How To Please Your Maid Of Honor: A Bride's Checklist

Salutations, friends! I would like to take this moment to announce the engagement of my oldest and dearest friend, Caroline (of previous ostrich post fame) to her charming boyfriend, Christopher, and offer them congratulations and best wishes. I would also like to give Caroline major kudos for her excellent taste in bridesmaids, as she has wisely requested that I serve as Maid of Honor. She had little choice in this matter, as I basically threatened her continued existence on this earth should she elect another, plus I exercised the always-apropos "I CALL MAID OF HONOR" method of bridesmaid-pickin'. I was all "SO-I'M-YOUR-MOH-RIGHT?! RIGHT." And she was all questionable grunts, awkward coughs, and finally, sighs of resignation.

So...You're welcome, BFF. Now that that's been settled, I'm told that being a MOH comes with many, many responsibilities (and, as we all know, I'm awesome at responsibilities). In fact, there are MOH checklists to be found all over the interwebz, and I have been super on top of that. Upon googling my duties to the bride, I found a few that were understandable, a couple that were hilarious, and a handful that were downright untenable. For instance, I am perfectly amenable to handling all cake and liquor tastings that might be deemed necessary (liquor tastings are a thing, right...?), as well as planning the bachelorette party (Penis cake, sex toys, midget strippers, hotel rooms, bars, booze, prison. Done. And. Done.). Continuing down the list, I did a double take at the sentence "Make sure the bride arrives to the ceremony". D'oh, what now? So if she decides to pull a Graduate, that's somehow going to be construed as MY FAULT. I think not. Then there's the one that says on her wedding day I get to field messages back and forth between her and the groom and anyone else who's got something to say. Heh. Did you guys ever play telephone when you were children? If so, then you can imagine how this could get real in a hurry, Amiright?! Oh, giggles...

Also, I get to be keeper of the groom's ring. Combine that duty with the maturity level of your average Marisa and you get a grown ass woman doing impressions of Gollum from Lord of the Rings. All Day Long. Talk about your fairytale weddings.

Then, of course, we mustn't forget that I get to give a toast. Woof. So, that will go on for about 90 minutes, at least 20 of which will be unintelligible between the drunken slurring and the hysterical weeping and hyperventilating that usually comes hand in hand with public speaking (if you're me, at least).

One of my favorites has to be the one where I'm in charge of the "money bag". I don't know who's writing this list, but the only time I've ever seen that go down was in The Godfather. In any case, it begs the question once again of why on earth people want to keep putting me in charge of large amounts of cash. The mind reels.

Last, but certainly not least, the list reminds me that I am to be a QUOTE "Fluffer (!)" for the bride. A FLUFFER. Like in porn. And weddings. Am I on glue...?

It goes without saying that Caroline will now be the fluffiest effing bride this town's ever seen. People need to be more careful when they make bulleted lists. Think about what havoc your harmless little list could do in the wrong hands, folks. Hands like these.

So, those are the highlights of what I'm expected to do, and honestly, I had no idea the Maid of Honor is basically in charge of Absolutely Everything. Can I quit now? No? Fine.

However. I do feel that since I'll be handling all the stressful stuff like fluffing your damn dress, you should be aware of a few things I will require as well:

1. Alcohol

2. Cake

3. A bridesmaid dress that doesn't make me look like a member of the Insane Clown Posse and that elegantly hides a slightly protruding belly full of cake. Also, more cake.

4. Horse tranquilizers on hand for my inevitable "WHY ARE ALL MY FRIENDS GETTING MARRIED AND HAVING OFFSPRING AND CAREERS AND I'M STILL LIVING WITH MY MOTHER?!" complete and utter breakdown. This could happen multiple times between now and your wedding day, so just be prepared is all that I ask.

5. Oh, so much more alcohol.

6. If you could manage to throw me a Patrick Dempsey somehow, that would be pretty sweet. Just sayin'.

See, that's not so bad, right? I think you should be able to handle that, Caroline. Once again, you're welcome. Congrats, Poodle!

Dear Law Students

I get it. I really do. Law school is hard. It's a sad, scary place that welcomes all formerly normal human beings and transforms them into just massive, massive douchebag A-f*cks with no lives. You know your friend is a law student when they become not so much your friend as a zombie-like creature who has replaced regular use of the English language with an Orwellian-esque lawspeak that makes the listener want to immediately take a lightsaber to said former friend's genital regions. Law school forces a person who used to possess a "soul" and "morals" to become hyper-logical to the point of absurdity. Yes, friend, your logic is flawless. Just because something is logical, however, does not make it right. You are now pretty much just a terrible human being and I probably can't hang out with you ever again. Not that you have the time to actually hang out, anyway, because you're, like, SO busy it takes you two days to answer a text message.

I.AM.SORRY. I call shenanigans on that one, folks! Nobody is that busy. NOBODY. You are not curing cancer. You are not running a country into the ground (except you are definitely part of the problem). And you most certainly are not an indispensable and rampantly narcissistic Blogger-Slash-Bartender-Slash-General Layabout. You are just not as important as you seem to think you are (or as I seem to think I am, for that matter. Yikes...).

Anyway, I have questions. If law school is so effing difficult, WHY are there so many godforsaken ambulance chasers oozing about the place? It seems to me that the administration has taken to shooting JD's out of tshirt guns at sporting events, so how hard can it be REALLY? (Come on. You can't swing a dead cat in this city without hitting a lawyer these days) (Ooh, I know a few law students I'd love to just whack in the head with a rotting feline corpse, though, don't you?! Fun times.). Also, roughly 80% of the law students I have met are 100% grade-A MORONS who drive around in moron mobiles and drink moron coffee every moron morning (SO they're morons is what you're trying to say, Marisa? Good talk). As in they are downright UN-smart people. I literally have met a law student who didn't know that they speak English in ENGLAND. Seriously, she was all "Wait, you lived in England? DO YOU SPEAK FRENCH?" That's when I spit at her, pulled her hair and ran away because...I mean...wouldn't you?

To conclude this somewhat timely rant...Oh, screw it, if you're one of my friends who is in law school, your opinion is (to use terminology that your brain is capable of processing) null and void, and I'm probably not speaking to you anymore anyway unless you've somehow managed to maintain some semblance of humor and personality, which is exceedingly unlikely in these dangerous times. You may now return to your regularly scheduled douchebaggery. Good day.

As for the rest of you...keep fighting the good fight. Arm yourselves heavily and tomorrow, try to slap at least one law student across their stupid, smug, moron face. Do it for me. And for what's left of humanity. Good night and good luck.

Living The Dream, Obvs...

So, things have started to get pretty real around these parts lately, which is why I haven't written in weeks. Sorry about that. It just is what it is. I bet you're wondering where I've been, right? Of course you are. I bet it just keeps you up at night, doesn't it? No? Bueller?

Fine, but I'm going to tell you anyway. I have been bartending (or as I like to think of it, "bizartending"). A whole bunch. Which means I now do even more hanging out in bars than I did previously. Which is equal parts distressing and awesome. The distressing part is that bartending has made me come to realize that I'm functionally retarded sometimes. You see, when I say "bartending" I mean that I can serve you a nice cold beer or make you something consisting of no more than two ingredients. If you ask me for anything more complex than a gin and tonic, I retreat into my shell of panicked stuttering and skulk away for ten minutes to consult the Mixologist App on my iPhone. And then I still fuck it up like 9 times out of 9. But we're learning, and that's what's important, yes? Shut your face and drink your liquor, a-thank you very much.

I know what you're thinking. I used to be one of those smug, overeducated assholes with a "future" and "pants without holes in them" (as they say). It seems that I've entered my rebellious stage later in life. Whilst my peers are working normal hours, planning their weddings, and gestating their fetuses (fetii...?), I can be found serving liquor while wearing jean shorts and a pushup bra. And, yes, my job is way more fun than yours and I don't have to wait til 5 o'clock every day to drown my sorrows should the need arise, but you probably make a lot more money than I do and you probably don't have to dress like Daisy Duke to do it. Well, you can keep your dignity and financial stability, friend. I'll take booze and creepy Mexicans offering me $200 for "services" any day. Ugh. This post hurts, kind of.

Another plus of this particular gig is that Mommy Dearest (or "Smother", as she has come to be known around the "office") absolutely gets her panties all up in a twist about me hanging out in bars all the time. Because evidently I'm still 15. Also, aren't we just loving the fact that she refers to my JOB as "hanging out" in a bar?! I know I am. Except it's killing my soul one tiny, tiny piece at a time.

Ok, this post needs to end because it's stressing me out and it may or may not be giving me a mild arrhythmia. Anyway, that's basically what's up these days. I just haven't had the energy to be snarky and self-involved (the two highest-prized qualities of great bloggers the world over, incidentally), but I promise I will write again as soon as I have the time or something ludicrous happens to me. In the mean time, you can all find me at the Rendon Inn, 4501 Eve Street. If you visit, I will bartend your face off. Then you shall tip me. I'm told that's how this works. KTHANKS!

