Wednesday, August 6, 2008

my lasagna days are over

i am reading a book called my horizontal life by the comedienne chelsea handler. it has been reccomended to me by several of my friends, saying that she's 'just like' me and i write just like her.

i had put it off for a minute, because i scoffed at the fact that there was someone lurking around the corner that could be considered 'my style' of writing, under the assumption that i, in my own right, am the most successful writer that has yet to publish anything of public desire. i don't write like her; it must be that she writes like me, because the former is ludicrous to believe.

i am humbled to say that chelsea handler is amazing and while it's true that we do hold many similar traits in personality, she is undoubtedly more settled in her career, as she has her own television program on syndicated cable as well as two books published as national bestsellers. i have two cats and several thousand blogs. you do the math.

its always been a dream of mine to publish a book of essays, that people will regard with wit and charm, one that makes them sit back in their chair after reading one and understand that i have a keen apperception of human nature. or, in layman's terms, that i'm extremely sensitive to the ways of thought and i can relate to every single person that finds my shit interesting. but i have also always regarded this as a crapshoot, like how i've always wanted to be a singer. i've always envisioned that career to start in some dingy smoke filled bar, singing a drunken rendition of "at last" by etta james to strangers. except, in a twist of plot, one of the strangers is visiting from LA, and he's a record executive who was blown away by my performance, and i get ripped from my stagnant life as a struggling dancer and shot to superstardom with my brand new hit album, "the way things was".

this has been my dream for a very long time, and i think about it when i'm in the shower, which, subsequently, is one of the only places i'm not scared to sing. the other is my car. with my windows up and soundproofed. i told my mother i wanted to be a singer when i was seven, and she laughed a little, saying "you should keep your day job..." it never occurred to me that i could ask for lessons. it was just apparrent to everyone else that i sucked, and so i kept my mouth shut around others so i wouldn't be told that again.

anyway. i have always wanted to publish a book of essays and dumb poetry about how i feel inadequate, how i'm lost, and how i feel about love. these are sarcastic tales from the crypt, regarding life as something that was pitted against me from the beginning. maybe eventually, when i figure out what the hell i'm trying to say, i could actually send my stuff into a publisher and they wouldn't laugh at me, they'd just laugh at it instead, and tell me i had a check coming for 30,000 dollars plus royalties. i prefer things that way. i want to make alot of money, i just don't want to do anything for it, cause i'm lazy and not that creative.

i was recently part of a dvd taping for a comedian's christmas show. i was cast at the last minute, because one girl was forced to drop out, and so i didn't really look like the other girls. i was swimming in a sea of fake breasts and hair extensions, listening to their nightmare stories of dancing for a bevvy of nfl/nhl/nba teams. i sat in the corner of the dressing room for the first day reading my book, rolling my eyes when i heard complaints out of thier collegen injected lips. i hate to be a bitch, but i have never liked professional dance squads. knowing that's what gave us things like paula abdul's career makes me wary of the talent that is contracted before. i wanted to slap them upside the head, because i am a trained ballet dancer, and i have been bludgeoning my toes and vomiting up meals before any of them ever even knew who michael vic was, which makes me better and more dedicated to my art than all of them combined.*this of course is my personal opinion of my inherent greatness and shouldn't be considered popular agreement.

one of the girls was a small blonde, despite her gregarious breasts, which were fake and implanted at 18. and when i say small, i mean she could be fukked doggy style by a pedophile and he would never know the difference if she never flashed her tits to him. so anyway, she looked ridiculous standing next to me, because i you see, am a giant, and the first words she said to me were with a sigh, "well shit on a stick, aren't you just the most prettiest thang, with your legs 'n shit. i always wanted most to be tall and shit." i thought to myself, "that's funny. i've always wished i would stop getting confused for a transvestite at gay bars and actually fit into a size not considered 'XL'". i smiled and said she was sweet. and then i found out she was bat shit crazy.

over the course of the following two days, she would say things that could be considered 'out there', and by 'out there' i mean way too forward and vulgar for people you had met not ten hours before. the first day i found out that she was on hormonal treatments (birth control... never let a woman say otherwise and when you hear this, run; it means their hormones are either way too high or way too low and that never = sanity) and that she was alwo prescribed zoloft and time release xanax, among a plethora of other pills and vitamins she had in her bag. she also kept rubbing abreva on a fever blister on her top lip. open lesions on your lips... it makes close quarters even closer. on the second day, she announced that she had forgotton her bra AND panties, and that she was on her period. i must mention that our costume was short cutoff jeans. that camel toe was one that america did not want to see, or at least me. i didn't really care if america liked it or not, it was gonna happen, and i was putting the blinders on from the start. she also had convieniently forgotton to shave. anything. i half expected to take out her glass eye and clean it off in front of us.

i don't know if you've ever had the fine experience of hearing someone refer their womanly salve as "pussy juice", but it made me cringe and not as proud to bear children. she said that. she said, "well gawsh, gurls, i sure hope 'merica don't see my pussy juice leak through these jeans. do ya think the wardrobe lady will let us keep this shit?" had she explained it that way to the wardrobe lady, they probably would have paid her to take them with her. gross. this was among the plethora of verbal diarrhea pouring from her mouth, describing her vagina and the way it functions under different situations.

