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...