P.S. The photo above is a picture of something I absolutely CAN NOT do. Because I'm not Tom Cruise in Cocktail and because I suck at life. Seriously, why did they not teach me how to do THAT in school?! Gah.

You Make Me Wanna Be A Better Blogger (OR A Random Collection of Ridiculous Thoughts)

Heeeey, guys. So, I feel as if I should apologize for my last post. Did it feel kinda crazy and manic to you, or was that just me? I guess it's one of those "it seemed funny at the time" things that now just feels a little embarrassing. Story of my life. Anywhoo, it got mixed reviews. And I'm just going to assume that my friends who consistently tell me how awesome I am are filthy, filthy liars (and I love them for that), and promise the rest of you "honest people" (read: assholes who obviously didn't get the references) that I'll never do it again (Mommy didn't mean to scare you, she's very, very sorry. Shhhh).

Wow, did that feel dirty.

Moving on. Does anyone else keep a notebook on the bedside table so they can write down ideas and dreams in the middle of the night? No? Just me, then. Alright, well I thought it would be a good idea, and it did start out that way, at first (except for, no it didn't, ever). The notebook by my bed looks outwardly like a diary which one might purchase as a gift for a 13 year old girl (it's purple and shiny and you can just stop judging me right now, KTHANKS). However. It contains all of the troubled, half-cocked, nonsensical ramblings of my twisted soul, none of which should ever be made into a Lifetime movie. Furthermore, it is completely incoherent, as it consists mainly of bullet points and things in quotation marks that really have no reason to be in quotation marks. Evidently, half-asleep me just assumes that awake me will somehow be able to remember what I meant to convey when I wrote down "Terrorism Parenting: O-Mama Bin Laden", or why I included "Susan Boyle" and "I wish dogs were ticklish" in a bulleted list entitled Reasons Why I'm Single (I'm really not sure how much of an impact Susan Boyle could possibly have had on my love life, but I'll be damned if I'm going to shoulder all of the blame on that one, a-thank you very much, SUSIE).

SO, the general consensus right now is that I'm either a genius or an idiot, with most everyone who is not me leaning towards the latter. Also, in the grand tradition of comparing myself with random elderly gentlemen in films, today I'm feeling a bit like Jack Nicholson in As Good As It Gets. Picture me avoiding cracks in the sidewalk and affectionately calling Grey Kinnear a fairy because I don't know how social interaction works. Or because I stopped caring about anything back in the mid-60s and you can all eat my shorts because I'm Jack "Manboobs" Nicholson and I do as I please, accepted societal norms be damned.

Wow, this post just has something for everyone, I think. I mean, I've hit my requisite benchmarks: Insanity, Terrorism, Adolescent girls as pertains to Lifetime movies, Susan Boyle, AND homophobic slurs a la Jack "I Wear My Sunglasses At Night" Nicholson. ForTheWin, I'll throw in how much I hate TJ Quill's and how by the age of 24 all men should know that you have to ask a girl out at least 3 days in advance and that, unless someone dies or you are in fact the President of these here United States, there is no legitimate reason to cancel on someone last minute. Seriously, guys, behave yourselves. Also, Science.

Apologies. Apologies all around...

A 4:00am Chat With My Subconscious

Subconscious: Pssssst! Hey....HEY!

Marisa: Christ, WHAT?

Sub: Oh good, you're up! Heeey, how ya doin', buddy?

Marisa: I will kill you.

Sub: I don't think that's wise.

Marisa: UGH. What can I do for you, sweetheart? And make it snappy, I'd like to get back to that dream I was having about Lee Pace and something involving a lot of really adorable baby animals.

Sub: Sooo...I was just thinkin'....like....dude...CANNIBAL -wait for it- BABIES. WHAT UP WITH THAT?!

Marisa: HUH? Canni-whaaa? That's not even a...thing...Are you even kidding me with this nonsense at 4 in the morning?!

Sub: Ok, I don't think you know how words work right now. Just take a moment and collect your thoughts. I'll wait.

Marisa: Right. Going back to SLEEP now. Keep your creepy psycho machinations to yourself, please.

**Three and a half minutes later**

Sub: SO. What in the WHAT is the deal with everyone picking on Billy Joel these days?!

Marisa: DUDE GO AW--Actually, I don't know, but that IS pretty effed up, now that you mention it...Wait, why on God's polluted earth am I indulging your lunatic rantings right now? I told you to buzz off not 5 minutes ago.

Sub: Technically, it was three and a half, but that is neither here nor there. COME ON! You LOVE Billy Joel!

Marisa: Well, yea, I mean, I'm not a total Communist, if that's what you're getting at. Anyone who denies knowing and loving every single word to Piano Man is just outright lying to you. It's not like the guy ever claimed to be Lord Byron, he writes catchy tunes for chrissake! People still worship the Beatles as if 'I Wanna Hold Your Hand' were Tolstoy in the original Russian. And don't even get me started on Neil Diamond! No one, BUT NO ONE dares talk shit about Neil Diamond, and I fail to see how he is in any way superior to The Joel?! People need slappings. Slappings a-plenty, I say!

Sub: Yes! Now we're talking!

Marisa: Wait. What? No. Uh uh. See, this needs to stop immediately. What is it that you're so busy with all day that necessitates waiting until the middle of the night to talk about cannibals and aging rock stars and the like?

Sub: Meh. It's just how I unwind, man. Also, that's cannibal babies, by the way. Which happens to be pure, undiluted brilliance. So you're welcome, asshole.

Marisa: No. It's really not, though. That is completely retarded. I don't even think I want to know where you came up with that one. It's actually pretty upsetting.

Sub: Methinks the lady doth protest too much.

Marisa: Ok, listen up Shakespeare, this conversation is fruitless and you are hitting a whole new level of obnoxious, so I'm ignoring you now and going back to sleep. AAAAND GOODNIGHT TO YOU.

Sub: God, woman, why are you so LAZY? This is crucial stuff here! I am feeding you golden bloggable ideas and you're just being downright ungrateful. It's not like you have a life, you can sleep all day if you want to. That's the beauty of being independently wealthy!

Marisa: I think the term you're looking for is 'unemployed'. Which is actually more like being dependently broke...Anyway, NO, I have things to do! There are job applications to be sent out and endless cover letters to write. Those Big Macs aren't going to assemble themselves, my friend!

Sub: You are aware that you're rapidly approaching the point where stuff like that stops being a joke and starts to look more like your life, right?

Marisa: I seriously do not like you. I mean, you're just not a nice person. And you're actively trying to drive me insane, which does not look awesome on a resume.

Sub: That definitely sounds like a personal problem. Considering that I technically AM YOU. Notice how you're totally not getting any sleep right now? That's because I've officially commandeered this ship.

Marisa: OK, Lookit here, HAL...

Sub (sings in creepish robot voice): "Daisy, Daisy, give me your answer, do! I'm half crazy all for the love of youuuuu!"

Marisa: OHMYGOD STOP IT YOU KNOW HOW I FEEL ABOUT THAT MOVIE! Now I'll never get back to sleep.

Sub: Oooh! Wanna talk about Stanley Kubrick now?!

Marisa: Don't even get me started on that motherf--

Sub (interrupts in robot voice): "JUST WHAT DO YOU THINK YOU'RE DOING, DAVE?"

Marisa: I hate you.

Sub: YEA WELL, DON'T FORGET OSTRICHES HAVE FANGS, BITCH! GOOD LUCK SLEEPING NOW! GOTTAGOBYE!

*Marisa commences quietly sobbing in the fetal position*

Reasons I Should Have A Car And My Brother Should Shutup And Be Grateful I Allowed Him To Live Past Infancy

OK. I am so not in a humorous mood today. It's more like an angry, vengeful, what-can-I-destroy-in-this-house-and-blame-the-cats kind of mood. For reals, I am one peeved little ball of kinetic energy right now, and would like nothing more than to rain down torrents of evil upon anyone or anything who dares cross my path of righteous indignation this afternoon.

Sadly, short of verbally abusing household pets, I am SOL on the terrorism front, as today marks my 5,307,246,001st day of not having any kind of motorized transportation to speak of. Or even the non-motorized kind. Which means that if I want to inflict psychological pain on another member of society, I would have to walk somewhere to do it. And it's hot outside. And social terrorism isn't as effective if said terrorist is sweating profusely and gasping for air.

As a tiny child, if you had told me that I'd be 24 years old and begging my mom to buy me a bicycle, I'd have laughed. Heartily. In your face. I'd have informed you that, at the age of four and twenty, I would most likely be your effing BOSS. Your Boss with an awe-inspiring shoe collection and a Bentley. Plus a uniformed chauffeur. A-thank you very much.

