Dear Diary,
I went bowling with my friend Devin today. He has recently become obsessed with bowling and even wants me to join some kind of league that is somewhere in the next state over. I'm not too keen on the idea, but I guess if it makes him happy, then I should consider it.
While we were bowling, I heard myself congratulating him on every well bowled ball and every knocked over pin. To my surprise, however, upon closer inspection, I realized that the words passing through my lips were not even remotely in sync with the feeling in my chest. While I was ostensibly happy for him and pleased that he was succeeding, in fact I was seething at myself for not beating him.
At first I thought it was merely proper upbringing and good manners that led me to be a "good sport" and applaud his success, but let's be honest here, I have no proper upbringing. It's pretty standard in my house to mock everyone's successes and attribute them to luck, a gift, a fluke, or whatever else is convenient, no matter how absurd.
So if it's not about politeness, why am I being so fake? I'm not proud of this admission, but I think it may be for selfish reasons. I lied. I know it's for selfish reasons. The only reason that I keep my vile jealousy/competitiveness to myself and instead say things like "wow, that was great!" or "it's so close, and I bet you'll knock the pin over next time!" or "you were cheated! that was clearly meant to be a strike!" (exclamation marks necessary to convey the absolutely fake enthusiasm with which each of these comments is infused) is that I don't want to piss off the gods of luck and sports/games. I figure that if I act like I'm a good sport, then I'll be rewarded with a win. How terrible is that? All of my supposed niceness is based on a deeper truth of selfish egotism and superstition. I feel like the worst person ever!
Time for some reflection on the kind of person I am/want to be.
Sincerely (for a change),
ShouldReturnHerSportmanshipAward
p.s. It's pretty likely that I only confessed to all of this to remain in the good graces of the aforementioned gods. I'm hopeless.
Wednesday, December 28, 2011
Sunday, November 20, 2011
Dear Diary,
I think there may be something wrong with me. Like, I'm pretty sure that I have major issues. Yesterday, I went to the mall with my BFF cuz we wanted to get our hair cut, right? So, our plan was to get super sophisticated haircuts that would be total head-turners and totally score us some boyfriends. Anyway, we weren't exactly sure what styles we wanted, but we knew that whatever they turned out to be, they had to be hawt. So, like, the place we went to had two appointments in a row, which was kinda perfect cuz we could hang out the whole time and talk about super important stuff that we haven't had time to get to lately, you know, like our plans for the weekend and, like, whether or not to wear glittery make-up. You know, cuz it can look kinda baby-ish? Well, anyway, the point is that we could finally spend some quality time and totally multi-task, and, I mean, how mature is that? I think it was excellent preparation for all the demands of senior year!
Ok, but all that is not really the point. The point is that we decided that she should go first cuz she let me have the middle bite of the cinnabon, a total sign of true friendship, right? I mean, come on! It doesn't get much better and more caring than that!
Alright, so she went first, and the woman who cut her hair starts going on and on about how great it is to cut your hair short and be, like, freed from the weight of long hair. I guess she cut her hair off recently, so Heather, she agrees to it, and before you know it, snip-snip, her locks are piling up around the chair, and pump-pump, her chair is moving up and down while this butcher keeps destroying her beautiful 'do more and more. Heather's looking in the mirror with this skeptical expression on her face, but then the hair-hater's all like "wow, you like gorgeous, so sophisticated and French, blablabla..." Heather and I were totally entranced by these words, and then the woman made Heather sing a Beatles' song and shake her hair cuz THAT's how her hair looked. A bowl haircut straight outta the 40s or whenever The Beatles were popular.
Ok, so you're probably wondering why I think something is wrong with me, right? Well, here's the thing. Once Heather climbed out of the woman's chair, all dazed and confused and light-headed cuz she had no hair left to keep her head grounded, I climbed in. And snip-snip, pump-pump, I now look like Elvis. And guess what? Looking like some male heartthrob from ancient times is not sophisticated and French and elegant. Yes, we've turned some heads, but they were mostly old ladies' heads. I'm guessing tomorrow the tabloids are going to be announcing Elvis sightings at the mall. Why would I do something like this? I mean, ok, Heather had no idea what she was getting herself into, but I watched the entire horror show, and then I voluntarily allowed my looks to be destroyed, too. Like, seriously? How dumb can you be? It's gonna take me at least 6 months to have enough hair for even a tiny Pebbles Flintstone pony tail.
Oh my god, I don't think I can handle this. I'm gonna go order that miracle hair growth stuff at the back of my fave magazine, and then invest in some hats, and then maybe get some wigs or something.
