You know you're single when you analyze your cat's behavior and wonder how he feels about you. Normally, girls do this about real live men. They sit by the phone and wonder why some guy isn't calling (By calling I mean texting. No one actually calls these days, do they?). They're like, "it's been three days. He definitely doesn't like me anymore." And their friends are like, "You're too good for him." And they're like, "If I'm too good for him, then why am I not with him?" (I stole this.) I absolutely never say these kinds of things; you can ask my friends*.
Anyway, the other night Boo laid with me for like 2-3 hours. Like curled up in my arms and napped comfortably and happily. This was uncanny. Boo rarely ever shows affection. He's like a typical boy: he loves you at his own convenience. So when he spent that long of a time with me, I naturally panicked. I thought to myself, He's sick. He's going to die. My cat is ill! I felt certain that by the time I woke up the next day, he wouldn't be breathing. This is all because he liked me. My cat liked me and I automatically assumed he was dying. This does not bode well for my future.
In case you were worried, Boo is alive and well, knocking large glasses of water onto my computer and biting me if I get too close to him. All is right in the world.
I watched Miracle on 34th Street the other night and it conjured up some feelings about the whole Santa concept. I've always found it weird that we lie to children for years and then break their hearts around age 8, just when they're hitting puberty and becoming overly emotional (maybe that was just me; I developed early).
Skeptical.
I'm not sure what I'm going to do when I'm a mom (that is, if that day ever comes. The following words came out of my mouth last night: "I'd be delighted to find out I'm infertile"). But if I do have children, I don't know that I'll be able to pretend there is a Santa Claus (is that German?), mostly because if I'm going to spend my hard-earned money on some stupid PlayStation game, I want some fucking recognition. Santa gets all the praise while parents are literally risking their lives at Walmart for some discounted piece of shit that their kids cry about.
Then again, I also don't want my kids to be the assholes on the playground that ruin everyone's day when they tell other children that Santa isn't real. So, I decided that maybe I will tell my kids that there is a Santa. However, I'm putting his name on all the shitty gifts and mine on the best ones. Fuck you, Santa. I win.
Editor's Note: Throughout this post I frequently mis-typed Santa S-A-T-A-N. Do you think that's a coincidence?
First of all, happy Hanukkah, everyone! In honor of the holiday, Boo wore a yarmulke:
Unfortunately, due to a recent bout of bulimia, he was not allowed to eat latkes this year.
Binge & Purge
Actually, I totally would have let him, but I cry when he gets sick and then my roommates remind that it's probably my fault since I feed him things like cupcakes and tofu.
And finally, the moment you have all been waiting for--the winner of the 8x10 glossy is...
Happy Holidays
Kimmy V.
Congratulations, Kimmy. Your glossy will be in the mail soon. To the rest of you, I appreciate your valiant efforts. There will be more prizes in the future* so I encourage you to continue sharing.
*Future prizes include, but are not limited to, praise, name dropping, and heavy petting.
I am absolutely terrified of pigeons. They are fucking disgusting. This morning, I literally cried on the sidewalk because a flock of them flew at my face. I looked over and noticed one of my coworkers watching me and it dawned on me that maybe I was being a little dramatic, but come on. Those things are vile; they're foul*.
I'm going to throw up.
It's not really just pigeons, though. I pretty much hate all birds (with the exception of penguins because those things are fucking adorable). But most birds are heinous, godless creatures. I blame Noah. He screwed up big time.
Once, some kid asked me to list my top three most-hated birds**, so here they are:
1. pigeons 2. piping plovers 3. geese
Don't even get me started on piping plovers. If you have ever been to the Cape, you probably already know how they ruin people's lives. Entire beaches are roped off because of them. I don't give a fuck about plovers. Doesn't anyone remember Darwin?
The thing about birds is that they have no compassion. They would kill you if they had the chance. Kill you. I used to "run" at the reservoir in Brighton and the geese would chase after me with a vengeance. They had blood on their minds. Imagine being attacked and pecked to death by a goose? If you're not careful, that's a real possibility. I'm just saying, people are afraid of terrorists and these things are literally living in your back yard.