Come on, you know I'd be the sickest Boss in the entire history of Bossing. Don't even lie to yourself right now.

Alas, little Marisa could not have been more laughably wrong. Not only am I most certainly the Boss of absolutely no one at this juncture, but upon my return from London I discovered that my parents had taken it upon themselves in my absence to bequeath the majority of my worldly possessions unto their illustrious second-born. His name is Marc, but I refer to him exclusively as The Usurper.

In laymen's terms: BITCH STOLE MY CAR. YUP, STRAIGHT UP JACKED THAT SHIZ.

And according to my parents, this "Sounds like a personal problem" SHRUG. Translation? We don't give a flying fart in a hurricane that you're stuck in the house all day long EVERY EFFING DAY with two highly judgmental-looking cats, one arguably insane pit bull, and a fickle (at best) internet connection. As long as The Usurper can get to the gym for his requisite 6-hour a day fist-pump workout in front of the wall of mirrors, the universe shall survive to see another sunset. Ugh, as they say.

So, here are the top 5 completely legitimate reasons my little brother can Suck It:

1. I was born first, therefore I am 200% more important than you are. Mathematics.

2. I have a lot of hair on my head and you have none. Samson and Delilah. It's in the Bible, look it up. Wait, that doesn't make any logical sense. I'm just gonna go with 'I'm prettier than you are'. That's just straight up Science.

3. I estimate that, having been honing this skill pretty much since the day you were born, I should be able to kill you with my thoughts by the year 2015. Again, Science.

4. Make no mistake, I'm not above literally blowing up the car because IF I CAN'T HAVE IT THEN NO ONE CAN! Bam: Terrorism. Also, the Bible...Something about King Solomon and chopping a baby in half, only the baby is a Tahoe and instead of chopping it in half I'm just gonna explode that sonnofabitch. Because if you really loved Tahoe, you'd just give her to me.

5. You're the most horrendously offensive driver in the history of history. Seriously. You're The Worst. You collide with parked cars on a regular basis. I don't even know how the state still allows you to possess a driver's license. It's just negligent. They should take it away and give you a bicycle. With training wheels, so mom won't worry so much. Also, Science. Although your ability to maim and disfigure automobiles could reasonably be described as 'biblical'.

Bottom-lining this call to arms...Give me back my car or live to regret it, brother. And that's all I have to say about that.

How I Have Friends At All Is Beyond Me

Ok, this post is going to be unusual. But that photo is pretty vital. I'm about to transcribe for you an average text message conversation between myself and my BFF^Maxpower For Life, Caroline. This particular exchange occurred between last night and this morning, and is IN NO WAY the strangest conversation we've ever had. We haven't lived in the same state since high school and were in different countries for the last year and a half, so we keep things spicy by carrying on a pretty intense textual relationship. In fact, I regularly delete most of my text message history involving lesser life forms, and yet I have every text between Caroline and I saved since around last January (because, Jesus Crush, it's pretty much crammed with comedy gold). Also, I miss her in a totally heterosexual way that occasionally causes bursts of physical pain inside of my heart. But, you know, in a totally heterosexual way. I will preface this by saying that I have been reading a lot of stuff on the interwebz about animals and nature lately, because hey, unemployed, bucketloads of sweet free time, etc. By the way, for reference, Caroline just moved in with her parents in West Virginia or some such nonsensical place and is currently not doing much more than I am, only she's in the middle of nowhere with naught but cows for company. Anyway, the following makes it pretty self-evident why Caroline and I have been friends for like 16 years:

Marisa (September 2, 2010 9:53 PM): Did you know ostriches have FUCKING TEETH?!

Caroline: All birds have the DNA for teeth it's just not usually expressed. Sometimes it shows up like if a person is born with a tail. Did not know about the ostriches though. Am now scared of ostriches.

M: Shutup with your smart people facts and whatnot! I'm talking about birds who can run 45mph and have GIANT fucking FANGS.

C: I told you I'm scared of them! What more do you want from me?! I miss you.

M: Miss you too. But I'm really distressed about the ostriches. It's right up there with learning that a 3 ton hippo can chase down and kill your average Olympic sprinter. Shit just ain't right.

C: Yeah that's true. And both those animals looked so cute in Fantasia!

M: It's a harsh world, man. Harsh.

C: Seriously.

M: Speaking of which, have you made any progress with your cow friendship quest?

C: I think one PEED AT ME this afternoon. Bitch was staring right at me!

M: Mean Cows?! That whore. I'll let you know if I find any horrific new info you should know about cows.

C: Thanks. You really can't be too careful.

M: Yea I mean, I would have to laugh if you were murdered by a cow somehow, but I'd be very upset. That kinda death is pretty embarrassing for the family.

C: Yeah well don't mention that I got peed at in your eulogy.

M: It's not like you got peed ON, though. I will be sure to stress the 'at'. Don't worry, your postmortem reputation is safe with me...mwahahaha

C: Thanks. I think.

M: Maybe I'll just get up there and out you as the real Batman. I've been steadily compiling doctored photos of you to that effect for years, by the way. I'll be like "She heroically defeated the Joker, only to be thwarted in her prime by a Mad Cow..."

C: So sad to peak so young.

M: What a waste. Just senseless. Hold me?

C: But of course!

M: Yeaaaa actually I was talking to the widower...this is awkward...don't worry, I will console Chris when you're gone ;)

C: Nooooo!!! I'm counting on him to throw himself on my funeral pyre.

M: Girl please, we all know I'm most likely to shove him aside and pounce on the casket in my grief.

C: Well that's a fair trade.

M: This conversation took a dark turn somewhere...

C: It started with fanged ostriches and malicious bovine urination. I'm not surprised.

M: True. Probably not even remotely the weirdest convo we've ever had, either.

C: Nah.

M: Funny how my first thought upon seeing a photo of an angry fanged ostrich was 'HOLY CRAP, I must warn Caroline!'

C: Well you just never know.

M: Word.

***a short time later***

M: Dude you need to Google Joe Davis. Why? "He stuck microphones inside the vaginas of the entire Boston Ballet, and shot the sound of them contracting into space. Why? Because fuck Carl Sagan, that's why!" He's a scientist artist with a peg leg and thus, Awesome.

C: Hahahahahahaha amazing.

M: I KNOW, right?! Mankind 1, Alien Life Forms 0. PS, anything unrelated to elephants is irrelephant. What! Yea. It's on a tshirt. That I need like 7 of.

C: Where is that shirt?! I must have it!!!!

M: Snorgtees.com, and you're welcome. The description of the shirt reads "If anyone questions your spelling of irrelephant make sure to hit them with a tennis racket." Oh and the elephant graphic is so cute I want to die. I need a job. If for no reason other than so I can afford to buy that shirt in every color of the rainbow. Because when is that ever not an appropriate addition to an outfit, I ask you?

C: I know, it's adorable!!!!!!!! Hahahaha 'I got 99 donuts cuz a bitch ate one'.

M: Gah! Why is my entire wardrobe not made up of stuff off that website?! Fuck fashion.

C: Seriously they have some awesome shirts!!!

M: I kind of want to send one to Heidi Klum, with a note that reads "Michael Kors, WHO?!"

C: You should definitely do that.

M: I feel like I should post some of our text messages on the blog. Shit is pretty real. OH! I'm sending you a link about pirates on FB, it's pretty fucking amusing.

C: Maybe you should. For public safety. People need to know about the dangers posed by ostriches and cows.

M: Don't forget the effing HIPPOS!

SO I think you'll all agree that we're pretty much soulmates, right? She just gets me. She also appreciates the films of Paulie Shore as much as I do, which is like, enough said right there, right? Right.

Discovering New And Somewhat Troubling Things About Yourself

Being as unemployed as I am, I try to keep myself occupied as much as possible. Mostly, I work out, read books, watch An Effing Lot of films and television shows, and carry on a somewhat tenuous relationship with my blog (...and reality). I also spend an inordinate amount of time texting my gainfully employed friends and begging them to take me shopping or go out drinking with me on school nights. Since I neither have a reason to get up before noon or an automobile of any kind during the day, I've discovered a few things about myself of which I was previously unaware.

First of all, I can easily stay up all night reading articles on Cracked.com and giggling audibly if I don't physically and chemically force myself to go to sleep. I do have a love/hate relationship with Cracked, considering that while I find a certain columnist by the name of Chris Bucholz to be inspirational and hilarious in a way that makes me kind of want to makeout with him in the back of a Vista Cruiser circa 1977, it often makes me angry that no matter how hard I try I will never be as funny as he regularly is. In fact, I have made a whole list of people in my head who I will never be remotely as witty as, and that list makes me slightly suicidal when I think about it. Emotions. Moving on.