Oh, yeah, and I'm gonna talk to my mom about homeschooling me for a while and maybe getting me some counseling for low self-esteem cuz I need some professional help. I've heard of hysterical blindness...maybe that's what happened? I dunno...something went horribly wrong, though. Poor Heather is threatening to get 80 piercings and become a punk if her dad doesn't pay for her to get extensions.
Miserably yours,
Elvisina
I think there may be something wrong with me. Like, I'm pretty sure that I have major issues. Yesterday, I went to the mall with my BFF cuz we wanted to get our hair cut, right? So, our plan was to get super sophisticated haircuts that would be total head-turners and totally score us some boyfriends. Anyway, we weren't exactly sure what styles we wanted, but we knew that whatever they turned out to be, they had to be hawt. So, like, the place we went to had two appointments in a row, which was kinda perfect cuz we could hang out the whole time and talk about super important stuff that we haven't had time to get to lately, you know, like our plans for the weekend and, like, whether or not to wear glittery make-up. You know, cuz it can look kinda baby-ish? Well, anyway, the point is that we could finally spend some quality time and totally multi-task, and, I mean, how mature is that? I think it was excellent preparation for all the demands of senior year!
Ok, but all that is not really the point. The point is that we decided that she should go first cuz she let me have the middle bite of the cinnabon, a total sign of true friendship, right? I mean, come on! It doesn't get much better and more caring than that!
Alright, so she went first, and the woman who cut her hair starts going on and on about how great it is to cut your hair short and be, like, freed from the weight of long hair. I guess she cut her hair off recently, so Heather, she agrees to it, and before you know it, snip-snip, her locks are piling up around the chair, and pump-pump, her chair is moving up and down while this butcher keeps destroying her beautiful 'do more and more. Heather's looking in the mirror with this skeptical expression on her face, but then the hair-hater's all like "wow, you like gorgeous, so sophisticated and French, blablabla..." Heather and I were totally entranced by these words, and then the woman made Heather sing a Beatles' song and shake her hair cuz THAT's how her hair looked. A bowl haircut straight outta the 40s or whenever The Beatles were popular.
Ok, so you're probably wondering why I think something is wrong with me, right? Well, here's the thing. Once Heather climbed out of the woman's chair, all dazed and confused and light-headed cuz she had no hair left to keep her head grounded, I climbed in. And snip-snip, pump-pump, I now look like Elvis. And guess what? Looking like some male heartthrob from ancient times is not sophisticated and French and elegant. Yes, we've turned some heads, but they were mostly old ladies' heads. I'm guessing tomorrow the tabloids are going to be announcing Elvis sightings at the mall. Why would I do something like this? I mean, ok, Heather had no idea what she was getting herself into, but I watched the entire horror show, and then I voluntarily allowed my looks to be destroyed, too. Like, seriously? How dumb can you be? It's gonna take me at least 6 months to have enough hair for even a tiny Pebbles Flintstone pony tail.
Oh my god, I don't think I can handle this. I'm gonna go order that miracle hair growth stuff at the back of my fave magazine, and then invest in some hats, and then maybe get some wigs or something.
Oh, yeah, and I'm gonna talk to my mom about homeschooling me for a while and maybe getting me some counseling for low self-esteem cuz I need some professional help. I've heard of hysterical blindness...maybe that's what happened? I dunno...something went horribly wrong, though. Poor Heather is threatening to get 80 piercings and become a punk if her dad doesn't pay for her to get extensions.
Miserably yours,
Elvisina
Wednesday, November 16, 2011
Dear Diary,
I'm sorry I've abandoned you of late. I think I may be easily distracted and tend to leave things that I thought were important to me behind. Anyway, it's not that I don't seriously enjoy writing to you and getting my Doogie Howser on. It's just that I've been totally into this amazing adventure provided by my new book! I'm sure you know that my last entry was just before my graduation! Well, I have to admit, I got some awesome swag for the whole "cum laude" deal (heehee still makes me laugh), but of all the presents I was given, the best one came from my super-amazingly-awesome-party-person friend, Todd.
Todd, being the inspiration or maybe the instigator of so many of my youthful antics, found the perfect way to keep me busy and devious all at the same time, despite my supposed new status as a commenced individual, whatever that means.
Ok, so about the book (don't be too jealous!!! you've been and remain super important to me, for real!!!)...
It's called, get this: THIS BOOK WILL CHANGE YOUR LIFE
365 Daily Instructions for Hysterical Living
And can I just tell you? So far it's been super fun. I've been having the best time completing these absurd and brilliant tasks.
