I am that type of girl

So it happened again, got drunk off my ass, partied hard, and wound up with several phone #s in my phone and fond memories of hott make-outs on numerous dance floors with numerous men with varrying sexual preferences. Shit, I hope that my boss isn't reading this...Well , now he knows my secret life, not like I pretned to be anything else...But I think (hope) he gave up on reading my blog...especially after reading about me going home with some guy and vomming on his bed.

I need to begin to get into the habit of taking the person's pic when I take down their # because now I have a boy texting me, and all I remember of him is how incredibly well dressed and what a hot make-out partner he was. I think he was hott, but I dont know if it was the 6 cosmos that I had or if it was him. Why isnt that second nature, one would think with the advent of the camera phone that not remembering what that person looks like would be a thing of the past...

Trying to get a grasp of the night, I tried to look through my texts and #'s dialed throughout the night and found a very colorful text that I texted this guy, telling him how I wanted to "fuck him this week". No wonder why he is texting me the next day.

But what would happen if he is like a decent good/bfriend material guy?? I am avoiding his phone calls and texting because I do not want to directly confront what I may have said/done...Like what do you say? "I am not normally that type of girl." Bullshit, because if I did it last night with him, what's to say that I havent done that before?? And who am I kidding, I am a kissing slut when I go out...making out with a bunch of randominos, having harmless fun. So what do I tell him? When I am drunk off my ass I am a wild woman and when I am sober you can find me being sociall awkward, wearing sweatshirts and ponytails, while carrying a piece of esoteric literature?!

Sometimes it is just so much easier having faux quasi-one-night hookups/hott dance floor make-outs than dealing with the dispointment that occurs when you realize just what you did the night before and sometimes, what is worse...who it was with. At least if it is just for the night, you have fond memories, a hott story to masterbate to, and material to laugh at for the rest of the week.

What does a girl like me do?

Funny story of the night, John John vomming all over NYC and the people in 7A thought that he died. He was just vomming for 25 mins straight.

A trip down memory lane..and other nostalgic musings

It is 18 Farenheit, colder when you factor in the wind chill and I spent about 75% of my night outdoors, freezing...but totally well worth it. Except when you factor in that in the cold. And now all I want to do is eat really fatty foods like a bear and lie *quiessently* (Kaplan GRE word. I am paying enough and should use them) and that this trip out into the cold made me eat Pommes Frittes, which are basically baked in lard. Fuck. And I smoked hooka. And I drank a bunch of beer. And I am going to the gym in the early afternoon. Double fuck. All in the name of nostalgia. John even called and asked if I wanted to go out...it was like my life when I was 16.

So this evening, I relived my 16 yr old self, complete with wandering the streets of NYC in the freezing cold w/o a destination in mind, even tonight when I am the proud owner of an ID that says over 21. Fucked up how things dont change, huh? Same person, same semi-fucked up and wondering around without a destination in mind, same youthful innocence of trying to help this junkie into a cab, and we had a totally drunk person to provide the hours of the much needed entertainment that you need when you run around NYC w/o a destination in 18 degrees with only your fleece jacket on since you thought you were just running to the corner store to get a movie. Saw the tattoo place where I got my tattoo at 16, ate at the pommes frites place where I used to frequent--they still had my mango chutney mayo, walked accross Washington Square Park at night, had said really drunk friend almost buy weed off of the resident dealer...*almost* until my friend and I dragged him away, and yelled about the fucked up pigs in the city and something about fucking the establishment.

Shit, I still act like I am 16.

Only thing that is different? I am wearing tighter jeans and my hair isnt fucked up and quasi-green/red/blue/whatever color I failed at dyeing it. And I live here now, so no more LIRR aka, the LI drunk bus.

And I am going to some of the NY fashion week shows. My life this year has been the life of a quasi-celeb or a really well connected LI girl with cool friends who help a sistah out...

And march celebrates my 1 yr anniversary of being in a city for 1 straight year (well I took a month to travel last summer), first time in almost 6 years. Thinking, everything that I said I hated (or thought I should), and instead I have ended up embracing either b/c of environment or for sheer social survival or that I fucking like it...

I am still trying to figure out whether it is a good thing or if all of this, the life that I have built for myself is merely an extention of trying to remain busy and distract myself from the emptyness that is inevidable living in a huge city. But even if it is, should I bother to question my happiness?