The second new thing I've learned about myself recently is that I'm really, really, like professional-level good at avoiding my family and generally being alone. I can stay in my bedroom for an entire 24 hours with the door locked, no sweat. My bedroom is awesome and full of comfortable furniture to sit on and neat stuff to fiddle around with. I also have a treadmill in here and my own bathroom and enough floor space to do cartwheels if ever I feel so inclined. If I had a hot plate and a small refrigerator, my parents would probably never see me again unless I needed to replenish funds. Considering I'm also really good at being quiet and sneaky and I often creep down the stairs and out the door with nary a soul being any the wiser. This sounds very sad, but it kind of makes me feel like a ninja and it's a point of pride so just let me have my moment, KTHANKS.

My third new thing is actually pretty shameful. (Just do it like a bandaid, Marisa. Get it over with quickly, it will only hurt for a second)....Sooooo, you know those internet pop-ups that offer you really cool free stuff? I regularly click on those and I honestly don't know what possesses me to do it (I didn't even know I wanted a Kindle, but don't mind if I do, Internet!). It's like I think one day it's all just going to show up on my doorstep and all those dead-end surveys will have been totally worth every minute of my life I'll never get back. On that day, expect me to be excessively smug, as I prance around the coffee shop with my free iPad, iPhone 4G, and AmazonKindle (all for the low low price of having spent 500 straight hours filling out online surveys and $1,000 in lapsed Netflix "free trials" and BareMinerals makeup). Consumerism is a serious disease, people. Not like Alcoholism and Tourette Syndrome (which are equal parts fun and hilarious, to the point that I often fake having both of them simultaneously, because when is that ever NOT the most amusing thing you could possibly imagine?). Is it just me? Probably.

Ok. The last new thing I've discovered about myself that I'm going to share with you today is something I find extremely curious, and which I feel deserves an in-depth, government-funded sociological study. Here it is. I have found that if I hate someone or something hard enough and for long enough, at some point I reach an Apex of Hatred, after which I begin to actually love him/her/it. Example: The Kardashian Family, collectively. Oh, how I detested and abhorred the entire clan once upon a time! I used to feel about the Kardashians the way I currently feel about The Jersey Shore. By which I mean that they made my soul weep for humanity on a daily basis. Every single time one of those dumb plastic bitches opened her mouth, I wanted to shut it for her, violently. I don't know precisely when this began to change for me, but now I find myself wishing for three illiterate sisters with shiny, beautiful hair extensions who would love me unconditionally and tell me how pretty I am, and we could ride around in a Range Rover playing pranks on my mother and having inappropriate sexual conversations with Bruce Jenner (and if you don't absolutely LOVE stepdaddy Bruce, I'm pretty sure you don't have a soul or a sense of humor, because Bless.His.Heart. The man is a saint), in between getting matching nosejobs and bikini waxes together. Maybe they could hook me up with my very own sexy, African American boyfriend, and life would be blissful and I'd never have to wear the same outfit twice...Sigh. How's that for baring my soul? Life is rough now that I look to Khloe Kardashian for wise insights into the human condition. Anyway, I'm going to go measure my ass to make sure it's still smaller in circumference than Kim's, KBYE!

P.S. I still hate Scott Disick. If there is a human being on this planet more worthless and less self-aware than that arrogant metrosexual manchild, they have yet to be located and tagged. Runners up include every male cast member of The Jersey Shore and a select few of my ex-boyfriends.

Why I'm Single (Part Three)

I swear on all that is holy that this is not going to be another creepy Ode to Lee Pace. Really. I promise. Do you believe me? Yes? Sucker. No, I'm joking, it's really not. Mostly because I've finally thought of a new reason! Oh, this is going to be joyful...

So, remember back in high school when dating used to be fun and exciting and you were all full of rainbow giggles and hope for the future? What happened to that? Am I the only one who has gotten bitter and cynical at the ripe old age of 24? Because, honestly, I can't bear the thought of going out with a new person right now. I'm basically Vince Vaughn at the beginning of Wedding Crashers (except I write my own lengthy run-on-sentence-filled diatribes, a-thank you very much). Am I alone in feeling that dating has morphed into something equal parts horrific, mortifying, nauseating, and excruciatingly painful? It just makes me nervous. And not in that cute teenaged bouncy glitter eyeshadow girly way, either. More like in a Woody Allen-ish way, except I'm fully aware that my quirkiness is not remotely endearing or funny anymore (cough/wink/nudge), or sometimes even a Howard Hughes-esque way where I barricade myself in my bedroom, bite my nails compulsively, develop an involuntary facial tick or two, and regularly direct inappropriate emotional outbursts at the wrong people. What's that, now? Men lined up around the block, you say? I think not.

Now, I realize that what I'm about to say makes me a total traitor to the feminist cause, but as I ran on the treadmill last night while watching the latest episode of Mad Men, I kept thinking that life would be so much simpler if all I had to do on a date was look vaguely like a Kewpie doll, act sweet and feeble-minded, laugh at Don Draper's sexist jokes (while he grabs my ass and calls me 'sweetheart' in a painfully demeaning way, but I've made my peace with it because sweet baby Jesus, that man is DREAMY, am I right??), and light the occasional Lucky Strike. I'm so tired of having to keep up high-brow, intelligent conversation all the time. Particularly when my date looks absolutely NOTHING like Lee Pace...or like Don Draper, for that matter. AND when I'd much rather be talking about whichever TV show I'm newly obsessed with, or just complaining generally about life and humanity as a collective.

Personally, I think playing dumb is grossly underrated as a dating tool. Look at how well it worked for Scarlett O'Hara (before that pesky Civil War incident, that is). I wish I could pull that off, but I'm a much bigger fan of the post-war Scarlett (That brazen hussie! God bless her). She was so much more interesting, and far less irritating than when she played the simpering nitwit. Alas, I have met PUH-LENTY of insipid females and wouldn't you know it, they are literally ALL married, engaged, or at least seriously involved in one way or another. I'm sorry, but I find this a bitter pill to swallow, gentlemen. I've had more intellectually stimulating interactions with inanimate objects and moderately sized dogs than I've had with some of these girls, and yet some idiot somewhere always seems to want to tether himself permanently to what amounts in essence to a mental toddler with breast implants. Clearly I am destined to die alone (save the cat farm, natch). Oh well, maybe now I'll just surrender to my fate and give up the dating scene altogether. I feel like that might be best for everyone. Then again, there's always plastic surgery...

Oh, Life...

Whoa, guys. This week has flown by in a blur of coffee-fueled self indulgence and sloth (coffee is in no way necessary for my current lifestyle, except that I like to be alert while I sit on the sofa and watch my 'stories'). I apologize for the lack of posts. I guess the pressure is ON for this one to be entertaining. Ugh. Anxiety. To be honest, the only reason I continue to write for the masses (Ha. Of voices in my head, maybe) despite said Anxiety is because I keep getting feedback from readers that is great for my self esteem ("We love your blog!", "You're so funny!", "You're a really great writer!", "Did we mention we think you're aggressively good looking?!"). Well, that last one was more inferred than explicitly stated, but I'm taking it to the bank anyway. Sue me.

Oh, self esteem. My mother thinks I have too much of you. Which I suppose explains her ongoing crusade to utterly defeat and humiliate you. Keep fighting the good fight. Stiff upper lip, and all that. Speaking of Mother, earlier this week I had a nightmare (Or "daymare"? Or whatever it's called when you nap mid-afternoon like you're still in kindergarten. Look, I have to do something between snack time and recess, get off my back), in which said mother was completely and totally awful to me. I'm serious, she effing hated my guts and I felt like Cinderella and she was the evil stepmother and I had to sleep in a broom closet and there were certainly no adorable, chubby, singing mice named Gus to stop me from flinging myself out of a window in a fit of despair. But there was a Prince Charming, right? No dice, folks. Anyway, when I awoke from my dream, I immediately sent my mom a panicked text message that went something along the lines of "WHENAREYOUCOMINGHOME? I JUST DREAMED THAT YOU HATED ME AND YOU WERE REALLY MEAN AND PLEASE DON'T BE MEAN WHEN YOU GET HOME BECAUSE I'M FEELING VERY FRAGILE AND MIGHT BURST INTO TEARS!"

Yea. Her response went something like "Dude, WTF is wrong with you? I think you need to say some prayers and find Jesus". Because that's a TOTALLY legit solution to any given problem, aaaand you're not crazy at all, lady (Except you think that watching True Blood means we're all going to hell, and that gay marriage is some kind of diabolical conspiracy. And that makes you a little bit Whackadoodle). I'm sorry, Mom. I'm just kidding, kind of. Er, anyway...

