“fucking video blog”

One thing that’s kickass about the internet is that I can tell what people Googled in order to find my blog (well, it says “search engine,” but if y’all are going around Altavista-ing things then we need to have a talk).

I’d hate to see the disappointment on the face of the person that searched “fucking video blog” and found my blog instead.

No Shave November is coming to an end as of tomorrow, and I will be celebrating by continuing to not shave my legs until the rest of time or until my legs get hot, whichever comes first. I used to lament wearing a bike helmet for the loss of the “wind through the hair” sensation, but now my leg hair is long enough to blow in the wind and reproduce that freeing feeling.

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I think people assume that I’m trying to make a statement or some shit, but in reality I just got in the shower one day and thought, “I don’t feel like shaving my legs.” And then the next day the same thing happened. And then the day after that, and all the other days after that. The problem is that when I do decide my legs are getting hot, I’ll have to take like a week off from work to shave them.

Hope y’all are enjoying this Seattle-ass weather. What the fuck.

 

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Seasonal Affective Disorder

I’m moving right along with Little Women. It’s so fucking charming that it makes me want to bake a whole goddamn cake just for funsies. Or maybe just eat one.

google_sketchAnd this is the Google Doodle today! It’s like I have ESPN or something.

Seasonal Affective Disorder, whose acronym seems so on the nose that it’s almost inappropriate, is actually less SAD and more APATHETICFATIGUEDBOREDANXIOUSLISTLESSHOPELESSSEDENTARY. For me anyway. For example, it’s taking me literal actual hours to write this fucking post.

We’re singing Beethoven’s Ninth in choir which I was really excited about, but as it turns out, singing it brings about this unfortunate paradox in which your throat is somehow dry while simultaneously fifty percent of the air in front of your mouth is filled with spit. The piece has no chill whatsoever. But neither did Beethoven. I mean, look at him:

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That dude has definitely spent some quality time with a Fleshlight.

Speaking of Fleshlight, I just Wikipedia’d that shit (if you only knew the internet spirals I’ve descended into over the years) and learned this:

“In 2011, the company that manufactures Fleshlight sent a complimentary package of its products to the members of the SEALs team that killed Osama bin Laden.”

I’ll let y’all meditate on that. Enjoy this shitty-ass weather, friends.

I have my period, Thanksgiving edition

In the spirit of gratitude and kinsfolk and passing on our family history to future generations, my mom recounted our birth stories on Thanksgiving night in riveting detail.

Just to ensure that none of us forgot about it, the Circle of Life nudged its unwelcome ass back into the conversation by delivering me a whole goddamn can of tomato soup a day early. Which, when you only have three weeks out of every four free, is no insignificant chunk (forgive the pun) of time.

We went thrift store shopping on Black Friday because we’re broke down as fuck, but everything I tried on made me look like overstuffed sausage casing because of my period. If you think you’re bloated after Thanksgiving dinner, try having your period the day after Thanksgiving. It’s like when you try to stuff a sleeping bag back into its original sack.

Ugh, can I not go back to New York though? My uncle, who’s from there, says “Love it or leave it.” If everyone followed that advice, New York would just be the population of Donald Trump’s country club plus that one fruit seller on Wall Street that harasses women about grapes. Nobody who has to take the subway just unconditionally loves their life all the time. Especially that dude that had a seizure in front of me that one time.

Anyhow, feeling #blessed with the kickass family I have that all voted for Hillary, even my two grandparents from Texas who voted Republican their whole lives. I guess that’s what happens when both of your kids are queer as fuck. Bye!

 

Saturday

Every time I watch Project Runway, I’m always like, “Wow, that is the fugliest thing I’ve ever seen.” And then the judges are like, “That. is. stunning.”

I’ve been riding my bike to work the past few days, so I don’t have the usual stock of whackos, whose imaginative actions give me plenty of fodder for writing here. Riding the train also gives me the motivation to read, which gives me the motivation to write.

I started reading Little Women, and I’m not sure I’ve ever identified with a sentiment more than “began to knit with all her might.”

