Soup du Jour

Blogging from work is weird. I get this half hour lunch break, and usually i would spend it reading underneath my favorite oak tree across the parking lot, but the weather has taken a sharp turn into fall, and my ass would get wet if I sat beneath that tree today.

So instead, I am sitting at a computer used by god knows how many individuals, typing on keyboard that had received god knows how many filthy fingers, clicking a mouse that has sat beneath many a polluted palm.

Gross, I know. Not unlike using the computers at your public library, possibly after someone has shat their pants in the seat beside you.

I suppose some more productive lunch break activities would be;

• Scanning the job boards for more substantial work, ie: career ( what's that word mean?)
• contemplating article ideas to potentially sell to one of the weeklies
• inking the comics for the next "success zine"
• taking a walk
• actually eating

Maybe part of my problem is that I would so much rather complain about all the things I want to but can't (won't) do. It's so much easier to talk a buch of rad shit than to do a bunch of rad shit.

Personally, I'm more capable of taking a rad shit than anything else.

Yet another thing I could spend my lunch break doing.

Crap (literal and figurative) aside, I am sitting here at this moderately gross computer, writing a moderately gross blog, wondering, yet again (you'll notice it's a theme) "what the fuck I am doing with my life?"

This morning, I almost cried when the ingredients I wanted to make soup with were unavailable. I almost cried at work. I had to put my head between my hands and lean on something. Who the fuck am I? What the hell kind of work ethic sets you to crying when there's no potatoes left for your baked potato soup?

Why do I care? I don't get a fucking "soup bonus". I'm not a prima donna, and I'm definitely not spoiled, I'm a hard worker, and I care about having a job, so I care about keeping my job. How does that translate to crying in a pantry over nothing?

(In case you're wondering, it has nothing to do with the menses. Beacuse, yes, the menses will get my tear ducts a percolatin', but that's not it, I promise.)

Am I really this unhappy? Fuck.

BTW, I made artichoke bisque, and it's awesome.

Fuck you facebook, you're breaking my heart.

I'm thinking of breaking up with technology. It's been cheating on me..WITH MY PARENTS!!!

Hello, all our mothers are on facebook. Why are our mothers all on facebook? Is this weird to anyone else? I don't need my mom reading all those personal quizzes I'm always taking about what "true-blood" character I am. .

Mom, stay the hell away from my facebook, and if you even think about "tweeting", I'm gonna break your computer by smashing it with my computer.


Similarly, I couldn't help but feel a little offended when my Dad got a iphone. What the hell does he need an iphone for? Here I am with a flip phone from the fucking 90s, and my 62 year old father is you-tubing Beyonce videos on his next generation i-fucking-phone.

Dad, if see you downloading anymore useless "apps" I'm throwing your iphone in the ocean.

Technology, stop giving my parents bedroom eyes, or i swear to god, I'll cut your dick off.

With respect to Bill Murray

I am unresponsive, barely able to identify the people who surround me. I am somehow on my feet, moving among them. I'm trying to acknowledge them, but the most I can manage are pained groans, grunts, sniffles etc. Sounds and smells are familiar, but I am associating them vaguely with discomfort and bitterness. The recognizable taste of sour bile, and coppery blood rises in my throat. Instead of alarm, it instead raises in me only the same malaise affiliated with all these aforementioned symptoms.

That's right ya'll, it's 7 am and I'm at work!

Yea, yea, I know, nobody really likes their jobs. that's why we've designated them "jobs" rather than "careers". Everybody stumbles blearily through their 20s and early 30s, lost in a string of meaningless 9-5 gigs, paycheck to paycheck, happy hour to happy hour. I accept there there are exceptions to the rule. Young upstarts who got into the ivy league of their choice, talented, driven individuals who succumbed to none of the chagrin I myself have nested in so deeply.

Seriously, fuck them. Fuck them and all their dumbass achievable goals.

To this day, I have not seen one former classmate on MTV. I have read no books penned by my so-called peers. There is not one supermodel or reality tv star among my graduating class.

However, all the marine biology majors, aspiring teachers and beauticians are now basking in the glow of their well won careers. Well, good for them. I'm sure they don't wake up each morning re-realizing the grim certainty of $10 an hour, that becomes maybe $8.50 after taxes, translating into rent, booze, and bills and nothing more. No investment, no equity, no new car, no vacations, no future.

It's groundhog day except not funny.

All of your dreams are bullshit. Everything you wanted as a child is never going to happen. Unless your ultimate dream was absolute mediocrity, or you got into the aforementioned ivy league school, you are completely fucked. Wanted kids before 30, but not before you got that dream career? You lost. Wanted to be a young fabulous mother, possibly write the great American novel from your cushy home office? You lost, you fucking loser.

I am finally accepting these facts. I will not be a young fabulous mother. I will not win an MTV music award. I will not pen the great American anything. The best i can do is wake up every morning, stumble through this god forsaken routine, and accept that tomorrow will be exactly the same.

Until my book deal.

Controversy face

Recently, I introduced the term "rape face" to my circle of friends. Several of the ladies I know and love picked up on the term immediately. Little definition was necessary, and they were able to take the new terminology forth, and use it in their everyday lives.

