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.