It started out easily enough. All I had to do was answer some basic questions about myself, complete a mood chart, and plan my life. No big deal. Typical Thursday, right? Alright, I'm not gonna lie. I totally skipped the mood chart and the life planning. It all seemed a bit ridiculous to me at the time, but I may just have to complete it. Anyway, Day 1 was warm-up day. Again, no big deal. (I only had to do one of the tasks, but I chose to do numerous ones. Here they are:
1) whisper a white lie when no one's listening
2) say 'yo' instead of 'hello'
3) decide which one of your toes is the prettiest
4) insult an insect
5) go on a one-minute hunger strike
just to give you an idea of the warm-up challenges and the level of absurdity I'm talking about.) The third day, I had to throw away something I liked. Tougher. Day 5, I grudgingly cut up my own book to remove the printed "Out of Order" sign I was challenged to hang on a public infrastructure. I chose to add the sign to the vending machine at work. Everyone uses that thing, and I never get to have my pick of the goodies. So there!
The next one was especially tough. I had to write the opening line to my debut novel. I'm not even gonna go there. It was excruciating. I'm no writer.
Day 7: I can't even talk about it.
And so my days were filled with secret missions until it all came to a screeching halt today. I know, I know, it's completely messed up of me to turn to you now. I've taken you for granted, but I was changing my life. In the end, my hope was that my entries in here would be more interesting because my life would be even more amazing than it already is. Here's the problem. If I do what I'm supposed to do today, then I may not have a life to write about anymore. Why? Because this book wants me to contact a serial killer. I mean, ok, I realize that the serial killers they've named are all on Death Row and unlikely to come after me, but who knows? I mean, come on, who really knows? What if something happens? I may not be able to write the opening line of my debut novel, but even I can recognize that such an act seems like something dumb from a cliche thriller novel. If it's novel-cliche, does that mean that it's safe to do in real life? I'm not sure.
Anyway, there are 9 to choose from...
I'll let you know what I decide.
Love Always,
SWF
I'm sorry I've abandoned you of late. I think I may be easily distracted and tend to leave things that I thought were important to me behind. Anyway, it's not that I don't seriously enjoy writing to you and getting my Doogie Howser on. It's just that I've been totally into this amazing adventure provided by my new book! I'm sure you know that my last entry was just before my graduation! Well, I have to admit, I got some awesome swag for the whole "cum laude" deal (heehee still makes me laugh), but of all the presents I was given, the best one came from my super-amazingly-awesome-party-person friend, Todd.
Todd, being the inspiration or maybe the instigator of so many of my youthful antics, found the perfect way to keep me busy and devious all at the same time, despite my supposed new status as a commenced individual, whatever that means.
Ok, so about the book (don't be too jealous!!! you've been and remain super important to me, for real!!!)...
It's called, get this: THIS BOOK WILL CHANGE YOUR LIFE
365 Daily Instructions for Hysterical Living
And can I just tell you? So far it's been super fun. I've been having the best time completing these absurd and brilliant tasks.
It started out easily enough. All I had to do was answer some basic questions about myself, complete a mood chart, and plan my life. No big deal. Typical Thursday, right? Alright, I'm not gonna lie. I totally skipped the mood chart and the life planning. It all seemed a bit ridiculous to me at the time, but I may just have to complete it. Anyway, Day 1 was warm-up day. Again, no big deal. (I only had to do one of the tasks, but I chose to do numerous ones. Here they are:
1) whisper a white lie when no one's listening
2) say 'yo' instead of 'hello'
3) decide which one of your toes is the prettiest
4) insult an insect
5) go on a one-minute hunger strike
just to give you an idea of the warm-up challenges and the level of absurdity I'm talking about.) The third day, I had to throw away something I liked. Tougher. Day 5, I grudgingly cut up my own book to remove the printed "Out of Order" sign I was challenged to hang on a public infrastructure. I chose to add the sign to the vending machine at work. Everyone uses that thing, and I never get to have my pick of the goodies. So there!
The next one was especially tough. I had to write the opening line to my debut novel. I'm not even gonna go there. It was excruciating. I'm no writer.
Day 7: I can't even talk about it.
And so my days were filled with secret missions until it all came to a screeching halt today. I know, I know, it's completely messed up of me to turn to you now. I've taken you for granted, but I was changing my life. In the end, my hope was that my entries in here would be more interesting because my life would be even more amazing than it already is. Here's the problem. If I do what I'm supposed to do today, then I may not have a life to write about anymore. Why? Because this book wants me to contact a serial killer. I mean, ok, I realize that the serial killers they've named are all on Death Row and unlikely to come after me, but who knows? I mean, come on, who really knows? What if something happens? I may not be able to write the opening line of my debut novel, but even I can recognize that such an act seems like something dumb from a cliche thriller novel. If it's novel-cliche, does that mean that it's safe to do in real life? I'm not sure.
