearly I've been doing this for far too long.) He had piercing eyes and a hankering for Shane MacGowan. I was in internet love.
Over the twists and turns of life's bumpy road we both ended up in London, finally, at the same time. This was it.
He: I'll meet you under Freddie Mercury.
Me: What?
He: Just come out of the tube station and I'll meet you under Freddie Mercury.
Ugh. What a nightmare. How the hell am I going to find Freddie Mercury? Until that is, I come out of the tube station, turn around and am greeted by a 15 foot, gold statue of Freddie Mercury. Dang. Talk about monumental. His eyes more brilliant than I expected and his face more gorgeous, Danny tells me he's going to treat me to a night of fun. Done. I'm in.
We, and a few of his friends start at one pub and then hit up a Texas style bar. They did quite a good job of it and I felt like I was in the middle of America whilst in the middle of London. Johnny Cash on the juke box. Beer in the belly. Great times.
Can I not make an ass of myself? Of course not. It wouldn't be the same.
So we're all sitting around a table. Me, Danny and his London friends. Bullshitting, talking about life, when suddenly Danny asks me for a kiss. It was quite out of the blue but I decided, what the hell. "A kiss? Sure!" and kissed him good and hard. This brought the conversation to a halt. When I pulled back, everyone, Danny and all his friends are giving me the exact same look of utter confusion. And in that silent pause I realized that Danny had asked me if I wanted KIDS.
Awk. Ward. Heh....heh...ayee.
Alas, the evening went on and eventually ended with us rushing to the bus in the wee hours of the morning. A fevered goodbye as the bus pulled away, I left my sweet Australian internet crush outside a Texas bar somewhere on the streets of London town.
And that is Danny Piert, a boy I will always willingly meet under Freddie Mercury and forcefully kiss.
These Are My Cards. How Was My Poker Face?
Written June 23, 2008
I want to start this off by saying "Fuck you, I'm in my 20s."
Any good personal growth starts off with "fuck you", right?
I suppose I'm on the defensive because I'm worried that we're not all human and you won't get it. Of course, we are all human, we all spend intervals in our days mentally torturing ourself and you will absolutely get it.
I'm in a time. I'm in a zone. I'm in a space. It's what you do when you're in your 20s and act like Oprah. Such as I do. I'm feeling very 'Oprah'. I'm in a state of puzzlement, growth, whatever the hell you wanna call it - that's where I am.
I took this week off to check in with myself. Recently I had some major life plans change and when someone asked me what my plan was now, I had absolutely no idea. Well you can't live with absolutely no idea. So I just wanted to kind of have some re-arrangement time. Some "get your shit together" time as some might say.
So as it was, I was already feeling out of order. My deck needed some shuffling for sure. Then, as MySpace was kind enough to tell me, my ex-husband got remarried. Oh. Ok. And a photo to go with it? Lovely. The last time I saw him looking dapper, standing next to a pretty little gal in a wedding dress, the pretty little gal was me. So this was new. And visually perplexing.
Instantly I had one of those dreamed up conversations that takes place somewhere in the middle of what looks like Purgatory with the two of us standing there:
"I'm in love and happily married. Where are you at?"
"Oh... I'm uhh... well I'm just over here...um, aimlessly wandering life."
And because life is shades of gray, I'm ok to say that I am extremely excited for him, happy with where I am at, sad for the couple we once were, loving and regretting parts of the past, and incredibly stoked for the future. All in one big ball. And while part of the reason why we're not together is because I needed to aimlessly wander life - it's gotten a little old. Time to wrap it up.
So here I am. In the Oprah Zone. Even reading an Oprah Book Club book. And can I just stop here to give you a piece of advice. When you're connecting with a book and really relating to it's main character, it's probably not a good idea to look up reviews of said book.
And I quote: "She is the most vapid, narcicistic, insecure, self-absorbed, spoiled brat I have ever had to listen to. I could not wait to get her whiny, foolish voice out of my head."
Dot. Dot. Dot.