Little Brother started law school this week, which makes me feel all kinds of idle and useless. But kudos to him, nonetheless. Personally, I would rather be brutally mauled by a hippopotamus in a tutu (and if you read one thing today other than this blog, let it be the article you find on the other side of that link, please God) than go to law school, but that's just me. FYI, I just did a Google Image Search for "hippo in a tutu" and OH EM GEE, the giggles! So that's where I'm at right now. My brother is diligently studying The Law, whereas I spend my days googling fat animals in funny costumes. Unique decisions, Marisa. Unique decisions all around.

Thankfully, I will have at least a few hours of gainful employment through next week. Our neighbors/long time family friends (and may I add, esteemed parents of the vivacious and bubbly ball of fabulousity that is my 'little sister' Mary Ann) are going out of town, and I will be lording it over their bar (The Copper Monkey on Conti Street in the French Quarter) until they return, trying really hard not to massively eff up their finances. I'll be there in the mornings-early afternoons, so if anyone wants to stop by and have lunch or even partake in some day drinking (I won't judge, because, you know, glass houses and such), please do, it's really a cool bar & grill and some of the daytime patrons are just precious (such as Peanut, an extremely grizzled and excessively dirty old gentleman sailor who arrives each morning around 11 and just hangs out being excellent all day long. I'm trying to work up the courage to ask him for pirate lessons, but that particular obsession of mine is a quirk for another day). But yea, I've got that going for me. Since I really don't spend enough time hanging out in bars. Did I mention that I get to handle large amounts of money? Seriously, I get to lock myself into the office area of the bar and distribute lovely green stacks of bills. And all I can think about as I do so is taking fistfuls of cash and tossing it into the air with wreckless abandon as I giggle maniacally, you know, as people do. I don't know why anyone trusts me to do stuff that's even remotely important. The mind reels.

Anyway, I'm off to see a man about a hippo. In a tutu. Christ. I mean...I just...I can't. I'm sorry.

Why I'm Single (Part Two Of An Annotated Anthology)

Now, I don't know what you people like to do on Saturday nights, but I've spent the evening alternately watching stand up comedy on television and searching the interwebz for YouTube videos of Lee Pace (or as I like to think of him, "My Boyfriend"). And I'm not ashamed. I went out Friday night only to be equal parts exhausted and irritated by the lack of single, available, non-mutant males (read: Lee Pace lookalikes) in the vicinity of my barstool. There were a few near misses. For instance, a well dressed architect called Richard who seemed promising at first, but then he opened his mouth and began to remind me increasingly of Will Arnett (think Gob from Arrested Development), which made me want to lobotomize myself. Why are the interesting ones always trolls and the good looking ones always BATSHIT CRAZY?? That means if I don't wish to die alone, I'll probably have to pick between Stephen Hawking or Mel Gibson. Either way, WIN.

Hang on. Can we just talk about 'ol Mel for a hot second? I know, I know, I'm sick of hearing about him at this point, too, and yes, he's a wretched demon from the bowels of hell, the likes of which could give the evil pterodactyl that is Ann Coulter a run for her money (whatever Mom, GET OFF ME, that woman is terrifying and it's got nothing to do with her politics) and blah blah blah, but seriously every time they play the tapes of him screeching obscenities as if he's suffering from Tourette Syndrome and making random guttural animal noises, the only reaction that I can muster is to giggle with wild abandon and try desperately to think of a way to make those recordings into a drinking game and/or an iPhone app. Do with that what you will.

Anywhoo, we have much more important matters to discuss...Back to Lee Pace. I realize that you all probably think that I'm...let's just say "a bit off", shall we? And many have asked me who the heck he even is. If you were one of the people silly enough to ask such a question, you probably regretted doing so about 2 hours later, after I had finished telling you his entire life story (as told by IMDB and Wikipedia) and filmography (with corresponding plot synopses and personal reviews), in addition to describing in detail every dream I've ever had about him as well as how I see our future together panning out (If you people do your job right and pimp this blog out for me, eventually it will lead to a book deal, which will in turn be adapted into a film, which will naturally star Lee Pace. During filming, Lee and I will be working very closely together and Perez Hilton will catch wind of the behind the scenes shenanigans and eventually out us as a couple despite the months of painstaking effort to hide our love from the press a la Robert Pattinson and Kristen Stewart. Big dreams. Big dreams all around). So, what I'm trying to convey here is that Lee Pace is one very big reason why I'm single. I'm not entirely sure whether I blame Lee Pace for ruining the rest of the species for me or if I just blame the rest of the species for not being Lee Pace. I'm leaning towards the latter. (By the way, speaking of the Pattinson/Stewart unholy union, I heard recently that My Boyfriend Lee has been cast in the next installment of Twilight, at which point I promptly had a grand mal seizure of joy and then ran around in circles chasing my tail out of happiness for about an hour. The rest of the cast better understand what an honor it is for him to grace them with his presence and act accordingly, or I will give Kristen Stewart something to cry about. Sadly this means I have to sit through another Twilight movie...Oh, the things we do for love). Christ, if this post alone doesn't make it ABUNDANTLY clear why I'm single, then I don't really know what will...

We all know I could go on to write at least one novel about the lovely Lee, but I'm falling asleep at the moment. I will, however, leave you with my newest favorite Lee video. It's a short film (5 min) called Polarbearman and I think I might just watch it on a loop for the rest of my life. As if his gorgeous eyebrows and 6'3 frame weren't enough to make me swoon, he also wants to save the polar bears, and that makes me want to just rock him back and forth as I stroke his hair and sing softly to him until he drifts off to sleep in my arms. Bless his heart. If this doesn't make you want to settle down in the 'burbs with him and adopt Chinese babies...well, then...you're clearly not me.

All You Ever Wanted To Say In A Cover Letter

Soooooo....is anyone else contemplating suicide at the prospect of writing one more effing cover letter, or am I the only unemployed person left on my planet? Seriously, razor blades and sleeping pills, people. It's getting even harder considering at this point, I don't even want AN single one of the positions I'm applying for. Not that I even know what most of them are, due to the fact that the overwhelming majority of Craigslist job ads are inexplicably anonymous (seriously, it's not the Casual Encounters section, what are they so ashamed of??)...Cutting to the chase, this evening, instead of being remotely productive, I sat down to compose the world's most heart-wrenchingly honest cover letter, which I submit without further adieu, for your amusement....

Dear Sir and/or Madam,

I am writing in response to the anonymous post that you placed on Craigslist yesterday advertising an open clerical position within your unnamed company. Please excuse my informality, as your 12-word-long, egregiously misspelled and infuriatingly uninformative ad left me unsure as to whom I should address this obviously vital introduction.

In any case, I would like to share with you a little bit about moi. Having recently finished my MA in International Relations, I find myself living with my parents once again (a situation which, I'm sure you can appreciate, is less than ideal), while I apply for countless positions for which your average primate might be considered overqualified. Among my myriad special skills, I can read AND I have been successfully answering the phone since I was around four years old (in ENGLISH, no less!).

I am proficient in Excel, Microsoft Office, Facebook, and Googling random stuff when I'm bored. I can also text message 80-90 words per minute, a-thank you very much.

As you can probably surmise from this letter, I fancy myself something of a fledgling writer and humourist. I even have a blog that boasts almost a full DOZEN followers*, so you'll be very welcome for the free publicity you will be entitled to should you decide to offer me my Big Break.

In truth, the blog could go viral any minute and in that case, I will be sure to give two weeks notice in order to train Bubbles the Chimp as my replacement before I jet to the big city to be wooed by publishers and to househunt with my new boyfriend, actor Lee Pace. Just in the spirit of full disclosure, you understand.

I will, however, make myself fully available to you until then (like an insecure girl on prom night, folks), because as of right now, alls I gots to my name is a tiny, obscure corner of the interwebz and an increasingly unhealthy obsession with Lee Pace, and let's face it--That Shit Don't Pay. Yet.

Nevertheless, I am confident that I will be an adequate trained monkey and a bright and shiny addition to whatever swanky little operation you're running over there, so it would be swell if you could just cut the crap and let me know the when and the where of it all so I can stop turning tricks, digging through people's sofa cushions, and being an endless source of crushing disappointment to my mother. Thanks a bunch, KBYE.

Regards,

Marisa

*So there's that. And, PS, If you anonymous readers bump my number of followers up to 20 this week, I will actually send this cover letter out with my next three job applications (NO MATTER WHAT MY MOM SAYS) and if I get any responses I'll be sure to post them verbatim. So tell your friends.

UPDATE: 20? Did I say 20? I meant 40. I'll send out one now. But if you want three, I want 40. And you can't ALL be friends with Matthew Chester. Yes, Matty, you have yourself to blame for this one.

Ok, for 40 I'll make it five applications. I would like to emphasize that Matthew totes cheated, though =P

Oh Yea, We Still Got It...