* I love this joke and I'm going to continue making it over and over again. ** His response to this was: "You have a very distinct personality." Still wondering what that means.
I'm sorry if you are one. I'm sorry because I don't like you and a lot of other people don't either. I know that you're being environmentally friendly and healthy and whatever, but you're all assholes. That's a sweeping generalization. But also fact.
I just want to know why you and your cronies think that not one rule of the road applies to you. I want to know why I have to stop in the middle of a fucking cross-WALK for you to ride by me. Every time that happens (which is pretty much every day), I want to body check you. I want to see you fall off your bike and scrape your knee. I want to be a playground bully.
The other day when some idiot biker decided to not stop at a cross-walk, I saw this woman run up to him and start clapping in his face. It was sort of like she was giving him applause, but angrily. Like she was congratulating him for being a dick-hole. It was an interesting tactic; I wish I thought of it myself.
Today, I saw some woman pulling her ELEVEN-YEAR-OLD son in a cart on the back of her bike. I watched her struggle furiously up a hill. She looked miserable. I wanted to yell at her, "Hello, he's 11. He can fucking walk or ride his own damn bike, you idiot." But I didn't. Because the last thing I want is another biker on the road. Or the sideWALK, more than likely.
Anyway, although this woman had absolutely no impact on my day whatsoever, she still annoyed me. I know that's wrong. I know that's a bad attitude to have. And I also know that most of these sentiments can be applied to walkers and drivers as well. But walkers and drivers collectively dislike bikers, so that's 2 against 1. We win.
I recently had to apply for a passport (I'm going to Spain in March!), so I had to get my birth certificate from my parents. Up til now, I've preferred that they keep any type of important documentation of mine since I'm a total fucking mess and lose everything valuable [including, but not limited to: cell phone, ipod, license (twice in a span of 5 months), credit cards, and prescription glasses].
Anyway, since my birth certificate is now in my possession, I decided to take a good look at it. And while doing so, I noticed something interesting:
Single 4-L
My immediate reaction to this was, "I was a fucking baby! Of course I was single."
I was pretty offended and upset, since being single-for-life is one of my biggest fears and it was apparently predestined at birth. But then I realized that what this section is really about is whether someone's a twin or not (I'm not).
Regardless, I started thinking about what being single-for-life would be like and actually thought of some potential benefits:
1) I'd save a bunch of money on wedding costs;
2) my husband would never rape little boys; and,
3) I'd avoid divorce.
Although, divorce was also something I was kind of looking forward to since I decided that it would be the only time in my life in which I'd allow myself to go to the Olive Garden again. Because getting divorced is really the only way I could ever justify eating 2,000 calories in one sitting.
www.olivegarden.com/menu/nutrition
Then again, after 6 years of living with each other, my roommates and I will finally be splitting up next summer. That's sort of like getting divorced, so maybe I could go back to the Olive Garden then.
Sometimes I put Bengay on my knees before bed. Then I drink a cup of tea and fall asleep reading. It makes me feel young.
Cat Mug
Last weekend, I went out, drank way too much, came home, (ordered cheesy bread), and then irrationally cried about everything and nothing:
Roommates: "Katie, what's wrong?" Me (sobbing into my cheesy bread): "Everyone's just like 'I really like your blog. You love your cat!' I mean I do love my cat but..."
Yeah, not sure.
But I'm guessing that it had something to do with this:
Pribabtly
This is why I should never be allowed to drink hard alcohol. Or white wine, for that matter (By the way, I'm still sorry about that, Pat!).
Anyway, I woke up the next morning half-naked, spooning my Kindle. What does it mean?!
Last weekend, I went to a dance recital that a couple of my friends were performing in. Let me preface this by saying that their dances were quite good and they both did a fantastic job. However, some of the other dances were... not so good.