Anyway, there are 9 to choose from...
I'll let you know what I decide.
Love Always,
SWF
Saturday, October 29, 2011
It's a birthday post!
In elementary school, it was pretty standard to let your "friendship book" make the rounds. I'm not sure if these books are popular in American classrooms, but they are a staple of German ones. The bulk of the entry was focused on answering questions about your favorite things, but there was generally space provided for a message to the book's owner. I remember asking my mom what to write in that space, and she dictated the "True Friends" line to me. I don't recall exactly why (or maybe I'm in denial about how unimaginative I was), but I wrote the same little rhyme in every one of the books that I was given. At the time, I was embarrassed and annoyed because I felt repetitive and corny, but in retrospect, as cheesy as it was, the quote was completely accurate.
So thanks, Mom!
"True friends are like diamonds, precious and rare; false friends are like autumn leaves, found everywhere."
I am really lucky in that I have quite a few true friends, many of whom I rarely see. Whenever we do see each other, though, it's the same as it ever was, in the best way. You know who you are, and you mean the world to me. (Plus, if you're reading this blog, there's a pretty good chance you're on that list. I appreciate your patience with me and with my ridiculous ramblings.)
Happy Birthday, Vera, my precious and rare diamond friend.
So thanks, Mom!
"True friends are like diamonds, precious and rare; false friends are like autumn leaves, found everywhere."
I am really lucky in that I have quite a few true friends, many of whom I rarely see. Whenever we do see each other, though, it's the same as it ever was, in the best way. You know who you are, and you mean the world to me. (Plus, if you're reading this blog, there's a pretty good chance you're on that list. I appreciate your patience with me and with my ridiculous ramblings.)
Happy Birthday, Vera, my precious and rare diamond friend.
Wednesday, October 26, 2011
Fumez-vous?
Dear Diary,
Until recently, there were few things that could comfort me as effectively as smoking a cigarette. When I'm worried, paranoid, stressed, sad, or otherwise laden by negative emotion, nothing gives me the same relief as that initial inhalation of tobacco. Even the act of swiftly drawing a cigarette out of my pack releases the first sense of placidity.
Not to worry, I'm fully aware of the health risks, and as soon as I could find an adequate substitute for that breathtaking (pun intended) exhilaration of my addiction, I always planned to quit. Perhaps the reverse will happen first, though.
Allow me to explain: A few minutes ago, I was idly flipping through the channels, when I came across an informative show on TV. Numerous beauty and style experts were glitteringly presenting the facts of being fabulous. Stunning accessories and perfectly-applied make-up paralyzed my thumb mid-channel change, and I was left with no choice but to listen carefully to the expertise being doled out. Let's face it, I could use some assistance in being more elegant, despite the indisputable glamor of my sleepwear (handcrafted by my grandma and the envy of all who've seen it).
Right when I tuned in, they began exploring the villainy of smoking and its history in Hollywood. The emergence of Mad Men, along with its depiction of pre-anti-smoking 60s American life and thus its portrayal of characters indulging in my favorite sinful yet sexy "bad" habit, has broken the taboo of including cigarettes on the no-longer-so-small screens in our American living rooms. The contributing opinionators commented on the differences between the sensuality demonstrated by female characters when smoking and the masculinity of the male smokers' approach. A barrage of images of actors through the ages turned my TV into a strobe light and left my hand reaching reflexively for my pack.
Just after experiencing that unparalleled sensation of peace, I was jolted back into insecurity as my eyes focused on the cigarette clamped between my greedy fingers. To my wide-eyed horror, the image I was registering was not of a dainty, tantalizing, feminine hand with outstretched fingers, dangling a cigarette lazily and indifferently. No. Instead, my hand could easily have been replaced by Clint Eastwood's or some other manly man's.
How am I supposed to smoke in public, now that I know that I smoke like a man? No wonder men never approach me when I'm outside smoking. They must think I'm either a maneater or simply a man. What a crappy situation. Yes, yes, I know it would be good for me to quit, but I need a cigarette more than ever now, yet I can't smoke one for fear of being judged by onlookers for my cowboy-esque mitts, manhandling the cigarette. Maybe if I start smoking Virginia Slims?
Can you spell conundrum?
For the time being, I'll be hiding in my car, parked behind some trees because I refuse to smoke inside my house, and I need to decompress.