My hot mess of a roommate is eating vegemite with stale taco shells this morning.

“I think your dress is on inside-out.” -Other roommate to said hot mess.

That’s it. I’ll try harder next time.

 

 

I can’t stop watching Death Row Stories on Netflix

Today I saw Dr. Strange, a documentary in which Tilda Swinton is the most powerful person on earth and is also immortal. Incidentally, this film featured two principal actors named “Benedict,” which has to be the least believable aspect of the movie.

I’m feeling extraordinarily uninteresting today (not an unusual or inaccurate feeling for me), so here’s a brief video of some chickens playing a xylophone.

I <3 NY

Here’s an important bit of knowledge for those of you attempting to ride the subway with consistency without being horrified constantly: if the train is packed, do not go into the sole empty car. It could be something as innocuous as no air conditioning, but more than likely it’s an exploded rat or a pair of soiled underpants. This goes for seats too – if the train is so packed that you’re practically spooning the person in front of you, but there’s an empty seat, the chances are that someone peed, shat, or vomited on it. Or all three.

When I boarded a relatively crowded train this evening, I inspected a suspiciously empty seat, which turned out to have a mysterious brown substance smeared all over it, clearly a result of someone’s unsuccessful attempt to wipe it off. A lady tentatively approached the seat and I thought smugly, “What a chump.”

Then she reached into her bag and delicately unfolded three disposable napkins, placed them over said unidentifiable substance, and sat her ass down on this gloriously empty seat! This bitch brought her own motherfucking ass protection onto the train. Bowing the fuck down.

As it turned out, the real chump was still to come. When said genius boss bitch left her throne, she graciously left behind her protective layer of bodega napkins behind. Shrewd and generous, our future queen is.

Her efforts were in vain, as a lumbering man with an unfortunate combover got off the R train and trundled across the platform, boorishly swept the protective napkins aside, and plopped straight down onto the brownish matter.

Anyway, two other quintessential New York moments that happened today: I made eye contact with a dude that was peeing on my street, at like eight o fucking clock. Like, dude, I don’t want to meet eyes with you while you’re touching your penis. Gross. And my rent is increasing by a hundred bucks. So yeah, fuck New York!

 

Have y’all seen Moonlight yet

As has been almost pathologically repeated, as if the entire country were in an obsessive compulsive ritual loop in an attempt to stave off our frightfully imminent collision with the proverbial sun, this past week sucked a bag of dicks.

I’m finding renewed solace in the music, books, films, and TV shows of women and people of color post-election – and it also probably doesn’t hurt that my brain chemicals are no longer in a constant state of “HOLY SHIT A HORDE OF ARMY ANTS IS SLOWLY DEVOURING MY FUCKING FAMILY, AND NOT ONLY ARE THEY ALL DEAD, BUT I ALSO AM IN DANGER OF BEING EATEN,” which I think is a pretty solid description of what simultaneous anxiety and depression feel like. So I guess that’s an update on Lexapro.

Meanwhile, so many things happen each day that there’s a backlog of *fun blog topics* occupying my brain – from watching a rat conspicuously dragging a banana peel into the sewer (I’m not trying to subscribe to the politics of respectability, but way to adhere to a fucking stereotype, rat), to marching to Trump tower with my mom, to seeing a laughably earnest documentary written, directed, and narrated (with extraordinary lack of skill) by James Patterson. How can one choose between such varied yet equally important topics?

More than ever I believe that art and laughter in conjunction with action are the only ways to get by during this difficult time. We have to keep ourselves together if we’re going to help each other. I feel rejuvenated in my desire to both create and absorb media that means something and connects me with others. So I will keep writing and I will keep trying to make other people (and myself) laugh.

By the way, someone told me that I suck at promoting myself. So if you like this blog and know someone else who might like it too, please feel free to share it with them. Or don’t, and just tell them about your most recent poop, because if they’d like this blog they’d probably like hearing about that too. Also, if you have feedback for me I always appreciate it, as the primary reason for this blog is practice.

Enjoy this picture:

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