Confession: Sometimes I forget how truly and deeply awesome the city of New Orleans can be (Although in my defense, let me refer you to my earlier post referencing the STD-ridden den of daddy issues and Dep hair gel that is TJ Quills--and other such disreputable NOLA establishments). I'll admit I'm a little spoiled and I've gotten to do more traveling in my life than most people my age, so I tend to go into 'America-is-so-boring-and-passe' mode on occasion and be all 'too cool for school' (I'm aware that that's super obnoxious, but I'm pretty sure you already know I'm kind of an asshole sometimes. Plus it's a coping mechanism, and you're probably not perfect either, so step off).

Now, let me preface this by saying that I have a pretty diverse group of friends, and I love them all equally (ish). That being said, some of my friends like to do stuff that's Seriously Beyond Lame (like hang out regularly at TJ Quills, the owners of which are probably going to sue me if they ever read this blog, but hey, bring it on, you're welcome to the $63 in my checking account. Honestly, I'd pay a lot more than that to be legally allowed to publicly flog that hellhole on a daily basis. I'll even throw in a couple vintage movie posters. Cuz when ya got nothin', ya got nothin' to lose, baby), and believe you me, I don't hesitate to whine, bitch, and moan like it's my job when dragged out for SBL activities (just ask Charlie how I react whenever someone utters the words 'Red Eye' within a 5 mile radius of where I'm standing. It ain't pretty, folks. But that place is a disgusting sweatbox that I would literally rather be waterboarded than set foot inside EVER again. Sorry, but this is New Orleans, I am Marisa, and in my opinion, central air should not be optional in bars that get so effing crowded I've been tempted to summon the Fire Marshal just so a girl can score a Bud Light from the bar without inadvertently losing her virginity. Yea, I'm not even sure exactly what that means, but I'm upset now. By the way guys, if you ever meet a virgin at the Red Eye, you should start buying lottery tickets). Ok, getting back on track...What the devil was I getting at? Oh, right.

In any case, too many SBL outings tend to send me spiraling into a NOLA-hating depression of sorts, and I forget that there are a ton of non-seizure-inducing places to go and things to do in this city as well. Enter Christine. Bless her heart, the girl never fails to rock my socks off. Chrissy, you are one genuinely kickass broad (please don't ever leave me). So, last night, with Chrissy's help, I was reminded of why New Orleans can't be tamed. We elected to go down to Frenchman Street in the Marigny (land of good food, great music, and an excellent assortment of hippies), and as we exited the car feet away from a gaggle of dreadlocked and hennaed ruffians jumping double dutch on the side of the road, I knew it was going to be a good night.

Now, off we go to DBA (and let me tell you, those folks know the value of some good air conditioning, because it was downright frosty in there. So we know Marisa was happy as a little clam), where we are promptly informed that Mr. Walter “Wolfman” Washington & The Roadmasters will be playing at 10pm. Well, don’t mind if I do, and don’t mind if I do. Christine ordered us two pints of NOLA Blonde Ale, we lit up a couple Marlboros, and let the chips fall where they may.

It was about 8:30pm when we arrived at DBA, and after being informed that our tab had been 'taken care of' TWICE by the middle aged gentlemen down the bar, we left at 1:30am in a taxi having spent a grand total of $5 (plus taxi fare, we're not quite THAT good) between the two of us, and Chrissy only had to dance with one of the old guys for a hot second before being rescued by an adorable Lithuanian boy wearing a tshirt that said 'ENERGIE' on the front. Before we left, we wrote the blog site on a napkin and handed it to him, so if you're reading this, sweet Lithuanian boy, a-thank you very much. God, I've gone from intense hatred to an outpouring of joy just writing this post. I. Have. Emotions.

Bottom line, if ever you tire of New Orleans, just go down to Frenchman and catch a show any night of the week. And Wolfman Washington, we just can't thank you enough. Please don't stop the music. Peace.

Once Upon A Time...

First of all, I'm sorry I've neglected you chickens all weekend. Such is life. Hopefully you've had better things to do than read this nonsense, anyway. Other than the usual red carpet events and glamourous parties that comprise my weekends (read: dinner with my mother and Chrissy, and a debutante party--though the latter WAS actually fabulously glamourous, and I'd expect no less from the rock star that is Mary Ann), I've managed to finish a rather interesting short novel called Briar Rose. It's based on the Sleeping Beauty fairytale, the dark side being that it's about the Holocaust. Moving stuff (though whether it's appropriate to write about the Holocaust in such terms is questionable). In any case, it started me thinking about my favorite fairytales growing up. And the inevitable and irrevocable psychological scars inflicted thereby.

Take, for example, Beauty and the Beast (Little Marisa's Very Favorite Disney Movie). Allow me to break this down for you. Obnoxious, arrogant A-f*ck (Prince Not-So-Charming) is taught a lesson when he is turned into a giant dog (and Jesus Crush, do I know a few aging frat boys who could benefit from such a fate). Enter pretty, bookish girl who isn't really all that aware that she's nice to look at. Perhaps she's lovely and humble and modest. Or maybe she's just an intellectual elitist snob. Blah blah blah and nevertheless, they fall in love and the spell is broken and he is transformed from rabid dog to lovestruck puppy to handsome and contrite prince, all in a timely manner. Nevermind the fact that he first kept her as his prisoner and inflicted a lifetime's worth of psychological trauma on the poor girl (Stockholm Syndrome, anyone? Post Traumatic Stress Disorder at the very least!?). What does this teach impressionable young girls? Other than to never lose hope that your abusive boyfriend will one day transform from psychotic wife-beater to model husband, if you just love him unconditionally and never, never leave him! Good call, parents.

Let's be honest, pretty much every fairytale you can think of is complete and utter crap. I'm hardly a feminazi, but why do the women in fairytales always have to be so passive and pathetic? I get that they're old-fashioned, but if Steve Jobs can come up with a new snazzy gadget every 30 seconds, can we not update the drivel being spoon-fed to adolescent girls on a daily basis? Come on, folks, Snow White and Sleeping Beauty are basically dead to the world until some guy comes along and kisses them back to life?! Why teach girls to just wait patiently until they're chosen by some jackass with highly questionable motives, and then their life can finally begin? A life of cooking for him, cleaning for him, and popping out a bunch of brats because you're so bored with each other you can't think of anything else to do.

It's not that I don't ever want to get married or have kids or anything like that. Because I do. Maybe. But it makes me a little sad that so many girls I know are just settling down before they've even done anything, or seen what's out there (i.e., the WORLD). We're 24 years old, and honestly, half of them will be divorced in 10 years. What's the hurry? It's like as soon as we finished college, half of the women I knew just decided Welp, I don't have any specific career goals in mind so I better marry the first guy who asks just so it looks like my life is moving forward in some capacity. And next time they feel the pressure of not being a complete person, oops, time to have a kid, that should keep me busy for the next 18 years. Well, thanks but no thanks, you keep your husbands and adorable babies, I'll hang on to my youth and freedom a little longer, a-thank you very much.

Not that I'm bitter, believe me, I support my friends in whatever they choose to do with their lives and Christ knows I don't have it all figured out. But we all judge, whether we admit it or not. I, for one, readily and unabashedly admit it. I enjoy quietly (and often, not so quietly) judging other people, and I'm not ashamed. Do with that what you will. In the meantime, I'm off to plan my next adventure, Indiana Jones style. I'll let you know how that works out.

Why I'm Single (Part One of Many)

Well, hello there! After my last post, I received feedback from various sources essentially telling me to suck it up and quit being such a Debbie Downer. Well, I call shenanigans! Really, folks, you know me. Whining is like my anti-drug. If you take that away from me, I'll start hitting the crack pipe (and maybe injecting some heroin into my eyeballs, you know, for funsies) and I don't think any of you are qualified to stage an intervention. Really, though, if my life were that horrible I certainly wouldn't be discussing it in a public forum (and besides, we all know I'm waiting until mis padres kick the proverbial bucket to publish the tell-all) (Marisa, that's just in bad taste) (Yea, I know, but in the words of the incomparable Bette Midler, F**k 'em if they can't take a joke). So yeah, there's that.

Anyway, I'm completely out of books to read. I had a list of new ones I wanted, but when I went to Borders, they didn't have any of them in stock. Granted, they're not massively popular titles, but I'm still surprised and more than a little annoyed that they didn't carry AN single one of the lot! For shame, Borders! So I had to order them on Amazon, which I hate doing because I am a huge believer in instant gratification. Patience isn't a virtue that I possess in abundance, let's be honest. My mother always used to compare me to the obnoxious child from Willy Wonka who whined and demanded things constantly. Veruca Salt, that was her name. I don't think I'm all that bad, but, well...Let's just say the comparison isn't entirely without merit. Bottom line being, Amazon better get it together, but quick.