Withdrawal-endangeredly yours,
ChainsmokerInHiding
Until recently, there were few things that could comfort me as effectively as smoking a cigarette. When I'm worried, paranoid, stressed, sad, or otherwise laden by negative emotion, nothing gives me the same relief as that initial inhalation of tobacco. Even the act of swiftly drawing a cigarette out of my pack releases the first sense of placidity.
Not to worry, I'm fully aware of the health risks, and as soon as I could find an adequate substitute for that breathtaking (pun intended) exhilaration of my addiction, I always planned to quit. Perhaps the reverse will happen first, though.
Allow me to explain: A few minutes ago, I was idly flipping through the channels, when I came across an informative show on TV. Numerous beauty and style experts were glitteringly presenting the facts of being fabulous. Stunning accessories and perfectly-applied make-up paralyzed my thumb mid-channel change, and I was left with no choice but to listen carefully to the expertise being doled out. Let's face it, I could use some assistance in being more elegant, despite the indisputable glamor of my sleepwear (handcrafted by my grandma and the envy of all who've seen it).
Right when I tuned in, they began exploring the villainy of smoking and its history in Hollywood. The emergence of Mad Men, along with its depiction of pre-anti-smoking 60s American life and thus its portrayal of characters indulging in my favorite sinful yet sexy "bad" habit, has broken the taboo of including cigarettes on the no-longer-so-small screens in our American living rooms. The contributing opinionators commented on the differences between the sensuality demonstrated by female characters when smoking and the masculinity of the male smokers' approach. A barrage of images of actors through the ages turned my TV into a strobe light and left my hand reaching reflexively for my pack.
Just after experiencing that unparalleled sensation of peace, I was jolted back into insecurity as my eyes focused on the cigarette clamped between my greedy fingers. To my wide-eyed horror, the image I was registering was not of a dainty, tantalizing, feminine hand with outstretched fingers, dangling a cigarette lazily and indifferently. No. Instead, my hand could easily have been replaced by Clint Eastwood's or some other manly man's.
How am I supposed to smoke in public, now that I know that I smoke like a man? No wonder men never approach me when I'm outside smoking. They must think I'm either a maneater or simply a man. What a crappy situation. Yes, yes, I know it would be good for me to quit, but I need a cigarette more than ever now, yet I can't smoke one for fear of being judged by onlookers for my cowboy-esque mitts, manhandling the cigarette. Maybe if I start smoking Virginia Slims?
Can you spell conundrum?
For the time being, I'll be hiding in my car, parked behind some trees because I refuse to smoke inside my house, and I need to decompress.
Withdrawal-endangeredly yours,
ChainsmokerInHiding
Tuesday, October 18, 2011
Accidental Saboteur
Dear Diary,
You may be the only friend I have left. I don't even know if I can be my own friend. How could I possibly show loyalty to myself when I failed to show loyalty to my team?
I don't know how it happened. Honestly, the last thing I would want to do is bring any misfortune upon my team. It's raining down on them now, though, and it's all because of me. This morning when I got dressed to go to the game, I put a lot of thought into my outfit. Last time I went to a game, you may recall, it was the pre-season opener, and it was still hot out. I wore my netted jersey without anything underneath it, and that did not go over well. As comfortable as I was temperature-wise, I was equally uncomfortable with people giving me the stink-eye for being overexposed and under-dressed. Anyway, lesson learned: wear something underneath the jersey.
I thought I was brilliant and perfectly attired because I managed to find a very sleek, rather discreet top to wear beneath my Cooley jersey. I was so distracted by my inflated sense of success that I failed to consider the ill-chosen socks!!! I did not wear my fluffy fuchsia, individual-toe socks!!!!! Instead, I wore regular old, boring, no-luck, white sucks. Not only did my beloved team lose, but the game wasn't even interesting. Frankly, it's unacceptable that I didn't notice my oversight until we were exiting the stadium. There's really no excuse. I should have recognized the clearly unusual circumstance of the Redskins losing. It never happens when I'm wearing my lucky socks, certainly not when their magical powers are within the vicinity of the game. (Their potency is undeniable when it's within a mile of the field. It's true.)
On my way down the ramps to the parking lot, I overheard a very disappointed fan discussing their lack of luck, and it hit me like the beer can would later hit my hood (and my window and my bumper and my side mirror...). It was only then that I looked down, pulled up the leg of my jeans, and spotted the bland white of my crappy socks. Of course, I immediately stopped everyone, so I could apologize. I made my mea culpas to all who were in my immediate presence, but I soon realized that was simply insufficient. I started to race around the ramp, grabbing any burgundy-and-gold clad individuals I could, apologized profusely, and promised to do penance.
