Addendum: Oh gosh. I just found an entry in which he says he never has a bad day and doesn’t drink alcohol. *slowly backs out of the room* But bless his heart, I like him and his shameless, shirtless pandering.

Addendum Addendum: I posted this as a comment, these are my final words on the subject: “OK, I’ve thought of this more, and it increasingly seems that he’s borrowed a page (quite deftly) from L. Ron Hubbard by using “up with people” psycho-babble to sell a product to the weak and impressionable. Don’t get it twisted, I give him a lot of credit. But I’m too grounded in reality (for better or for worse) to drink the Kool-Aid.” Also, if anyone says, “Don’t like it? Don’t read it,” I will ban you for life. I’ve been in this game for far too long to keep my opinions to myself!

[via The Awl]

I went to a house party this weekend, too – although if anyone there was doing drugs I was too stupid to notice. I’m naive, I’ll admit it. Despite being jaded about so many things, I still err on the side of assuming the best in people. Lord knows there are many instances in which I could have saved myself considerable time and heartache by assuming the worst.

Ironically, the people at this party surely must have thought I was on drugs myself because I wouldn’t shut up, I just kept talking and talking and talking, when there was a lull in conversation I’d jump right in with a bizarre non sequitur, I’d make jokes that weren’t funny, I’d poke fun at people I’d just met, I’d go so far as to MOCK someone TO HIS FACE if it meant I’d keep people from seeing just how nervous and uncomfortable I really was. Everything’s a hilarious joke to me, yay! Wait, where are you going? Why does everyone think I’m annoying and weird??! COME BACK, I’M NORMAL, I SWEAR.

Usually these exchanges go a little something like this:

Me: <random observation that has nothing to do with anything but in my mind serves as an icebreaker>
Victim: <hesitant reply>
Me: <insanely insulting barb that amuses no one but myself>

Here are some real-life examples from the weekend:

Me: Boy, it sure is dark outside here in this hot tub.
Victim: Yeah, it is.
Me: I can hardly see your face, THANK GOD!

Me: So I hear it’s your birthday today.
Victim: Well, my birthday was actually in May, I’ve just been busy and we’re finally getting around to celebrating it.
Me: Seriously? <looks at watch> You know it’s June 12, right?

I shouldn’t be allowed out of the house.

Oh look, there I am, sobbing uncontrollably in my used domestic car. Why, I’m probably on my way to work!

Ha ha, just kidding, that’s not me. It’s the choir teacher with no penis from “Glee.” When I saw this scene last night, I burst out laughing. How many times would you bet I’ve cried alone while driving a car? If you guessed ONCE, then you are WRONG! The correct answer is twice. Once, in high school, while playing No Doubt’s “Simple Kind Of Life” and coming to terms with the fact that I got a B- on the English Regents exam despite getting a 5 on the AP English exam. And another time, during the summer break after freshman year of college, when Avril Lavigne’s “Complicated” came on the radio, a song that reminded me of my boyfriend at the time who I was far too good for!  The only reason there aren’t more examples is because I no longer drive a car.

I’m trying to think of the last time I had a really big cry, in or out of a car. The problem with crying yourself to sleep every night is you typically don’t remember doing it come morning.

So, I do what any rational person would do and head into the bathroom to force myself to vomit. That blue fucking pill was going to come back up whether it liked it or not! Sure, I’d be interrupting its little Lunesta destiny, but I didn’t care! I practically fisted my own throat, all in vein, only to cough up some remnants of my bedtime casein shake. And because I’m as rational as the next guy, I even considered for a moment heading up there, just to play things by ear. You know, strolling in, introducing myself, pouring myself a cocktail, and casually informing the host that I could collapse at any moment due to the lethal side effects of alcohol and prescription sleeping pills. And then I’d call bass guitar on Rock Band.

Miraculously, I opted for bed. You see, even prior to the Lunesta, I had been feeling faint due to this wacky new diet I’m on where I’m supposed to ingest fewer calories than I burn. Not really sure how it’s going so far, but I nearly fell over a few times this evening from temporary loss of orientation, so I guess that’s good!

During the most recent of my Florida sojourns – which consisted largely of eating, drinking, visiting a turtle hospital, and peering at multi-million dollar condos from the interior of a Ford Windstar minivan – I had a lot of time to reflect on things. Am I happy with where I am in life? Not really! I mean, I am very lucky to have a great boyfriend and great friends and a great family and a great dog and a great apartment and great hair – but… everything else (And what else is there, really?) is a disaster. And so, I’ve given myself 25 days to get my life in order, because in 25 days I turn 27.

Basically, I need to determine two things: Do I need to go back to school, and if so, what do I want to study? And what do I do with this blog? I want to return to writing, but part of me wants to start over in a totally anonymous way. So, dear blog friends, please solve all of my problems, thanks!

Not that I ever really cared for pumpkin, but after watching tonight’s episode of “Hoarders” – which featured an elderly woman named Jill who couldn’t stand to part with the seeds of an entirely unsalvageable rotting pumpkin carcass that had made a home for itself on her living room floor – I’m not sure enough time will pass before Thanksgiving for me to enjoy a slice of pumpkin pie ever again.

Interestingly, Jill and I have completely opposite problems. Whereas she holds on to eggs for over a year and insists that it wouldn’t kill her to eat them (or serve them to her son), I throw them out the second the clock strikes “sell by date.” I also dump any remaining milk five days after I’ve opened the carton – although I know for a fact that this is what you’re supposed to do.

Sigh. What would it take for me to become a full-blow hoarder? Of course, who am I kidding – my boyfriend would never even let me hoard episodes of “Hoarders” on the DVR, let alone bags of coagulated cabbage in the hallway. (Hint from Heloise: Cabbage is very “forgiving” as it rots from the outside, according to Jill!)

Walking past Abercrombie, the topic of the prosthetic arm lawsuit comes up and I say to Matt, “Would Abercrombie hire me?”

“Probably,” he says.

PROBABLY?

“I mean, yeah, I’m sure they would.”

Um.

“They probably wouldn’t hire you because you’re just so BIG.”

Ding ding. Now we’re talking.

On an unrelated note, I have isolated spots of cystic acne all over my face. This is what happens when you stress out about stupid shit that won’t even matter in six months.