The gentlemen of the lot, they were a bit more apprehensive. They wondered, did they have a rape face? Were they looking at someone with a rape face? I attempted to assuage them, reassuring them that they all had likeable, even loveable faces.

To be clear, I am not really making light of forced sex, assault with cock, etc. I am simply calling out creepy-ass dudes for having creepy-ass faces. Let's just fucking call em like we see em okay? I'm not going to accommodate some socially stunted loser when his goddamn eyeballs are hanging out of his head shooting laser beams into my nipples.

People, please, don't get me wrong, these rape faces i speak of should not be confused with "felony face", "junkie face", or even the dreaded "adulterer face". All these faces, though they definitely share attributes, are essentially different.

Lets talk about what makes a legitimate "rape face", shall we?

First, the eyes. When you look into the eyes of a friendly companion, you feel warmth, compassion, humor, all the things you may find desirable in a persona grata. The eyes of old rapey over there are bulging out of his head with a feigned interest in every tiny mono-syllable that escapes your lips. The irises are veiled thinly from hyper attention to each minor movement of your face and upper body, darting from right to left eye to mouth to neck to chest to mouth to chest to mouth to chest to mouth (repeat indefinitely, or until you slap him)

The mouth of rapey la'rue is looser than a drunk japanese businessman on payday. He will tell you any damn fool thing that pops into his head. Personal tragedies? Check. Confidential family secrets? Check. Mundane news of the day? Check. He so desires your rapt attention, that he will run his mouth non-fucking-stop until you either palm his face and walk away, or palm his face and walk away.

Every time you walk past a rape face, you will hear a familiar intake of breath. He is sniffing your hair, girl. Your best bet at this point is to whip around, face him, and holler" ARE YOU SMELLING ME?". Regretfully, this will not deter Mr. Rape-ola, but it will expose his creepy-osity to all bystanders.

Creeps exist in all strata of society. Females of the species are perfectly capable of rape face. I myself could have been considered moderately rape-y at one time or another( insert liquor bottle heeere). Again, I'm not accusing anyone of sex crimes or assault of any kind, I'm merely pointing out a certain type of creep. A creep that I simply cannot abide. I mean, seriously, do you have a goddamn piss-boner? Why are you jumping around like that?

So there, i guess that about covers it. Chances are, you probably don't have a "rape face". It's far more likely you're just ugly. (unless you're my friend, everyone knows all my friends are fucking gorgeous)

ass-intervention

In two weeks, I will be celebrating (?) my 31st birthday. Maybe this year I can get my goddamn shit together. I think I'll start by making this birthday ALCOHOL FREE.

Admittedly, I love the sauce. I love knocking back beers with my bros, I love cocktailing the evening away with my ladies. Being soused has eased my transition from young idealist to bitter dowager so painlessly that I hardly even noticed my dreams withering away like old lady titties.

A few nights ago I accidentally butt-dialed my fiance while getting shitfaced with my buddy, Patrick. For those fortunate individuals who are not familiar with the term "butt-dial", let me enlighten you.
Butt-dialing is a phenomenon occurring when the pda-style phone is placed in the back pocket of jeans, with all of it's navigation buttons exposed, and when your drunk ass is sprawled on someones stoop, buttons can be activated and calls can be made.

Craig spent 20 or so minutes listening to me and Patrick drunkenly rant about such academic and inspirational topics as "puppets who puke" and "where the hell did all that beer go?"

That, however, was not the main issue, as butt dials are a part of life these days, bound to happen to any blackberry owning individual. The main issue was the embarrassment that shot through me when I heard that I had unknowingly drunk dialed my future husband.

What had I said? I had no idea. I could recall little of my evening on Patrick's porch.

But, this is no rare occurrence. In fact, I can hardly recall some of the best moments of my life. To me, celebration has become synonymous with fall down, laugh till you puke, chug-it-like-you-love-it, drrruuuunkkk. Now, that's not necessarily a bad thing, I mean, I'm pretty sure I still hold the Long Beach kegstand record. And It's not a bad feeling to have a hometown bartender remember your name after you've lived in a different state for 3 years.

My close personal relationship with beer is not the issue that I am dealing with on the eve of the anniversary of my 21st birthday.

At 31 years old, it is my opinion that the antics that were permissible, if not encouraged at 21, are no longer cute. Passing out on the bathroom floor at 21 is funny. Ha ha you learned something, shake it off, get ready for sociology or philosophy 101.

Passing out any floor at 31 is cause for alarm, possibly intervention.

I should know, at this point in my life, when i am no longer lubricating the social situation, but rather drowning it, choking it, inducing it to vomit, then letting it pass out on the bathroom floor.

My fabulous friend, booze, has been by my side for some of the best moments of my life. Sure, it's done me wrong a few times, but all good friends have their ups and downs. Lately though, those same libations have been leading me down a disgusting alley that smells like rat shit and hobo vomit.

That alley seemed so interesting at 21 years of age. That was before my beer goggles went all prescription on me.

Thus, 2 weeks from my 31st birthday, I will be forgoing the champagne shower, the cocktail marinade, the beer bath. I will be enjoying birthday activities that, at least this year, I will remember.

Wish me luck!