The politics of Friendster/bathroom/life

First of all, I know I am going to sound like the most shallow and insecure person but I know that this pertains to you, my humble reader, as well...so before you think to yourself, what a horrible bitch I am, look deep within you.

Friendster is great at keeping in touch with friends, meeting new ones, and secretly looking up all the people from your past. First you read their profile, see if they are still the asshole bfriend/bitchy friend/just as hott and unattainable crush/random scary Craigslist man who wanted you to become his slave. You read where they are (check if they are still in their parents basement), then their occupation (are they gainfully employed?), see what college they went to, what their interersts are (are they intelligent and esoteric enough).

Then, you look at the testamonials to see:

1) if they are numerous--many mean that this person is fucking cool. It means that someone likes you enough to spend their time to tell the rest of the world that you rock

2) what they have to say--if they say that this person is so nice and sweet...blah. You still know that they are a loser. But if they have numerous references to crazy inside jokes, wild nights, randominos, and cool travel, then you know this person has been into some interesting shit since you last spoke to them

3) *Especially important for people who you dont like* how hott their friends are. If the person has hott friends, then you know they are cool crazy shit, Espcially if they write that they are "proctologist," "crackhead on the street" or something just as inane as their occupation. It means that they have a sense of humor and dont take themselves too seriously.

I can happily say that my friendster profile is fucking cool. My pic needs to be updated, but I have all the requisites for appearing cool to people who I dont like/dont like me. Hott friends, allusions to crazy drinking stories, people saying how cool I am, rehashing inside jokes, and next to my occupation says "office bitch." Or to people who look me up, I may still seem like I am in college and am actually this huge loser that walks a very fine line between reality and her sick sick fantasy world that is just the outgrowth of an allusion of grandeour that she cannot shake from her mad head. Which is true too.

So much care is taken in making sure that my friendster profile refelcts who I am.

What to do when someone from your past, who you did not like or never liked/the random person who you met one day and friendsters you to be their friend (thom is totally excluded, I mean I am trying to set him up with my hot vacay from Harvard friend)...and they are totally not cool. Their profile is lame. Their friends are lame (so much for extending a social network of people to date). And to boot, their pic is a seedy webcam pic that looks like they are one of those people who sit at home on the internet wanking off. That is not the impression I want to give off...especially when people from my past friendster me.

But how do you reject a person? How can you politely say, uhm, this person is not my friend. She is too...just doesnt represent me well, especially difficult when friendster sends an email that reads "Jane Doe says she is your friend. Click yes if she is..." So now I have some people who I dont really want on my friendster.

I didnt like you when...so why would I want to proclaim to the world now?

But as if life couldnt be bad with politics on internet friend boards, then there is the bathroom.
Evidently, I am a weird person according to my friend Katie. Where I work the bathrooms are DISGUSTING...so I check out stalls to find the cleanest. I have to be honest, the lag time between when you finish up in the stall and you are washing your hands and someone walks into the bathroom doing the same cleanliness check...it makes me feel good when they pick my stall. Basically it says, I agree with your standard of cleanliness and you didnt leave it like a pig, you remembered to flush, no random pubes (I swear I have found this on the toilet seat), etc.

A pretentious indulgence

I went to SoHo House last night for a Tsunami relief party.

I really don't have anything insightful to say...maybe that is my insight of the morning?

May I say that I have never seen hotter men in my entire life, all in one place, all of the heterosexual persuasion. It reaffirmed my faith that there are hott men out in the world.

But yea, I was in SoHo house. Saw eye-candy, got drunk off free booze, and looked fabulous.

Fuck is my life empty.

Another reason why I am alone

I came to a realization why I hate Sundays:

It isnt because of the impending work week, nor even the remanants of a hangover from a ruckousy Sat night, no I hate Sundays because I am left with my thoughts, re-playing the embarassing moments of the weekend, when you are soaring with the Eagles,thinking you are hott shit--checking yourself out at every other min in mirrors/reflections, dancing like you are a stripper. A black one at that. All at the height of your inebriation. Alcohol infused confidence.

Why wouldnt you continue to keep drinking?