In particular, one of the "dances" consisted of an older white gentleman and a middle-aged Latin American woman moving around the stage with Japanese paper fans to the sounds of Asian flautists. The woman waved her fan and did lunges while the man did martial arts. His movements were intense and violent. He kept stabbing the air with the paper fan whilst staring abrasively at the audience. It was not only terrifying, but also one of the most hilarious things I've ever seen.
Like this, but whiter.
While they were on stage, I exhibited the most self-control I have ever had in my entire life. It took everything in me not to laugh. I tried thinking about things like grandparents dying, taxes, cancerous plastic, etc.. I successfully made it through the entire performance without an outburst; but, unfortunately, during another performance I started laughing uncontrollably after one of my friends farted and permeated the entire theater. Literally, the whole thing. It was actually kind of impressive.
On Thanksgiving, I got a text from a number that I didn't recognize that said, "I love you! You're my best friend in the whole world!!!" I felt pretty bad since this person considered me their best friend in the whole world and I didn't even know who the hell they were. I decided not to respond back "Who is this?" because what if your best friend in the whole world didn't know who you were?! That would make you feel sad. And, more importantly, that would make me feel like an asshole.
This is mostly irrelevant.
I found out later that one of my roommates received the same text, and after we did some thinking, we realized that this message was a response to one of the many "Happy Thanksgiving" mass texts. So we weren't assholes. Nor were we anyone's best friend in the whole world :(. And this is precisely why everyone needs to turn off group messaging on their phones. I don't want all of your friends' numbers nor do I want them to have mine (unless they're male and single, in which case tell them to call me right away!!!).
My rage about group text really came to the forefront this weekend when some of my friends started a group text thread. In a matter of 10 minutes I got over 100 texts, many of which were just emoticons. I don't know why this bothered me so much but it did and it almost destroyed friendships (Glad we got through that, guys).
But seriously, iPhone users, do this now:
Settings > Messages > Group Messaging > OFF
Thanks.
Hearts & Stars
P.S. The contest for the coveted AUTOGRAPHED GLOSSY PHOTO of me and Boo is still going on, so keep on sharing my blog for more chances to win!
I came up with this brilliant, conceited, and self-serving idea last night:
I'm going to host a holiday contest. The winner of which will win a one-of-a-kind 8x10 head shot of me and Boo. Glossy. AUTOGRAPHED.
You know you want it.
So how do you win? You share my blog. Now, really the only way I can track that (because I'm technologically inept and also use Google Analytics which is free and doesn't really tell me anything) is if you share my posts on Facebook. Use the share button. And every time you do, I will write down your name and later enter you in a drawing for the GLOSSY AUTOGRAPHED 8x10 PHOTO.
It's going to take a lot of work and a lot of luck, but trust me, it's worth it.
I've been tracking my food and exercise on myfitnesspal.com lately. Every time I log in, a message pops up. And every time I log in, I think it's warning me, "Don't die alone!"
Really it says, "Don't diet alone," but that T is really easy to miss when you glance at it quickly.
Also, in case you were worried, I'm not on a diet. I still eat a box of Cheez-Its every Sunday. Alone. Don't die alone.
My roommate sent me the following e-card yesterday:
RUDE.
The only thing I took away from this was that she was calling me fat. This is probably because I'm a girl and jump to that conclusion often. On Thanksgiving, I got a text that said, "Happy Thanksgiving! Don't eat too much!" and was immediately offended. Why do you think I shouldn't eat too much? Are you saying I need to lose weight? Asshole.
After a few moments of rage, I realized that they were most likely using a generic salutation. They were also giving good advice. I almost always feel like puking on Thanksgiving.
Anyway, my roommate claims she misread the card and thought it meant that I was a chubby chaser (which I am. See: husky ginger).
Hearts.
But that's not what it said, Meredith.
You may be wondering why I wasn't offended about being called "neurotic" and a "cat lady," so I'll tell you: I've embraced these qualities. And so have you. Why else would you be reading my stupid fucking blog in which I flip out about cancer and post pictures like this one:
Model.
On that note, get ready for my Christmas card. It's a GEM.