like sex. i have the pleasure to know that she queefs. if you aren't familiar with said "queef", let me lightly explain. it's s the expulsion of air from the vaginal canal. and she does it on a regular basis, twice as much during sex. i imagine then, that copulating with her must equate to fukking a small whoopee cushion with ginormous tits. she said her doctor told her it was normal for women to do it sometimes, but as much as she did she must have some other hole inside her that's taking in air (and all the STD's a girl could want) and releasing it on a more frequent basis. she assured us that it wasn't dangerous for her though.

whew. i was scared there for a second.

after the dvd was finally finished filming and all the pictures were taken and the elf shoes were stowed back into wardrobe, we walked across the street to her car, which, to her blantant anger and surprise, was not there anymore.

now, i must interrupt myself to tell you that she had parked in the same spot on the first day because she wasn't "gonna pay five whole bucks to park in a garage!!! fukk that!!" so she found a spot on the side of the road that was behind the camel truck (yes, there was a camel involved in the taping, don't ask me why). she didn't pay a meter and worried (out loud and frequently) that she was going to get towed. all day. and when she didn't, she assumed she'd be fine for the next day too, which she wasn't. they towed her, and upon discovery of this let out a string of curse words so vile it rivaled her "pussy juice" comment. i didn't want to remind her that not only had she parked illegally and not paid any sort of meter for twelve hours, she was also parked behind a seven foot tall camel that had to be loaded and unloaded twice during those twelve hours. so we went to the wrap party instead, her pouting and telling everyone in listening distance that she was sure as shit not gonna let those tow truck mother fukkers rip her off, and that she was gonna get her car without having to pay. we would see, she said. we would see.

i was taken aback that such a small and pretty little thing was so... so blatantly lewd. i'm not offended by much, and i was determined to get her drunk at the party and lose her so that i wouldn't hear anything else out of her mouth. i'm not always the brightest bulb on the porch, but come on... my brain hurt after she talked. she was so nice and sweet when she wasn't talking about disgusting bodily habits, that i wanted to be nice back to her. i couldn't help though, that she made me throw up in my mouth a little. a little honesty isn't all that bad, i just don't think it's necessary to cultivate everything you have, at all times of the day. at least, in such a vulgar manner.

i went for wine with will the other day and he cleared some shit up for me. a person can be honest all day long, but honestly, do we want all that honesty? i think that honesty is a great character trait and it's one that can be appreciated immensly. but that sweet pretty blonde with the ghonnorhea mouth is an example of brutal honesty in it's most raw and untouched form. it was as if those pills she took stripped her of the ability not to tell a lie or distinguish that it's not appropriate to say that the lasagna i'm eating looks like it was splattered in period blood. she said that. not me. i'm pretty sure my lasagna days are over. i swallowed too much honesty on that last (sound) bite.

will and i conceded that it's the delivery of honesty that makes it appropriate. even though i still think that if you are approaching the way you are to be honest then it is already altered from the get go. so therefore i have come to my own conclusion that it doesn't matter how fukkin honest you are, if you are polite. because one has nothing to do with the other. you wouldn't pay money to come hear me sing, even if it was drunken karaoke, which would never happen anyway. (i hate, hate, hate karaoke. but the one time i ever do it i hope to get a record deal. i live in a fantastical world.) i am honest about how i sound. i can hit a note every once in awhile that sounds delightful, the same way that certain ways blondie would turn her face made her look sweet, and doe-like. but the truth is, we don't want the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. go ahead and tell me i look good when i've been vomiting for two days. the white lie softens the image of my colorless and flacid body, wrapped around the toilet bowl, shaking with fever and repulsion. throw me a bone, right?

mmph. words manipulate everything; intelligence is regarded by the manner in which they are delivered. while chelsea handler can say the same thing that the sweet little blonde, i would rather spend time talking with the former instead of listening to the inane bullshit that came out of the latter. but when it comes down to it, they are both talking about being fukked. so chew on that.

for those that have made it through this essay successfully, you have probably learned nothing. but! you have at least put me at a higher esteem than someone who has the audacity to say the phrase "pussy juice" with all seriousness, and for that, i thank you. it makes me feel like i have published something that people can appreciate me for.



  1. I read a lot, but conversations happen more often than books I'm willing to read. I have to admit to not only speaking with someone similar to your blonde, but also being completely transfixed by the things which come out of her mouth. And, yes, it was another female. Maybe I'm old school, but I like politeness without docility, respect alongside honesty. Although, it's funny to hear your story, I'm hoping that your time with her is the exception and not the rule:)

  2. My name is Stephen Long and i would like to show you my personal experience with Zoloft.

    I am 40 years old. Have been on Zoloft for 2 years now. Zoloft certainly got rid of my depression and anxiety. It also helped me with sleeping and I did not gain any weight like others have. However I was younger when I tried this so perhaps my metabolism worked differently then. It was impossible to reach orgasm on this drug so I would sometimes delay taking my drug to give my body a mini wash out period and this helped. However, if I waited too long to take the tablet, I endured severe headaches and had to lie down. Fortunately, this was reversible as soon as I took the drug again. I eventually tapered off this drug thanks to my doctor's plan which worked perfectly. The main reason I gave up Zoloft is because at the time there were reports saying that long term use of it was dangerous.

    I have experienced some of these side effects -
    Sweatiness, loss of libido, EXTREME headaches if forget to take drug.

    I hope this information will be useful to others,
    Stephen Long


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