On my 4 1/2 hour train ride from DC this afternoon, I punctuated my silent reading of Bukowski with deep sighs and throwing my book over my face, repeating in a hoarse whisper to myself how I am such a fucking alcoholic...rehashing my drunken screw up. I am doing the same thing as I write this...my only saving grace? He lives in DC. I may have given him my blog adress, without remembering...read the comments and find out at a later date.

I am an alcoholic. I even think about getting drunk before work.

So we are at a bar in DC, walking around...looking so obviously NY. Dressed well, hair and make-up. DC is a lot like Hoboken, the city will drive a woman's confidence through the roof...women not too cute, not dressed well...thighs jiggling all the way. BTW: Manolo Blahnik does not do well in Snow...so, we start to talk with these guys...the drinks that I pounded at the mini-pub crawl begin to take their effect, I think I may have even told him my plan to marry a trustafarian...and there was a porsche mentioned. He was 37. I think architecture. My memory is fuzzy. But I looked fucking hott...

So we are talking, he comes with us to the diner...I go back to his place. We are hanging out, cuddling...he isnt even trying anything. A gentleman...I put on a t-shirt of his and as he is cleaning up, putting the fire out in the fire place...I pass out in his bed. Very sweet...wake up when he comes in...and THROW UP in his bed. And my legs are hairy since I wasnt expecting to go home with some guy.

But he is nice about it.

And helps to clean up.

I get cleaned up, pass out in his bed. This time without vomming.

I am an alcoholic. Where are AA meetings held?

Weird thing...he is really nice to me in the morning, lets me sleep in, walks me downstairs, offers me $ to get back home, and tells me he is going to call me and that I shouldnt be embarassed about last night...And he wasnt busted. And he had a decent body. Really nice broad shoulders. I thought he was 25. Born in Rome. Did I look that cute last night? Or is the 23 yr old/14 yr age difference thing that hott? Hott enough to forgive vomming in his bed? Or was he just a gentleman? Even nice to girls who barf in his bed.

I am one class broad. Now I know why I am alone.

But I enjoy being alone and know that I would be a terrible girlfriend. I mean I puked in some guys bed! I have the emotional maturity of a child with autism. It's funny, even in the winter when most people just want a bfriend to watch movies with and have sex as it snows, I couldnt be bothered. The thought of waking up next to the same person (except for Lu-ookie ) over and over again...having to be taken away from my writing, my alone time, sitting in my bed watching Dave Chappelle at 1am. What the fuck is wrong with me? I want to be alone. And with invention of the wabbit, my satisfaction is a guarantee. Tell me how many men can brag of a return rate like that.

What has happened to me since I moved back to NYC? I have turned into this huge bitch who worries about her own ass...

Moment that made me smile and forget that I vommed in some dude's bed:
Met a cool cabbie who when I told him to let me off a few blocks away from my apt b/c I ran out of money, told me to take my cash back and the ride was on him b/c a girl should never be w/o cash. I didnt do it and felt bad that I didnt have more to tip him...but how cool was that? It reminds me that this city isnt as cold as I thought it was...there are pleasant surprises to be found here.

Misery Loves Company

GRE's are scaring me, considering how my verbal HW took me 20 mins for the week, I got nearly all of them right and my math HW took me 6 hours last week and I think on one of the quizzes I scored a 20%, and these are supposed to be confidence boosters. And for this program, I think my math score is more important than my verbal.

So what do I do? Continue to study the math really hard-core? No because I realized that it sucks not having a social life. So, like all the greats...I am going to medicate the fuck out of myself that hopefully I open a door to some intelligence. Strattera and Xanax here I come.

All is fare in love and war

I just recieved my first "Save the Date" for a "friends" wedding yesterday when I came home from work. Keep in mind the day was punctuated with a comment from my boss, "Shannon, if you continue to eat like that you will look like a cow," where he proceeded to take the chips that I was munching on and throw them in the trash.

Looking like a cow. Mooooooooooooooo...Not really what I needed to hear, especially after I came home and saw the save the date in my mailbox where it suggested HOTELS in the area...it was my grown up check of the day.

And remember, if I continue to eat the way I have been eating for the last few weeks, I am going to look like a cow.

Then flashback to me on Sunday night, chopped up shirt, leg warmers, hair and make-up looking part-Paris Hilton, part tragic 80's rockstar. And this was just me playing dress up, playing air guitar, listening to some 80's punk, making my own one man Mini Vanili rock band.