A couple weeks ago I had a panic attack about plastic. I've been really good about bringing my lunch to work every day ever since I took the Food Network's Brown-Bag Challenge in September (yes, I do things like that). But for the past few weeks, as I heated up my healthy lunch in its Tupperware container, all I could think about was how the plastic was seeping chemicals into my food that I would soon eat that would soon give me cancer that would soon MURDER me. Death by plastic. Hence, the panic attack.
So, I went out and bought myself a set of glass Pyrex containers and I've been professing the good word to anyone I see eating or drinking out of plastic. For example, I watched my friend drink a bottle of water and told her, "You're going to die." I know they appreciate my concern.
Anyway, just as I was getting over my fear of plastic, Brian tells me this:
Apparently canned goods are even worse than plastic. This news sent me into a(nother) downward spiral. I not only panicked that my soup was surreptitiously plotting my death but that my cat was sure to die soon, too. I started transferring his canned food into Pyrex containers. I eventually realized that this wasn't going to do any good.
Realistically, I can't eliminate canned goods from my life. A lot of my favorite things come in cans --beans, tuna, PUMPKIN. I may love baking, but I'm not fucking making my own pumpkin puree*. I'm poor; I don't have the kind of technology needed for that in my kitchen. Actually, my roommate did recently supply us with a food processor but I don't know how put it together so I never use it. It's like a god damn jigsaw puzzle with knives. Anyway, it's not going to happen. Ever. I will continue to make BPA-filled baked goods and kill myself and all of my friends.
The thing is, I worry about shit like this yet continue to drink every day weekend. It's not breaking news that alcohol is linked to life-threatening diseases, but I somehow find ways to ignore that. Obviously, I use some backwards thinking. Once my mom asked me why I wouldn't drink milk. I said, "Because I refuse to drink my calories." She responded by pointing to the beer in my hand.
*I'm sure my friend Kyle is thinking this is pathetic of me. He once called me a "microwave mom." I hated him for days.
Thanksgiving is probably my favorite holiday, mostly because I love any day on which I'm encouraged to binge eat. Last year, my parents came to my apartment for Thanksgiving; I did all the cooking. The night before, I made a lemon meringue pie (I know, weird choice for Thanksgiving, but whatever, it's damn good). When I pulled it out of the oven, this happened:
Baking fail.
Normally, my reaction to something like this would be to start to crying--because that's the kind of girl I am--but somehow I had the self-control to take a deep breath, clean up the mess, and make a new pie. No tears. It was a monumental moment for me, which is why I need to engrave it in this blog.
This year, I'm going to my parents' house for Thanksgiving. I'm looking forward to sitting in my pajamas and drinking Cabernet all day. That is, right after I run a 5k. Did I tell you guys I'm running a 5k? Did I also tell you that I can barely even run a mile so I probably won't actually be running a 5k? Nevertheless, I made this awesome playlist just in case:
Note: I'm waiting until Thanksgiving to start listening to holiday music.
Other things I'm looking forward to (in order of importance):
1) Cranberry sauce -- This is the most underrated side dish of all time. Why don't more people like it? Whatever haters, keep on hating; I'll take your portion.
2) Pie. -- Pie is top of the dessert food-chain (puns!). Fuck cake. That shit is WEAK.
3) Stuffing -- I love carbs. And yes, in this case, butter IS a carb.
4) Rolls -- see: carbs.
5) Squash and/or sweet potatoes. -- These are starches, which are also carbs.
Things I could do without:
1) Turkey -- There, I said it. I don't care.
2) Mashed potatoes -- Mashed potatoes are the worst! They're boring and bland. The only way I might be slightly interested in them is if they were loaded with cheese and bacon. But really I'd rather just have a plate of melted cheese and bacon. Actually, that sounds pretty good. I'm going to try that. Fuck, I love cheese...
Carbs and cheese...
Anyway, happy Thanksgiving, guys! I'm thankful for you because you read my blog and consequently boost my self-esteem.