Although I've said it myself before. This term self help is just another way to say self obsessed, self absorbed. But if you go on this trip, hopefully you make it worth while by coming back with better function and production in the overall world. I know listen to me, I'm fucking Ghandi already. Give me time, Deepak Chopra, I'll show you.
But right now this is me. This is my hand of cards. A few years ago I once asked Rob, "Am I crazy or is this just my 20s?" His answer, I will never forget:
"a little bit of column A, and a little bit of column B."
I want to start this off by saying "Fuck you, I'm in my 20s."
Any good personal growth starts off with "fuck you", right?
I suppose I'm on the defensive because I'm worried that we're not all human and you won't get it. Of course, we are all human, we all spend intervals in our days mentally torturing ourself and you will absolutely get it.
I'm in a time. I'm in a zone. I'm in a space. It's what you do when you're in your 20s and act like Oprah. Such as I do. I'm feeling very 'Oprah'. I'm in a state of puzzlement, growth, whatever the hell you wanna call it - that's where I am.
I took this week off to check in with myself. Recently I had some major life plans change and when someone asked me what my plan was now, I had absolutely no idea. Well you can't live with absolutely no idea. So I just wanted to kind of have some re-arrangement time. Some "get your shit together" time as some might say.
So as it was, I was already feeling out of order. My deck needed some shuffling for sure. Then, as MySpace was kind enough to tell me, my ex-husband got remarried. Oh. Ok. And a photo to go with it? Lovely. The last time I saw him looking dapper, standing next to a pretty little gal in a wedding dress, the pretty little gal was me. So this was new. And visually perplexing.
Instantly I had one of those dreamed up conversations that takes place somewhere in the middle of what looks like Purgatory with the two of us standing there:
"I'm in love and happily married. Where are you at?"
"Oh... I'm uhh... well I'm just over here...um, aimlessly wandering life."
And because life is shades of gray, I'm ok to say that I am extremely excited for him, happy with where I am at, sad for the couple we once were, loving and regretting parts of the past, and incredibly stoked for the future. All in one big ball. And while part of the reason why we're not together is because I needed to aimlessly wander life - it's gotten a little old. Time to wrap it up.
So here I am. In the Oprah Zone. Even reading an Oprah Book Club book. And can I just stop here to give you a piece of advice. When you're connecting with a book and really relating to it's main character, it's probably not a good idea to look up reviews of said book.
And I quote: "She is the most vapid, narcicistic, insecure, self-absorbed, spoiled brat I have ever had to listen to. I could not wait to get her whiny, foolish voice out of my head."
Dot. Dot. Dot.
Although I've said it myself before. This term self help is just another way to say self obsessed, self absorbed. But if you go on this trip, hopefully you make it worth while by coming back with better function and production in the overall world. I know listen to me, I'm fucking Ghandi already. Give me time, Deepak Chopra, I'll show you.
But right now this is me. This is my hand of cards. A few years ago I once asked Rob, "Am I crazy or is this just my 20s?" His answer, I will never forget:
"a little bit of column A, and a little bit of column B."
Dearest Local Retailer.
Written August 8, 2009
I have a bit of a concern because I think you seem to have forgotten about me. Which is odd because I have money to burn and adore dressing myself with new clothes as soon as my paycheck arrives. Sometimes, I go mad and blow my paycheck before it even arrives. I'm the woman who's been approved for a visa and yet still has the lack of control like a teenager. Which means when I go on these black out shopping binges, I can wrack my visa up so high the minimum payment is daunting enough. Forget the overall balance. (I do, trust me, it feels better.)
But let me remind you, Mr. Retailer, I am a woman. Not a teenager on a budget. These thick legs, wide hips and round bottom usually tend to work well for me - until that is, I walk into your store. Where are these 5'9, 105 pound stick figured women you're designing for? You can't show off your jeans when you're puking in the bathroom.