Little did I know that retaliation would be swift. Before I could even finish my round of guilt-ridden "sorry"s, I began to realize that, not unlike me, these Redskins fans meant business. They were not happy with me. Not at all. I hastened along my path to my car, but I couldn't get there fast enough. They weren't physically abusive despite their verbal hostility until I was actually in the car, an unexpected display of kindness. The Redskins sticker on my bumper did little to assuage the ferocity of the crowd's rage, so, as I told you before, my car quickly became the target of many, rather varied stadium parking lot objects. Everything from beers cans and bottles to orange cones, chicken and steak bones to souvenir cups, everything imaginable and some unimaginable items were hailing down on my bewildered (probably because I accidentally tried to take off from fifth gear) coupe.
The most shocking part remains that my entire group of friends were leading the pack. In fact, they were the ones who punched out my window. They said it was to get inside, but then why spit on my seat and dump out the last dregs remaining in various beverage containers?
To be clear: I'm not complaining. I deserved every bit of the punishment. In fact, when I got home, I went inside and grabbed the most pungent foods and the most artificially-colored drinks to pour all over the interior of my car. Also, rest assured, I've rid my drawers of all other socks. There remains but one pair. I will either go without socks, or I will wash them daily. Either way, this will not happen again.
Most humbly yours,
WorstFanEver aka TheReasontheRedskinsLost
p.s. I'm drafting a letter of apology to Rexy and letters of confession to the sports newscasters. It's time they stopped blaming him and pointed the finger at the responsible party.
You may be the only friend I have left. I don't even know if I can be my own friend. How could I possibly show loyalty to myself when I failed to show loyalty to my team?
I don't know how it happened. Honestly, the last thing I would want to do is bring any misfortune upon my team. It's raining down on them now, though, and it's all because of me. This morning when I got dressed to go to the game, I put a lot of thought into my outfit. Last time I went to a game, you may recall, it was the pre-season opener, and it was still hot out. I wore my netted jersey without anything underneath it, and that did not go over well. As comfortable as I was temperature-wise, I was equally uncomfortable with people giving me the stink-eye for being overexposed and under-dressed. Anyway, lesson learned: wear something underneath the jersey.
I thought I was brilliant and perfectly attired because I managed to find a very sleek, rather discreet top to wear beneath my Cooley jersey. I was so distracted by my inflated sense of success that I failed to consider the ill-chosen socks!!! I did not wear my fluffy fuchsia, individual-toe socks!!!!! Instead, I wore regular old, boring, no-luck, white sucks. Not only did my beloved team lose, but the game wasn't even interesting. Frankly, it's unacceptable that I didn't notice my oversight until we were exiting the stadium. There's really no excuse. I should have recognized the clearly unusual circumstance of the Redskins losing. It never happens when I'm wearing my lucky socks, certainly not when their magical powers are within the vicinity of the game. (Their potency is undeniable when it's within a mile of the field. It's true.)
On my way down the ramps to the parking lot, I overheard a very disappointed fan discussing their lack of luck, and it hit me like the beer can would later hit my hood (and my window and my bumper and my side mirror...). It was only then that I looked down, pulled up the leg of my jeans, and spotted the bland white of my crappy socks. Of course, I immediately stopped everyone, so I could apologize. I made my mea culpas to all who were in my immediate presence, but I soon realized that was simply insufficient. I started to race around the ramp, grabbing any burgundy-and-gold clad individuals I could, apologized profusely, and promised to do penance.
Little did I know that retaliation would be swift. Before I could even finish my round of guilt-ridden "sorry"s, I began to realize that, not unlike me, these Redskins fans meant business. They were not happy with me. Not at all. I hastened along my path to my car, but I couldn't get there fast enough. They weren't physically abusive despite their verbal hostility until I was actually in the car, an unexpected display of kindness. The Redskins sticker on my bumper did little to assuage the ferocity of the crowd's rage, so, as I told you before, my car quickly became the target of many, rather varied stadium parking lot objects. Everything from beers cans and bottles to orange cones, chicken and steak bones to souvenir cups, everything imaginable and some unimaginable items were hailing down on my bewildered (probably because I accidentally tried to take off from fifth gear) coupe.
The most shocking part remains that my entire group of friends were leading the pack. In fact, they were the ones who punched out my window. They said it was to get inside, but then why spit on my seat and dump out the last dregs remaining in various beverage containers?
To be clear: I'm not complaining. I deserved every bit of the punishment. In fact, when I got home, I went inside and grabbed the most pungent foods and the most artificially-colored drinks to pour all over the interior of my car. Also, rest assured, I've rid my drawers of all other socks. There remains but one pair. I will either go without socks, or I will wash them daily. Either way, this will not happen again.