Ok, I must be seriously boring people at this point. A few friends who read this sometimes like to suggest random topics for me to ramble incoherently about, and Mary Ann suggested yesterday that I write about my (lack of) love life. Or something to that effect. I accidentally deleted the text message so I can't really be sure. In any case, no one needs to hear about that, and it certainly doesn't make for interesting reading, I can promise you that much. To be honest, I have no desire at all to date at the moment, and that's mostly because HAVE YOU SEEN THE NEANDERTHALS DRAGGING THEIR KNUCKLES THROUGH THE STREETS OF NEW ORLEANS LATELY?! I mean, Come On. Last night I went to TJ Quill's with a few friends, and Christ on a Croissant, they should just hand out Valtrex at the door! With the exception of my little brother and his charming friends and the people I was there with, everyone in that bar was a disaster of stereotypical proportions. The (worryingly weathered) girls there made Snooki look like Princess Diana, let's put it that way. The daddy issues were palpable. And if I see one more guy wearing a graphic tshirt and bedazzled jeans, I'm just gonna adopt a herd of cats and move to Grey Gardens. When did that become acceptable? I don't think my list of desirable traits is really too much to ask for. Dress like a normal human being, Be a nice person, Don't be a total moron, Read books occasionally, Don't play video games when I'm in the room (or at all, really), and if at all possible, Look like Lee Pace (The last one is negotiable, but physically he's the dream guy, see photo above. Boy's got a shape to him). So, now that this post reads more like a personal ad, I can move on. Who knows, maybe Lee Pace will happen upon this blog somehow and realize that I'm the girl of his dreams. With my luck, though, he's probably gay. If you need me, I'll be in the corner, singing softly to myself and slowly rocking. Toodles!

Milk Was A Bad Choice, Dude

I hate Sundays. I just really, really do. Sunday is the day of the week when I receive the highest number of threats and insults. These come from the general direction of my mother. She hates me on Sundays even more than usual. I'm sorry, but I just don't think at 24 years old I should be considered a bad human being because I don't want to go to Starbuxxx and get coffee with my entire family on the Lord's day. First of all, I don't drink coffee. Yes, Chrissy and I occasionally enjoy going to The Bux and sitting outside for odd lengths of time talking to random strangers with adorable dogs, but that is a horse of a different color. It's mostly to keep ourselves from going to a bar to drink our faces off in the middle of a random Tuesday (and because for some strange reason, Chrissy likes to force me to leave the house. I know, she's weird.)

Irregardless (yes, I know that's not a real word, but I prefer the extra syllable. It just feels right. God, stop misunderestimating/refudiating me, dammit), this entire weekend was a bust. Friday night I went to Rock 'N Bowl to pay $10 to see a band I don't like, which was actually pretty fun but lasted about 90 minutes before people were like eh, I'm going home. Highlights of the night included running into a few folks I hadn't seen in eons and acting like a neurotic mess, watching an extremely effeminate manboy hoola hoop/dance/carry a legit purse, and laughing hysterically at incredibly inane and juvenile things, such as Deano repeatedly pointing at something on my shirt and flicking me in the face when I looked down EVERY SINGLE TIME. And Deano constantly touching my face inappropriately. And Deano continually violating accepted personal space etiquette. Oh how I enjoy Drunk Deano...(There! NOW will you read my blog?! That's what I thought. You're welcome. And stop making fun of my bangs.)

Last night I was supposed to go out for a friend's birthday, which I spent an annoying amount of time getting ready for. Alas, it was not to be. This is mostly due to me not having a car and the fact that apparently the economy must not be such a problem for the taxi drivers of New Orleans because they were too busy to pick up the phone when I called repeatedly. Thanks, guys. If I now have a couple less friends to my name, I blame United Cab. Yea, United. You and me? We're over. Suffer.

All in all, this weekend has just made me want to spend all of Sunday acting like Ron Burgundy after he got fired from the Channel 4 Evening News. Did I mention that I also described my current lifestyle as "very Big Lebowski-esque" to one unfortunate friend this weekend? Eff my truly embarassing life. If you need me, I'll be reading the want ads in my bathrobe. It's made of terry cloth and broken dreams.

High School's Never Really Over, At Least Not If You're Me

So, I've been having some shockingly asinine dreams lately. I used to have crazy complex dreams with loads of symbolism and depth, but recently my dreams have been on par with those of a tiny child. For example, I recently dreamt about eating ice cream with a male friend of mine from London. This is highly unrealistic as he and I usually opted for copious amounts of booze and cigarettes rather than innocent sweet treats. Apparently, my subconscious has regressed back to simpler times. Oh, well, I thought, I enjoy ice cream and good company, I'll just call that a pleasant anomaly and move on.

Not so. A couple of nights ago I experienced another charmingly simplistic dream. This time, subconscious came up with "Marisa Adopts a New Puppy". Ok, I can get on board with that, who doesn't love puppies? From what I can remember, however, the puppy I chose to adopt (from a homeless man outside Rite Aid with a cage full of a random assortment of different breeds. Yea, my brain is cracked out) was a particularly ornery teacup yorkshire terrier (and I would be ornery too, if someone dyed my hair BRIGHT GREEN. Yup, green.). So that was basically the dream, or what I remember of it. Getting a mean, green yorkie from a homeless dude outside a drug store. Touche, subconscious. But, really? That's all you can come up with these days, ice cream and puppies?! I don't even want to think about what that means for my life.

The good news is, as of this morning, it seems that my subconscious is slowly maturing from small child to junior high school girl. But first, a confession. I am shamelessly addicted to television shows that are set in high school. Since the first time 12 year old Marisa laid eyes on the wonders of Dawson's Creek, she was hooked. Gossip Girl? I talk about it like Blair and Serena are my BFFs, for reals (But not really Serena, she's kind of whacked in the head and I would rather jam a salad fork into my own eyeball than listen to her speak for more than 30 seconds. Is anyone still reading this?). Anyway, my latest fan favorite (and if you haven't seen this little gem yet, you should kill yourself now. But really, watch it first) is "ABC Family's newest summer hit" Pretty Little Liars. O.M.F.G. And a new obsession is born. I don't even know why, but I look forward to this show All.Week.Long. First of all, I am obsessed with the names of characters in high school television dramas. There's always one girl who's super smart and has a boy's name (think Joey from the Creek). In PLL, it's Spencer. If my parents named me Spencer, I'd murder them in their sleep. Then, there's the one with the weirdo name because it sucks when there's like 25 other "Ashleys" in your class, doesn't it? Had anyone ever heard of the names Dawson and Pacey before Dawson's Creek came on? Weirdo names. Pretty Little Liars takes it a step further. Weirdo/Pretentious names. The main pretty little liar chick is named Aria. Like from an opera. Shut your facehole. I love it, I really do. Why, oh why, couldn't my parents have named me something like Aria (Maestro? Libretto? Lyric Soprano?)?? I will never forgive them.

What does any of this have to do with my childlike psyche? Well, in my latest dream, I was a new teacher at this fictional high school from this show (which is depressing on so many levels, I can't even talk about it), and when I was about to accidentally walk into the mens room instead of the ladies (Eff my life, I'm even awkward in my dreams now), who stopped my whacky ass but Mr. Fitz, the aggressively good looking 26 year old English Lit teacher from Pretty Little Liars who is having a very, very inappropriate (read: very, very HOTT) relationship with little 16 year old Aria on the show. His first name is Ezra, by the way. Another weirdo. Anyway, in my dream, Mr. Fitz, like, totally GETS me. He is even charmed by my obsession with politics and the fact that I'm a registered Republican. I know, seriously WHERE CAN I GET ONE, am I right? AND, I'm age appropriate, unlike his current illicit conquest (seriously, high school bitches need to stop swimming in my pool. I'm not getting any younger). So he's all We should hang and I'm all giddy and drooling on myself, but somehow I manage a

HELLS YEA and scamper back to my classroom, the heels of my Louboutins-on-a-teacher's-salary clicking merrily down the corridor as Mr. Fitz watches me walk away with a longing look in his eye. Dream over. Sigh. Where was I going with this, again?

Oh, right. So deep down inside, underneath the expensive degrees, designer clothing, and rapier wit, my subconscious is a 13 year old girl in a Limited Too tshirt and a training bra, who likes puppies and has posters of Leonardo DiCaprio circa 1998 all over her bedroom walls. Winner.

In honor of my newfound self-discovery (and because lately I've been going through books faster than a fat kid with a sleeve of oreos), I went to the bookstore again yesterday and chose the cheesiest title I could lay my hands on. The cover of the book alone makes it impossible for me to be seen reading it in public. But it's about unreasonably wealthy young girls, and if you lived with my parents, you would need escapism too. My newest literary adventure is called Daughters of Fortune (of course it is) by Tara Hyland, and I plan to thoroughly soak up every painfully unrealistic moment of it. Don't judge me.