Yea, the bus has pretty much flew past me.

The path to developing humility...like Jesus!

The GRE, all you have to lose is $115 and a piece of your self-esteem.

When I was in HS there was a poster on the math office door that read, "Not taking math? Say good-bye to these careers" and it listed like over 100 careers. Freshman year, being in algebra I, and kicking serious ass and being the emerging hardcore feminist I looked at the poster and with confidence promised myself that I was going to continue with math. Then sophmore year came Geometry, a C+ on my transcript and the end of that year the option to withdraw from math class. Knowing that Trig was worse than Geometry and having my sights set on going to a college where my mom could brag to her friends, I did what any person would have done in my shoes...dropped math and doubled up on the courses where I would kick ass like English and History.

Little did I know that I would be shooting myself in the foot 7 years later with a barely satisfied math requirement on my transcript and this lovely test called the GRE. Trying to get into a social stats program at an Ivy League school. EVEN WITH A COURSE, having spent about an hour and a half on a new lesson AND I AM NOT DONE TEACHING MYSELF WHAT I NEVER LEARNED...I have come to the realization that I am FUCKED without lube like a porn star up the ass.

Stanely Kaplan, I dont need your strategies, let's start with the basics such as how the fuck I add fractions! Let me master how to add 1/2 + 1/4 + 3/9 then I'll begin to study your backwards guessing, and educated picking #'s because right now they are slightly useless, especially since I dont know what they are asking. But oh yea..my class wont be covering it because the entire class is ASIAN and English is definately nobody's first language. And of course I am the dumb white girl who sits in the corner...but dont worry, next week when we get to Verbal they'll know exactly how I feel during our math classes.

Do you know what kind of effect this has on my self-esteem?! A Middle schooler or a gifted ELEMENTARY SCHOOL CHILD has more math capabilities than I do...did I mention that I am in market research...where we use stats?! I think it is safe to deduce that, like most things I get in my life, I got on my bullshit skills as opposed to actual merit and skill.

History is repeating

Last Sunday night in an effort to distract myself from my impending hell, being condescended to by the wanker all day for 9hours armed with only music, IMs from supportive friends, and ciggs in my arsenal to protect my self-esteem and mind...I began to look at the Craigslist personal ads. I'm not going to lie, I was looking for randominos to randomly chat to because it was already 1:30am and as funny as South Park the movie is, chatting to random men telling them that I am a 19 yr old single mother who is bisexual looking for $ in exchange for sex is far more entertaining. Especially if he has some sick fetish...it reminds me that there are more people in the world who are far more fucked up than I am.

So I am perusing the CL ads, and I come accross an ad with the posting that read "Real Man looking for Real Woman 27" Usually I fly past these ads because "real men" who look for "real women" are usually men who cant get a woman and since they have been rejected their entire lives b/c there is something wrong with them (and we know women, especially women in this city are not picky...walk down Houston St. on a Saturday night and you know that those beautiful women are with those fugly men for 1. money 2. for their personality--we arent that hard to please. Just be Drug and Disease free, not in a relationship, and want to get married, anything else such as alcoholism, workaholism, emotional abuse, poor dressing/hygeiene can be fixed). I mean look at the Wanker (my asshole boss) and his cute wife. In the wise words of my sister...how the hell did he get her?! Because women have no standards left!

But I read on...and his ad is cute in this self-depricating, intelligent, claims he is European, bitterly funny way...but there are red flags that I have learned from my previous online dating experiences:

1. If a guy says he wants to "take things slow aka get to know each other through emailing, phone, then meet in person" and does not mention exchanging pics...it means he is hiding something from you and wants you to see his inner beauty before you meet his busted self.

2. You claim that there are more important things than money...it means that either A) you are a Rockafeller, and I dont think that they date on CL. Maybe match.com but definately not CL. or 2. YOU MAKE NO MONEY and want to make yourself sound like that you went with the moral high ground instead of "selling out"...but in reality you just cant hack it in the for-profit-make the rich man richer mentality. And I am sorry, working for a Synogogue doing atabae work for their fundraising dept is not in the moral high ground. Maybe if you were doing peace corps in Africa and saving children, whales, and erradicating Malaria we could talk...