How is 0 or 00 a size? How can I be holding something in my hand that says 0? Nothing is Nothing. I can't hold nothing. Mothers will have to change what they tell their daughters. "Never aspire to amount to nothing - unless of course you're going shopping." It's funny, on some rating scales 8, 9, 10...these are all good numbers. On your rating scale Mr. Retailer I'm a fat cow.
And while I've got you listening, I don't want to hide my shape either. These angular, boxy, cloth with a hole for the head sheet things you're making for us don't entice me either. I am not ashamed of being a woman. I am not ashamed of eating. So don't punish me with mom jeans and cardigan sets.
Contrary to popular belief, you might need to sit down for this one, I LIKE my hips. I LIKE my fat bottom, I LIKE my small waist. I don't actually want to be a size 0. Stop marketing these women, these sizes and these ideals to me. At the end of the day all I want from a shopping trip is a couple of buttery croissants and a few tight pencil skirts to go with it!
I close my letter to you now with the hopes of your understanding. While my anticipation of shopping is burning up, Mr. Retailer, what your stocking your stores with is cooling my visa down. Give it a whirl.
Love and Concern,
Tara Sue.
I have a bit of a concern because I think you seem to have forgotten about me. Which is odd because I have money to burn and adore dressing myself with new clothes as soon as my paycheck arrives. Sometimes, I go mad and blow my paycheck before it even arrives. I'm the woman who's been approved for a visa and yet still has the lack of control like a teenager. Which means when I go on these black out shopping binges, I can wrack my visa up so high the minimum payment is daunting enough. Forget the overall balance. (I do, trust me, it feels better.)
But let me remind you, Mr. Retailer, I am a woman. Not a teenager on a budget. These thick legs, wide hips and round bottom usually tend to work well for me - until that is, I walk into your store. Where are these 5'9, 105 pound stick figured women you're designing for? You can't show off your jeans when you're puking in the bathroom.
How is 0 or 00 a size? How can I be holding something in my hand that says 0? Nothing is Nothing. I can't hold nothing. Mothers will have to change what they tell their daughters. "Never aspire to amount to nothing - unless of course you're going shopping." It's funny, on some rating scales 8, 9, 10...these are all good numbers. On your rating scale Mr. Retailer I'm a fat cow.
And while I've got you listening, I don't want to hide my shape either. These angular, boxy, cloth with a hole for the head sheet things you're making for us don't entice me either. I am not ashamed of being a woman. I am not ashamed of eating. So don't punish me with mom jeans and cardigan sets.
Contrary to popular belief, you might need to sit down for this one, I LIKE my hips. I LIKE my fat bottom, I LIKE my small waist. I don't actually want to be a size 0. Stop marketing these women, these sizes and these ideals to me. At the end of the day all I want from a shopping trip is a couple of buttery croissants and a few tight pencil skirts to go with it!
I close my letter to you now with the hopes of your understanding. While my anticipation of shopping is burning up, Mr. Retailer, what your stocking your stores with is cooling my visa down. Give it a whirl.
Love and Concern,
Tara Sue.
Burn After Reading.
Written September 23, 2008
I don't have a complaint about the movie. Obviously, the movie was good. Boys and girls alike have a hard on for Malkovich. Although, his mouth is going kinda funny... age? I dunno. Frances Macdormand, love. Brad Pitt and George Clooney were pretty funny. But we can always bank on the Rat Pack v2.0, right?
The formula works, Coen Brothers plus decent cast = pretty much the best you can expect from American Cinema.
And that's what I came to talk about. Alright, so here you are, going to the movies.
You get all geared up... thinking about the popcorn, the little fuckin' magazine you pick up. Maybe you'll get an answer right on their crappy trivia. Figure out the face before the 10 seconds is up. Whatever. You're excited. A little, you know you are.
You're waiting for the best part, the movie - no. The Previews. Yes.
Honestly, I need to know how much more action FBI/CIA crap can the universe withstand before it implodes on itself? Who is watching this? It's the equivalent of Big Momma's House for white people. It's insulting. Next.
