p.s. So long as the world keeps doing things like this once in a while until the world stops turning, I am certain that the human race is going to be okay.
p.p.s. My big New Year's resolution is to try the 'Build Your Own Hobbit Slam' at Denny's, so clearly 2013 is going to kick ass!
Tomorrow I will be all doom and gloom and whiny and bored as fuck of all the commercialism and mistletoe. Tomorrow I will be sad for those who have no family, no money, or no hope. Tomorrow I will be full, tired, and broke, and just want the holidays to be over.
Tonight though, I'm taking a bath, drinking high-priced beers, dropping beats, and feeling sorry for anyone who is missing out on this (currently solo) rap party in my kitchen.
Robin Williams is coming to town on some sort of "comedy tour", and I'm still deciding if I should puke in a box and mail it to his hotel room, or just go ahead and burn the whole hotel down.
Last night, I had every intention of going out on the town, like I used to so often in my youth. I painted my face, ran a brush through my hair, and struggled into pricey new mustard-yellow tights. Dylan and I took a cab uptown in -20C weather, and enjoyed a couple of delightful cocktails in my favorite hole-in-the-wall. There is a strange sense of camaraderie when you leave your house in this weather, like an unspoken respect for all other patrons that braved the elements to sip on a sidecar beside you on a toasty bar stool. We left to move on to the next place, but my heart just wasn't into it. Instead, Dylan foraged on, while I jumped in the next available cab and headed back home. I poured myself a fragrant bath, and whispered every word along to 'Smooth Operator'. I've never been too sure of what Sade meant when she mentioned a 'diamond life', but most of my life has been spent in pursuit of whatever it may be. While drying off, I caught the beginning of SNL, wherein Jamie Foxx introduced himself as 'Jamie Fiz-oxx', and launched into a routine about how 'black people are the new white people'. As I slipped into vanilla-scented sheets, I reminded myself that nobody really wants to deal with my bizarre social skills, or see my face in public, anymore anyway.
p.s. The Group Hug Tour touches down in Calgary this Saturday, and the white girl rapper inside of me couldn't be more excited. A few months ago, I ran into an old friend who mentioned that I didn't wear as many gold chains as I used to, but I can't think of a better excuse to dust off the collection.
p.p.s. After prying and prying, I found out that Dylan is getting me a cat for my birthday! I spend hours a night looking over photos of rescue cats and giggling. I am so excited.
p.p.p.s. I bought Banana beer last weekend! It was life-changing! Try it!
Sugar Plum:
-Would be useful at luring children into a dingy van.
-Sickly sweet.
-Faintly purpley, with a hint of dollar-store grape.
Candy Cane:
-I will be tasting this flavor in the back of my throat until the dayI die.
-Awful and pungent.
-Shockingly offensive. Like Santa ass-cracked a peppermint stick.
Gingerbread:
-Spice and soda do not quite belong together.
-Terrible shade of brown, similar to the color of factories and dead grass.
-Festive! Also, kind of weird!
Pear Tree:
-Once, a saleslady told me I was "pear shaped". Bitch.
-Lots of pear, no tree. Good call, Jones.
-Though vomit-colored, the least likely in the whole pack to actually make me vomit.
I love when Chris Hansen shows up to the Dateline NBC set with a sunglasses tan. It's like a giant fuck you to all those people that think he's strictly "pedophiles and scams".
Fuck you and your custom Wonka candy room.
Fuck all of those in your life that benefit from said candy room.
It's not fair, Nick Cannon. You host a terrible TV show that takes up 80% of NBC's valuable airwaves, star in Drumline, and bang Mariah Carey, and you're the one that deserves a custom candy room?
p.s. If I croak on the operating table tomorrow, and reincarnation is a real thing, then I hope I come back as an early 90's New Jack Swing video ho (as illustrated here and here).
Aside from my current life, I'm pretty sure it's the only way I'll be happy.
It is with deepest regret that we said our goodbyes yesterday to my oldest and dearest friend in the world.