Going to the Dark Place

I could not for the life of me fall asleep last night. I blame the (hopefully) imaginary bedbugs and my overactive imagination. To pass the time, I began racking my brains about what I wanted to write about today. I came up with Bret Easton Ellis. To give you an idea of how my little mind works, I started with my cat, Alfie (Who as of late has begun to distress me deeply. No joke, I'm concerned he has gone over to the dark side, and I've taken to addressing him respectfully as Sir and never making eye contact). Anyway, thinking of Sir Alfred always makes me daydream about what if he had super hero powers, which in turn lead to Batman, which lead to Christian Bale, which lead inevitably to American Psycho. Simple associations, no? In any case, I read American Psycho a few months ago, when I was still living in London. At the time, I was putting off writing my thesis in favor of concentrating more fully on developing bipolar disorder (so obviously, in a GREAT place). So I thought, let's go to Waterstone's and pick out something cheerful and motivational to read whilst scoping out the local hipsters and feeling mighty superior (Not only will this get me out of the house for an activity that doesn't involve alcohol, but it also includes a long bus ride around northwest London, and we all know riding the bus is an epic adventure all on its own). And, she's off.

Perhaps it was just my particularly dark mood that day (or perhaps I just couldn't bear the thought of the hipsters behind the counter openly mocking me as they rang up a copy of Eat Pray Love, even though I couldn't really blame them as I would probably mock me, too), but I ended up leaving with a copy of American Psycho. Whatever, I thought, I loved the movie. Oh, the wrong choices we make.

I will never, as long as I live, forgive Mr. Bret Easton Douchebag Ellis. For the next two days, I did nothing but read. Not because I liked what I was reading, but because I felt the nightmare could not end until I turned the final page. Don't misunderstand me. In no way was this book scary. I can get on board with scary. No, the only terrifying part of AP was Ellis' cold, hard writing style. You, sir, are an asshole. Seriously, this jagoff goes on for-freaking-EVER about 80s-90s pop culture, fashion, and random expensive electronics. No one knows anyone else's names, everyone who is described looks exactly alike, and I get it, I really do, that maybe this IS what it was like in the age of the yuppie, but part of me thinks you'd just rather write a love letter to Phil Collins than focus on character development. And honestly, who wouldn't?

The only redeeming thing about reading AP was that it's impossible once you've seen the film to picture anyone but Christian Bale as Patrick Bateman. And I don't know about you, but I can picture Christian Bale doing just about anything and it's still sexy. I'm serious, ANYTHING. In fact, if Christian Bale showed up with a chainsaw and wanted to hack me into tiny little pieces and keep my severed head in his refrigerator, I'd be like...EFF, YEA! As long as he sang me that song from Newsies first, I would die a happy, happy camper. Really, I can think of no better way to go.

When I finally finished this mess, I was even more of a crazed lunatic than I typically am. I researched serial killers obsessively, and diagnosed myself, my ex-boyfriend, and my mother as sociopaths (to be fair, that's not entirely inaccurate). I also made a playlist of every pop song referenced throughout the book. I could barely function socially for a week. Seriously, I was all nervous and shifty-eyed and friends were all Um, are you SURE you're alright? and I was all Yea, I'm cool but I think that guy over there might be a mass murderer...This book made me a nervous wreck, like for reals for reals. I still find myself occasionally lecturing my friends. If you tell me you met a new guy who is really cute and charming and wonderful, my knee jerk response is "YEA, SO WAS JEFFREY DAHMER!" (Why yes, I'm excessively popular, why do you ask?)

The moral of this story: Just buy Eat Pray Love. Bite the bullet and swallow your pride. Nothing good can come of trying to be edgy. To hell with the hipsters, say I.

Science Fiction Vantage Point

The other day, while shamelessly perusing the science fiction section of my local Borders (Where I have somehow convinced myself that I WILL someday meet the man of my dreams, though by the looks of my fellow sci-fi aficionados, my soulmate would have to be either 12 years old, morbidly obese, wearing a Lord of the Rings costume on a daily basis, or some incredibly life affirming combination of the three)(Can you tell I’m 24 years old and living with my parents, yet? Good), I witnessed something that truly restored at least a couple of tetris block-sized pieces of my shattered faith in humanity. Wait for it. Even as I stood there valiantly attempting my best chick-flick worthy cute-girl-with-a-brain-and-excellent-taste-in-high-minded-toocoolforschool-literature-and-other-stuff-you’ve-never-heard-of-in-your-life…look, my spidey senses suddenly detected the goings-on in the nearby Young Adult section, where two middle school girls were LITERALLY (ha) about to begin a battle royale over what I assumed must be the last copy of Twilight to be had on this particular day and in this particular bookstore. Now, there are few things in this world that elicit such unabashed glee inside my snarky 24-year old head the way that seeing other people fight in public never fails to do. Other than running into girls I hated in high school who have since gotten fatter than I have and are currently employed as Bourbon Street shot girls because that’s what happens when you peace out of college after freshman year you idiot, this is what I live for. Did I mention that I have a master’s degree and am currently unemployed? But I digress. Back to the impending cage match.

So. From what I can tell at this point, Pre-Teen Girl Numero Uno (let's call her Wednesday Adams) had clearly gotten there first, only to be distracted for a split second by what I assume was an attack of her subconscious future self crying with shame at her early taste in fashion, music, and by God, "literature", during which time Pre-Teen Girl Numero Dos (who we're calling Stephanie Tanner because I swear she stepped straight out of Full House, and if you haven't guessed I'm already on Wednesday's side) swooped in like the sneaky natural blonde biatch that she was born to be, snatching up Wednesday's intended literary masterpiece before even one of Wed's future multiple personalities realizes what's up. When she wises up, though, all hell breaks loose. Cut to Marisa looking on with rapt attention and wishing for the bucket of popcorn and recliner that would make this experience all that it could be.

In any case, Wednesday and Steph proceed to girl-fight for a good 30 seconds, which is pretty boring considering girl fighting is mostly passive aggressive, and let's be honest, girls that age don't yet possess the necessary life experience to make passive aggressiveness truly captivating to a sophisticated audience, such as myself. Anyway, when passive aggressive proves too subtle, the girls begin one hell of a tug-o-war, whilst both trying to remain quiet enough that their guardians (who are ostensibly nearby, although I've yet to lay eyes on them and I'm thinking why can't people just keep their damned pets on a leash in public??Seriously folks, I don't want to get bitten by your rabid Toddler-Jack Russell Terrier mix) remain unaware of this brawl. This tactic, however, quickly descends into a screaming match and the mothers come a-runnin', just in time for the hair-pulling. Cut to Marisa giggling like she's mentally disabled, as Wednesday and Steph's respective chauffeurs go into Mama Bear Mode. All ends well when someone FINALLY has the presence of mind to enquire whether the stock room houses extra copies of the Great American Novel in question, which OF COURSE they do, ma'am, it is TWILIGHT after all and they probably have employees back there copying it by hand like ancient monks because God forbid they run out of it and a pre-pubescent/post-menopausal bloodbath ensues! Sigh.

What about this, you ask, restores a modicum of my faith in humanity?! Relax and I'll tell you. It was the simple fact that two young kids were fighting, not over video games or reality television or some popular boy in class who they will run into in ten years when he serves them a latte at Starbuxxx and think Thank Christ I dodged that particular teen pregnancy, BUT over A BOOK. This makes me so happy that I'm not even much bothered that it was written by asshat Stephenie Meyer. Let me explain. If you are one of those people who "hates to read" or lists Cosmopolitan and OK Magazine under their favorite books on TheFacebook, I judge you. I judge you HARD. In fact, I think you might be retarded. That's right, I said it. I ain't scurred. Get your vain head out of your vapid ass and open a book once in awhile. You might learn something and slowly start to become a mildly interesting person who can occasionally spell words correctly and form coherent sentences. I don't care what you read (although if it's all chick lit, I may judge you just a little), just turn off The Jersey Shore or Keeping Up With the Kardashians and use your brain and your imagination once in a blue moon!!!

Ugh. Ok, Rant Over. Moral of the story: Kids getting excited about reading is kind of AWESOME. Even if they look like Stephanie Tanner from Full House.

Also, those two mini-gladiators inspired my latest literary choice, entitled The Hunger Games by Suzanne Collins, which is science fiction and about kids age 12-18 battling to the death in a huge arena in a future society where the whole thing is nationally televised (which is, incidentally, exactly where most kids age 12-18 belong, in my opinion). It's pretty rad and I totally recommend it. Which, incidentally is what I'll be doing here. Talking about whatever I'm reading at any given time as well as whatever other random, oh-so-validating events occur in my terribly exciting everyday life. And probably being as sarcastic and obnoxious about it as I can manage. So, until next time...