3. Sci-Fi/Video game geek. I went out with one of them from Nerve.com...I think he was still a virgin at the age of 28. Interacting with Lara Croft from Tomb raider and then masterbating to bad internet porn does not qualify as having relationship with women. Seriously, how many trekkies do you know who are good looking?

4. Saying, "I am handsome...If I am your type." Uh huh. Sorry, ugly isnt my type.

5. Saying you arent a people person/hate small talk, means you dont know how to hold a converation. And if you do meet me, what are you going to talk to me about in the first 15 mins, my stance on the Bay of Pigs invasion? Whether Neitzche has any validity?

6. Saying that looks dont matter, means you are ugly. Or you are so hung up on your previous gfriend that you were planning on thinking about her as you fucked me. Again, Dont waste my time.

Also for good measure how to dicipher the pics that they send:

6. if taken with a hat = balding, not smiling = fucked up teeth, far away/old = really fat, anything skiing, even if they look really really hott, = THEY ARE NOT!! If you have to send a picture of yourself wearing 40 lbs of equipment, your face flushed from the wind...aka a picture that could not look like you, it means that you do not want the picture to look like you for a reason.

I know I sound horribly bitter and surprisingly I am not. Just amused.

Only problem, I really liked the guys email/writing style....and despite my horrible experience with internet dating, the nut jobs from nerve, the S&M freak from CL who wanted me to become his slave...there is something just so appealing about sitting in front of a computer screen, wearing sweats, eating Ben & Jerrys while studying for my GRE's simultaneously looking for a date. Did I mention that it is 18 degrees outside?

So in an effort to cultivate more material for my blog, which is eventually going to go into my stand-up routine, and then eventually a tv show so I could meet the man who I have a 16 yr old crush on...the lead singer from the Killers. And the problem is, he became even hotter after I say the "Mr. Brightside" video. Wearing make-up being flamboyant...Did I mention that he had really fine effiminate features? And was wearing MAKE-UP!, and acting all theatirical?!?! Shit, I am more fucked up with men than I thought I ever was...

A Sunday Night Musing

Important lesson learned over the weekend:

In an effort to become hott sexy trophy wife and to lost the few pounds that I put on over the let me drink away my post-holiday blues/forget the inventory that I took of my empty life, I made a promise to myself that I would go to the gym on Saturady since I drank dark beer like a wahoo (Wes Anyone?!?) and smoked a half of pack of ciggs on Fri night.

Not a good idea to go to a spinning class.

Now let me explain my history with excersise classes. I joined a pontsy gym; everyone is fit, beautiful and coordinated. I tried taking a karate class a few weeks ago, it was an intermediate class and everyone was like the Karate kid, and I am not talking part I. So I was the geek in the corner, who the instructor decides to try to encourage me by telling me how great I am doing, while I am getting all the moves wrong and doing everything backwards (like using my left foot instead of the right). So I think to myself, spinning...a stationary bike, I'll sit in the back of the class and pedal...not too hard, right?

First lets begin with what I am wearing, everyone in the class is wearing spandex bike shorts, carrying bike water bottles, and are incredibly fit. Then there is me...old Hampden-Sydney T-shirt with big old addidas warm up pants. The instructor begins, and during the warm up I am weezing from the ciggs and begin sweating profously...emitting the stench of alcohol as I am sweating off my hangover. Nobody else is breaking a sweat, and here it is we begin to stretch...as in we havent even gotten to the actual excersise yet. The instructor has us peddling hands free while we are stretching our upper body. I begin to slide off the seat...oh no, I mean "saddle". Did you know that there is Spinning Lingo? I hold onto the handle bars for dear life since I can't balence my fat ass on the seat. And I am sweating even more profously, emitting more of the alcohol stench into the air...As we get into the actual work-out, I notice my massive boobs giggling (also was severly PMSing)..so here it is, me holding onto the handle bars for dear life, trying to balence my fat ass on the saddle, wheezing, sweating profously, reeking of alcohol, with my boobs swinging like a pendulum. Don't think I am going to meet my future ex-husband in the spinning class.

I am going back for the 7am class tomorrow. All this to catch the marriage boat so I can marry well and not have to go to my inner-circle of hell job. And by well I dont mean upper middle class finance asshole making $100,000. I want a fucking trustafarian who never has to work again, and I get to wear Chanel suits and big hats and do lunch and get excited about Opera and Society Ball season.