Some fucking end of the world shite with Julianne Moore. Everyone's blind. The world is ending. End. of. Story. Again, insulted.
Shouldn't she be insulted? Wasn't her last movie a weak plotted end of the world (non)fear inducing piece of shit? Who is watching this crap? Why is there ALWAYS a scene of people standing in the middle of a desolate, yet major city street!? How many times can I see empty London or empty New York regurgitated at me again and again and again. I get it. I'm terrified.
Like you don't feel a little bit cheated? You must. You must realize this shit is sending us on a straight path to double speak '1984' style. The bastards are you getting you down while you watch movies about the bastards getting you down. It's uncanny, really.
It's clear to me though, on a whole, we don't get it. It's like when I started laughing my ass off at a Lord of The Rings movie. Trust me - never will a room of 100 people turn on you and hate you more than when you insult their movie genre. Sam and Frodo pillow fight - I thought it was funny. I thought we were all gonna laugh.
It's not funny though, it's sad. I bust myself to give you 20 bucks for 2 hours in a chair that hurts my ass only to see the same shit I saw last year. And the year before. Let's try harder, no? I mean the world is ending, at the very least couldn't we go down on a good script?
Open your eyes. Burn After Reading? Flush after watching.
I don't have a complaint about the movie. Obviously, the movie was good. Boys and girls alike have a hard on for Malkovich. Although, his mouth is going kinda funny... age? I dunno. Frances Macdormand, love. Brad Pitt and George Clooney were pretty funny. But we can always bank on the Rat Pack v2.0, right?
The formula works, Coen Brothers plus decent cast = pretty much the best you can expect from American Cinema.
And that's what I came to talk about. Alright, so here you are, going to the movies.
You get all geared up... thinking about the popcorn, the little fuckin' magazine you pick up. Maybe you'll get an answer right on their crappy trivia. Figure out the face before the 10 seconds is up. Whatever. You're excited. A little, you know you are.
You're waiting for the best part, the movie - no. The Previews. Yes.
Honestly, I need to know how much more action FBI/CIA crap can the universe withstand before it implodes on itself? Who is watching this? It's the equivalent of Big Momma's House for white people. It's insulting. Next.
Some fucking end of the world shite with Julianne Moore. Everyone's blind. The world is ending. End. of. Story. Again, insulted.
Shouldn't she be insulted? Wasn't her last movie a weak plotted end of the world (non)fear inducing piece of shit? Who is watching this crap? Why is there ALWAYS a scene of people standing in the middle of a desolate, yet major city street!? How many times can I see empty London or empty New York regurgitated at me again and again and again. I get it. I'm terrified.
Like you don't feel a little bit cheated? You must. You must realize this shit is sending us on a straight path to double speak '1984' style. The bastards are you getting you down while you watch movies about the bastards getting you down. It's uncanny, really.
It's clear to me though, on a whole, we don't get it. It's like when I started laughing my ass off at a Lord of The Rings movie. Trust me - never will a room of 100 people turn on you and hate you more than when you insult their movie genre. Sam and Frodo pillow fight - I thought it was funny. I thought we were all gonna laugh.
It's not funny though, it's sad. I bust myself to give you 20 bucks for 2 hours in a chair that hurts my ass only to see the same shit I saw last year. And the year before. Let's try harder, no? I mean the world is ending, at the very least couldn't we go down on a good script?
Open your eyes. Burn After Reading? Flush after watching.
Worst Possible Outcome.
Written in Haste, May 14th, 2009
Ok. Let me start with a disclaimer to all mothers. Because I don't want to cause any offense. I've said it before and I'll say it again we women have different paths in life. Mine is a childless one. Your children or your baby bumps are phenomenal. Power to you. It's just when I personally think of having children I like there to be a paper bag within arms reach in cases of hyperventilation.
So now that that's out of the way we can talk about the worst fucking nightmare imaginable. Have y'all seen this show on TLC 'I Didn't Know I Was Pregnant'?