Most humbly yours,
WorstFanEver aka TheReasontheRedskinsLost
p.s. I'm drafting a letter of apology to Rexy and letters of confession to the sports newscasters. It's time they stopped blaming him and pointed the finger at the responsible party.
Sunday, April 22, 2007
Recent Sighting
A one legged man riding a bicycle. What? I mean, only one leg. The other one was missing from the hip down. Respect.
Ode to a brick wall
Dear Room,
why are you so unbearably ugly? Did your mother not love you enough when you were small? Are your parents a prison and a five year old's room from 1976? Please, please stop torturing everybody's eyes with your absurd attempts at coolness.
What is with the mural? I don't want to take so many people to the middle of nowhere that it becomes somewhere. I don't want to sit on chairs with stars on them. I don't like little figurines of cows and sheep. I am not a fan of Whoopi Goldberg or her footprints in L.A. I mean, she's ok and all, but REALLY? Do I need a picture of her footprints on my wall?
Who, over the age of 4, has a ceramic ghost with patchwork spots on him on his windowsill? Who has a rock that is actually a lamp? (While this may sound cool, it is, in fact, ridiculous)
WHO HAS FAKE BRICKS RANDOMLY PAINTED OVER 1/4 OF HIS ROOM WITH WEIRD GRAY SHADING???
I give up. I'm on the express train to ugly town with a one-way ticket in my hand.
why are you so unbearably ugly? Did your mother not love you enough when you were small? Are your parents a prison and a five year old's room from 1976? Please, please stop torturing everybody's eyes with your absurd attempts at coolness.
What is with the mural? I don't want to take so many people to the middle of nowhere that it becomes somewhere. I don't want to sit on chairs with stars on them. I don't like little figurines of cows and sheep. I am not a fan of Whoopi Goldberg or her footprints in L.A. I mean, she's ok and all, but REALLY? Do I need a picture of her footprints on my wall?
Who, over the age of 4, has a ceramic ghost with patchwork spots on him on his windowsill? Who has a rock that is actually a lamp? (While this may sound cool, it is, in fact, ridiculous)
WHO HAS FAKE BRICKS RANDOMLY PAINTED OVER 1/4 OF HIS ROOM WITH WEIRD GRAY SHADING???
I give up. I'm on the express train to ugly town with a one-way ticket in my hand.
Vocationally Overwhelmed
Dear Diary,
This will be a more serious post, as opposed to my usual, more frivolous ramblings. On this occasion, I am concerned about my future. More specifically: my future career. I have recently discovered that I am multi-talented and destined for greatness. No, this is not arrogant and undeserved self-praise. This is fact: carefully weighed, undeniably ascertained, and overwhelmingly promising. But perhaps it would be best for me to explain how I determined the simple truth that I am skilled and prepared for a multitude of careers.
To begin with, I had been watching Law & Order: Not only was I able to see through the silly investigations and to determine the culprit long before the supposed professional law enforcement team, but I am absolutely convinced that I would make an excellent D.A. I am very good at striding across rooms and at commanding things authoritatively. Furthermore, I ask questions all the time, therefore I would be really good at cross-examinations. Basically, any job along these lines is in the bag. Big Time.
Next, I flipped channels to watch golf. This is probably the most ridiculous and simple career for me to take over. I went to golf camp, I've driven a few golf carts in my day (and without getting them stuck between trees, ahem, or jumping into a tree, ahem, ladies!), and I have a lot of plaid clothing (thanks Grandma!). I would be much nicer to watch than half of those dudes, and I would totally skip the LPGA and go straight for the big guns. Bring it on, bitches.
In addition, it has come to my attention, that I should be a therapist because whenever I watch Maury, Oprah or Dr. Phil, I TOTALLY know what they're gonna say before they say it. Also, I could totally be one of those fashion critics. Actually, I owe it to humanity to be one because a) the people who do it now dress like clowns and b) I'm awesome, enough said.
Last, but not least, (I have to admit, this is the one that poses the most problems):
After hours of careful observation and study, I know I could be a model--correction--Supermodel. Except for my height, weight and facial features, I've got it locked DOWN. That's right, just give me some major plastic surgery, really high heels/leg extensions, ex-lax or eating disorder and watch me do my little thing on the catwalk, yeah, shake my little surgically corrected tush on the catwalk. Come on, Tyra, make it happen.
I am so sexy it hurts.
Watch out world, I'm coming to get ya!