In all seriousness, as intelligent and charismatic as I have the potential to be, I can't play politics. If I dont like you or if you are an asshole to me, I sneer and give you a blank stare back. I try really hard to find the bright side of things and try to communicate that but...I can't pretend that I am happy with the bullshit that I am fed. And that, as I have come to learn, is my demise.
Hence, my new goal is to become a trophy wife. And considering how 50-60% of mariages in this country end in divorce, if I do find "true love"...chances are it isnt.

And it is a Sunday night, and I have a huge pit in my stomach. I dont want to go to work tomorrow.

A Baptized Jew's Response

So it has been all over the news, Prince Harry dressed up as a Nazi Soldier. Sounds like the drugs he's been doing finally caught up with him. I mean in the pic he was shown holding a cigg and a drink so we know that he isnt a teetoler...

So being the token Jew out of my friends, obviously they come to me for leadership and advice how to take this. Was it politically correct to laugh? I mean, how many royals would be dumb enough to do such a PR faux pas, especially since he is blond haired and blue eyes (you know if he had dark curly hair he may be able to claim the oh so "I am part of that minority group so I can make fun of them" syndrom)...or should we shake our heads and demand that he tours a death camp to see that this was no laughing matter and make him *gasp!* meet a real live Jew. (I am sorry but I cant see the kids at Eaton dancing to klezmer music eating latkas)

Taking into account that I read the Jewish Week while watching Pat Robinson's 700 Club, glorifying the life and love that is Jesus Christ...and I WAS BAPTIZED I feel that I am hardly the person to speak up for "my people". Do I even have people? But since my friends have asked, I have written a statement on behalf of the Jewish Community:

"Prince Harry, not a smart move. If I were you, I would make like 90% of Hollywood stars and blame my poor judgement/asshole act on drugs. Also, know that every single Yeshiva girl/Jewish woman in NYC has taken down your picture and replaced it with John Stewart's. So thinking this through, thank you for being an asshole because now you have stoped a generation of women from intermarrying. Shalom."

An Explanation

Within a span of 3 days, a bunch of my friends began blogs and being the 1. Exhibitionist 2. Ranter 3. Blind Sheep that I am, I had to jump onto this bandwagon.

So before homeland security goes through the internet and thinks that this blog is set up by some detainee in Gitmo or the Chinese version in Siberia (or is that Russia...where do the Chinese put their angry political prisioners?), trying to make Americans sympathetic to my un-natural communist or otherwise cause...sorry to burst your bubble Mr. Rumsfeld. But how about becomming sympathetic to my cause.

My life for the last few months has been living in my own personal Gitmo, strapped to a guerney where the powers that be use Chinese water torture to make me submit/tear my intelligence down.

But what is sick is reading my friends post, they all have something in common, this need to vent about a quater-life crisis of sorts. We all have the same complaints, asked to do meanial tasks, to kiss the ass of someone who we have no respect for. You know how the old adage goes "College is the best years of your life?" Well no shit. And if you think about why...as humanbeings we are social creatures. We needed to be social for the survival of our species, so you had extended families taking care of each others children, people working together to put food on the table. Your family was your safety net. College is quite similar, in order to navigate the trenches of being on your own for the first time, you form these social groups that mimic familial ties...some over zealous students even get a pet...and you know that after the first week you are asking your friends to help you take care of/hide it from res life. However, once we get into the "real world" a world that in fact did not exist 100 yrs ago...we are no longer allowed to live in social sphere that we humans thrive upon. No instead we pay a shit load of money for this tiny apt where you cram as many people in to make your rent cheaper, I think we are renting out our bathtub for $600 a month, prime Greenwich Village location. Work long hours where we live in cubicles or if we do get an opportunity to be somewhat social (in HR called being a team player) it is with people who you dont like and all you can do is speak in netral HR speak so they dont figure out just how much you hate them.

Extended familial ties? Good friends?? Not when you are in your 20's and single in NYC. My bestest friends live all over the country (fine DC/VA most of them and one in London) and my life in NYC consists of going to the gym on occasion, and going out partying (which really consists of me getting pissed drunk, embarassing myself, and then dancing on a table top/bar somewhere until I sober up enough to realize that I should be in a taxi)...living my life as this distraction.