Basically what happens is a woman goes to the hospital with intense cramping thinking her appendix has ruptured or some simple bullshit and every fucking time a baby comes out. ARE YOU KIDDING ME? One woman, ok one woman! even sat down on the toilet to take a massive painful shit, turned back to look and a crying baby was staring back at her! ARE YOU KIDDING ME?!
TLC has got me believing I can't even take a shit now without the threat of a CHILD being the outcome? This is insane! This is worse than a home invasion. Because this thing has unknowingly invaded your body for 9 FUCKING MONTHS and now that you've found out about it it's crying in your arms and wants to be fucking fed! Fuck off with that shit.
The problem here, aside from the fact that one minute you're in abdominal pain and going to the hospital, the next thing you know you have a fucking kid. Explain that sick call to your boss. Ok but aside from that shock - what are you going to do with it? See a girl like me, finds out she's pregnant makes a phone call or two, it's over it's done and we all call it a day and go on about our childless lives. No one needs to know. Sweep that shit under the rug or put it on the shelf with all the other fucked up shit that make you a bad woman. Whatever, it's done.
But this! What are you going to do? You've got a child in your arms and 10 people clammered around you. Can you freak the dick out and beg to have it taken out of your sight? Is that kosher? Is "um, so ... how does adoption work?" ok to be the first thing that comes out of your mouth? Second only to "Fuck! Shit! Motherfucker! I want to diiieeee!"
You can't hide that shit from people! Everyone knows!
And what about your boyfriend? Because on the TLC show he's always panicked and clueless rushing around to help his woman with her cramping, shitting, abdominal issues and suddenly there's a fucking BABY. I mean at least if he wants no part of it - if you found out the normal way - he has a few weeks to convince you to let him kick you in the gut. At the very least leave you. What if you're totally into this baby fiasco and he's like "uh, I want no part of this." How utterly dreadful. Now you've gone into the hospital with what you thought was intense food poisoning and you've come out a single mother!
WORST POSSIBLE OUTCOME EVER. I'm never eating shellfish again!
I want to see me on this show. I want to see a young woman who freaks the fuck out and says "This can't be happening. No no. I have a meeting first thing tomorrow - get this shit out of my face! No. I ain't taking no fucking baby!" That's the reality tv I want to see.
Seriously. I keep baby testing in business single handedly. I'm already a fucking basket case when I think shit could be going sideways. Like the First Response commercials claims it can do - I want to know the MOMENT it happens. The moment that egg has been grazed, my hand is on fucking speed dial to the closest OBGYN within walking distance. After this show, I'm going to get gas while eating my salad too fast and think my fucking life is over.
Can't TLC do a show about normal nightmares that could happen in real life? Like a half an hour of people's teeth falling out? I could handle that easier than this. Worst show ever.
Ok. Let me start with a disclaimer to all mothers. Because I don't want to cause any offense. I've said it before and I'll say it again we women have different paths in life. Mine is a childless one. Your children or your baby bumps are phenomenal. Power to you. It's just when I personally think of having children I like there to be a paper bag within arms reach in cases of hyperventilation.
So now that that's out of the way we can talk about the worst fucking nightmare imaginable. Have y'all seen this show on TLC 'I Didn't Know I Was Pregnant'?
Basically what happens is a woman goes to the hospital with intense cramping thinking her appendix has ruptured or some simple bullshit and every fucking time a baby comes out. ARE YOU KIDDING ME? One woman, ok one woman! even sat down on the toilet to take a massive painful shit, turned back to look and a crying baby was staring back at her! ARE YOU KIDDING ME?!
TLC has got me believing I can't even take a shit now without the threat of a CHILD being the outcome? This is insane! This is worse than a home invasion. Because this thing has unknowingly invaded your body for 9 FUCKING MONTHS and now that you've found out about it it's crying in your arms and wants to be fucking fed! Fuck off with that shit.