Modestly yours,
Well-Rounded Professional Professional
This will be a more serious post, as opposed to my usual, more frivolous ramblings. On this occasion, I am concerned about my future. More specifically: my future career. I have recently discovered that I am multi-talented and destined for greatness. No, this is not arrogant and undeserved self-praise. This is fact: carefully weighed, undeniably ascertained, and overwhelmingly promising. But perhaps it would be best for me to explain how I determined the simple truth that I am skilled and prepared for a multitude of careers.
To begin with, I had been watching Law & Order: Not only was I able to see through the silly investigations and to determine the culprit long before the supposed professional law enforcement team, but I am absolutely convinced that I would make an excellent D.A. I am very good at striding across rooms and at commanding things authoritatively. Furthermore, I ask questions all the time, therefore I would be really good at cross-examinations. Basically, any job along these lines is in the bag. Big Time.
Next, I flipped channels to watch golf. This is probably the most ridiculous and simple career for me to take over. I went to golf camp, I've driven a few golf carts in my day (and without getting them stuck between trees, ahem, or jumping into a tree, ahem, ladies!), and I have a lot of plaid clothing (thanks Grandma!). I would be much nicer to watch than half of those dudes, and I would totally skip the LPGA and go straight for the big guns. Bring it on, bitches.
In addition, it has come to my attention, that I should be a therapist because whenever I watch Maury, Oprah or Dr. Phil, I TOTALLY know what they're gonna say before they say it. Also, I could totally be one of those fashion critics. Actually, I owe it to humanity to be one because a) the people who do it now dress like clowns and b) I'm awesome, enough said.
Last, but not least, (I have to admit, this is the one that poses the most problems):
After hours of careful observation and study, I know I could be a model--correction--Supermodel. Except for my height, weight and facial features, I've got it locked DOWN. That's right, just give me some major plastic surgery, really high heels/leg extensions, ex-lax or eating disorder and watch me do my little thing on the catwalk, yeah, shake my little surgically corrected tush on the catwalk. Come on, Tyra, make it happen.
I am so sexy it hurts.
Watch out world, I'm coming to get ya!
Modestly yours,
Well-Rounded Professional Professional
to all the lonely hearts
Dearly Beloved, We are gathered here today...
Ah, how I long to hear these words. How I dream of the beautiful ceremony, the white of my dress only bested by that of the huge smile on my face.
I'm sorry, Diary, for having abandoned you all of this year. I was busy pining. Pining, pining, pining every day. I am, and let's face it, have been hopelessly devoted to one man my whole life. Or at least since age ten, before that Alvin the Chipmunk was my main squeeze.
How long must I wait for my soulmate to see me as more than his little sister's best friend? How many more hours will be wasted doodling my name and drawing portraits of my love? The days seem to crawl by in agony as my heart, my soul, my very being are consumed with the torture of unrequited love.
If only there were some simple answer. It seems that I am destined to be waiting in the wings until my day comes. Meanwhile, I can't be bothered with other specimens of inferior masculinity. Who could be tempted by such silly beings as Jude Law, Ewan McGregor and Jake Gyllenhaal?? What fool, who has known the beauty, the depth, the perfection of D.S., could be persuaded to consider wasting a moment of time or energy on these ridiculous boys? I crave the love of a MAN. No, of THE man. The only man for me.
Please bring me solace and help me to find a way to pass the time before I am old and wrinkled and still alone.
Please make him see the light.
With all my hope,
Yours,
D's Girl
Ah, how I long to hear these words. How I dream of the beautiful ceremony, the white of my dress only bested by that of the huge smile on my face.
I'm sorry, Diary, for having abandoned you all of this year. I was busy pining. Pining, pining, pining every day. I am, and let's face it, have been hopelessly devoted to one man my whole life. Or at least since age ten, before that Alvin the Chipmunk was my main squeeze.
How long must I wait for my soulmate to see me as more than his little sister's best friend? How many more hours will be wasted doodling my name and drawing portraits of my love? The days seem to crawl by in agony as my heart, my soul, my very being are consumed with the torture of unrequited love.
If only there were some simple answer. It seems that I am destined to be waiting in the wings until my day comes. Meanwhile, I can't be bothered with other specimens of inferior masculinity. Who could be tempted by such silly beings as Jude Law, Ewan McGregor and Jake Gyllenhaal?? What fool, who has known the beauty, the depth, the perfection of D.S., could be persuaded to consider wasting a moment of time or energy on these ridiculous boys? I crave the love of a MAN. No, of THE man. The only man for me.
Please bring me solace and help me to find a way to pass the time before I am old and wrinkled and still alone.
Please make him see the light.
With all my hope,
Yours,
D's Girl
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