Louise was the kindest, snuggliest cat ever, and truly saved my life on more than one occasion.
There will be a huge hole in our home and our hearts without her around.
Rest in peace, sweet kitty.
1) The terms "I just peed a little", and "I just threw up in my mouth a little".
Mostly spoken by jokesters of the female variety, the absolute fact of the matter is that you didn't "just do" either of those things, and there are far more ladylike ways to say that something is hilarious or disgusting. Also, let's not talk about our urinary or digestive systems during easy-going conversations, okay?
2) People that happily ride their bike in storms.
Go ahead, tell me how awesome and refreshing your ride to work was- I walked to work, it was miserable and bone-chilling. Try some solidarity, dudes. I'm freezing over here. 3) Shows about cakes/cupcakes.
Who told the basic cable networks that we care what happens behind the walls of a bakery? Sassy cake shop owners are no more interesting than the rest of us. Less TV, more pastries. 4) Open-Toed boots.
Why are we still wearing these? Have we still not figured out that these look ridiculous, and were only constructed after the shoe industry officially ran out of every other idea ever? Who would choose to have cold toes?
Also, the term "shooties". Ugh. Stop it. 5) My obsession with the number 5.
If you look back on the history of this blog, every list I have ever compiled is done in a multiple of five. Every lotto ticket I buy is purposely packed with fives. I can't lie. I really like the number five. I wouldn't say it's superstition thing, but rather an intense gut feeling as a child that if I didn't count out my Skittles into piles of five, my whole family would die a house fire. I guess I wonder what it's like to not be bound by a number sometimes. Also, I wonder what it's like to not be totally nuts.
p.s. I have fallen in love with watching calligraphy videos, as I find them very cathartic and relaxing. I envy those with pen and paper skills. My penmanship was so terrible as a child that I spend my entire ninth grade summer in "handwriting camp", where a bunch of degenerates and I re-learned how to have deplorable writing.
Two months later, my script was different, and yet still shockingly atrocious. Worst summer ever.
This weekend, in a 48-hour span, I went to Las Vegas with three of the most wonderful girls I know, sobbed uncontrollably on the plane ride home (which scored me a free mini bottle of wine, a free blanket, a free turkey sandwich, and all the hugs in the world from sympathetic flight attendants), and may or may not have learned the true meaning of Thanksgiving.
p.s. I also observed ol' Band-Aid Face himself, Nelly, fumble through one of the worst DJ sets I've ever heard, saw a mall-cop on a Segway, drank a full yard of frozen cocktails, and paid $75 to watch Chippendales dancers NOT take off their underpants.
Kurt and Courtney never sounded right in my ears. I couldn't hang with NWA (have you seen me?!?). Unlike most of the kids I knew, I didn't really have a musical outlet to stroke my early adolescent mood swings. My musical taste just wasn't deep enough, and instead I tried to wallow along to TLC and Jodeci and Bobby Brown. The only time I ever felt anything to the songs I was listening to was when my seventh-grade boyfriend, Randy, got stiff while attempting to awkwardly grind on me to CeCe Peniston's 'Finally'.
We can all feel fortunate that I didn't discover the joys and sorrows of Northern and/or rare soul music until my mid-twenties, thus saving everyone from the world's angsty-est teenager. Nothing conjures up happier and sadder feelings at the same time, and I didn't need to throw any gas on the coals of unrequited love, bad skin, and hormone-fueled turbo-emotions during my pre-adult years.
I love being an adult, because I'm finally emotionally balanced enough to handle feelings and soul music at the same time.
Here's a fun game: go grab yourself a package of these Tiny-Size Chiclets, and then do your best to bum yourself out. Just try it!
I usually imagine sad tigers pacing their small cages at the zoo, or an old-timey British orphanage with mean owners where all the kids are chimney sweeps, but you any unpleasant thought of your choice will do. Try to make yourself sad with a package of these delightful confetti-like sweets by your side.
... Of course, you can't do it. Of course. Come on now. You're not a monster.