The problem here, aside from the fact that one minute you're in abdominal pain and going to the hospital, the next thing you know you have a fucking kid. Explain that sick call to your boss. Ok but aside from that shock - what are you going to do with it? See a girl like me, finds out she's pregnant makes a phone call or two, it's over it's done and we all call it a day and go on about our childless lives. No one needs to know. Sweep that shit under the rug or put it on the shelf with all the other fucked up shit that make you a bad woman. Whatever, it's done.
But this! What are you going to do? You've got a child in your arms and 10 people clammered around you. Can you freak the dick out and beg to have it taken out of your sight? Is that kosher? Is "um, so ... how does adoption work?" ok to be the first thing that comes out of your mouth? Second only to "Fuck! Shit! Motherfucker! I want to diiieeee!"
You can't hide that shit from people! Everyone knows!
And what about your boyfriend? Because on the TLC show he's always panicked and clueless rushing around to help his woman with her cramping, shitting, abdominal issues and suddenly there's a fucking BABY. I mean at least if he wants no part of it - if you found out the normal way - he has a few weeks to convince you to let him kick you in the gut. At the very least leave you. What if you're totally into this baby fiasco and he's like "uh, I want no part of this." How utterly dreadful. Now you've gone into the hospital with what you thought was intense food poisoning and you've come out a single mother!
WORST POSSIBLE OUTCOME EVER. I'm never eating shellfish again!
I want to see me on this show. I want to see a young woman who freaks the fuck out and says "This can't be happening. No no. I have a meeting first thing tomorrow - get this shit out of my face! No. I ain't taking no fucking baby!" That's the reality tv I want to see.
Seriously. I keep baby testing in business single handedly. I'm already a fucking basket case when I think shit could be going sideways. Like the First Response commercials claims it can do - I want to know the MOMENT it happens. The moment that egg has been grazed, my hand is on fucking speed dial to the closest OBGYN within walking distance. After this show, I'm going to get gas while eating my salad too fast and think my fucking life is over.
Can't TLC do a show about normal nightmares that could happen in real life? Like a half an hour of people's teeth falling out? I could handle that easier than this. Worst show ever.
No I Don't Dive.
I don't dive.
I'm not a fan of divers.
They aren't fucking gymnasts.
If I knew that I would hear "So...are you a diver?" About 5 times a day (seriously.) I would have never put them there.
"No."
"So what do they mean then?"
Oh...pull up a chair...let's have a personal chat shall we? Just because everyone and their goddamn dog on Miami Ink decides to let us in on the genius reasoning of their tattoo...doesn't mean you're free to ask me about mine. They aren't about my grandfather's time in the war. The don't represent resilience, strength or serenity. Don't fucking worry about it.
Although someone once thought they were Russian ballet dancers and that actually made my day so good I cursed myself for not having thought of it myself.
I'm straying. The point is I'm not a diver, it's has NOTHING to do with diving and no, I won't be going into what it has to do with.
However I am taking suggestions for comebacks. The best we've come up with is:
"Yeah, an Olympic diver actually."
"No, my parents died in a diving accent." - . . .
"First tattoo I found on the net."
"I don't actually remember getting those..."
Tits.
I'm not a fan of divers.
They aren't fucking gymnasts.
If I knew that I would hear "So...are you a diver?" About 5 times a day (seriously.) I would have never put them there.
"No."
"So what do they mean then?"
Oh...pull up a chair...let's have a personal chat shall we? Just because everyone and their goddamn dog on Miami Ink decides to let us in on the genius reasoning of their tattoo...doesn't mean you're free to ask me about mine. They aren't about my grandfather's time in the war. The don't represent resilience, strength or serenity. Don't fucking worry about it.
Although someone once thought they were Russian ballet dancers and that actually made my day so good I cursed myself for not having thought of it myself.
I'm straying. The point is I'm not a diver, it's has NOTHING to do with diving and no, I won't be going into what it has to do with.
However I am taking suggestions for comebacks. The best we've come up with is:
"Yeah, an Olympic diver actually."
"No, my parents died in a diving accent." - . . .
"First tattoo I found on the net."
"I don't actually remember getting those..."
Tits.
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