Why do people act like the weather is personally offending them? The other day, I was getting ready to leave work when I overheard someone say, "Why does it always start to rain right when I'm about to go outside?" First of all, it doesn't; that's like scientifically impossible. Second of all, we're all going outside, bitch. It's 5 o'clock and I'm getting the fuck out of here.
For some reason, people expect sympathy for having to deal with the same weather that affects everyone else around them. It is precisely this attitude about weather which makes me dread the winter, not the weather itself. I have trained myself to tune out upon hearing someone even mention the word "snow," or "shovel." Because I truly do not give a shit about snow or its impact on your life. In fact, I happen to like the winter -- it's festive; it's fun; and I can justify wearing leg warmers.
I personally think it's bullshit that it's been in the 60s in November. I live in New England for a reason. I want to be able to wear my fall clothes without fucking sweating my ovaries out*on the way to work. You may not know this about me, but I hate being hot. Hate. When I'm hot, you're susceptible to being verbally and possibly physically assaulted (this also happens when I'm hungry; more to come about that later). Once, in college, my friends and I were on the way to the mall when I abruptly jumped out of the car and ran to my house without an explanation (see: praxi). One friend asked, "What's wrong with Katie?" To which another responded, "She's hot."
That is why this weather fucking sucks. I was on the bus the other morning developing a sweat-stache when someone tapped me on my shoulder. I whipped around with a scowl on my face to see who the hell was touching me only to discover that it was my boss. She asked me what was wrong. I told her I was hot and couldn't "stand anything right now," so she told me she wouldn't mind if I put my headphones in and didn't talk to her. I said "OK," and proceeded to listen to Radiohead and silently hate everyone.
Okay, so perhaps I am a little hypocritical for complaining about other people complaining about the weather, but at least I give people the courtesy of keeping (most of) my anger about the weather to myself. I run away; I put my headphones in; I quietly brood. I don't expect sympathy, rather I prefer to be left the fuck alone. Isn't that the New England way?
*This is an expression I developed recently when I finally came to the conclusion that saying "sweating my balls off" was unladylike.
The most serious relationship I'm in right now is with Brian Williams. Now that I go to the gym in the morning, I can come home and have dinner with him every night. And what a catch he is: he's smart; he's witty; he's a silver fox. But, best of all, he's reliable. He shows up in my living room every night at 6:30 without fail. I've never met a man like him before.
Yum.
Last night, Brian and I talked about how fucking stupid Congress is. This week, they decided that pizza is a vegetable. I don't know how anyone could make that claim without feeling like a total asshole, but apparently they think 2 tablespoons of tomato PASTE constitutes a serving of vegetables. And that is why pizza is a healthy option for kids -- because under layers of cheese and grease is two tablespoons of tomato paste.
Under this reasoning, I'm going to assume that jelly beans are also a vegetable. And Cheez-Its must be a good source of protein. Shit, Guinness is full of minerals, right? That must mean that beer is a nutritious meal.
Well, this is exciting news because I've spent years trying to be healthy by eating whole grains and greens and fruit when really all I needed was some Ellio's pizza and a PBR. What's weird is that when I was eating stuff like that every day, I somehow gained 30 pounds. But I guess that doesn't happen to kids. Especially the ones eating free or reduced school lunches consisting of french fries and tomato paste. Oh wait...
When I was in New York last weekend, I stopped by Occupy Wall Street* to see what all the fuss was about. It was much smaller than I expected and smelled mostly like pee and/or Harvard Square on a hot day, so basically disgusting.
I know many supporters of Occupy Wall Street like the idea that there isn't really a central theme to the protests; however, I think that may be its biggest flaw. Because without a unified message, it seems to attract the wrong representation. For example, I saw a lot of homeless people asking for money or eating the from the community food tent.
Speaking of tents, OWS was set up a lot like college orientation. There were various tents for different schools of thought, a dining hall, and even a library. I'm pretty sure there was also a broomball team. I had the brilliant idea that some of the protesters should form a singing group and call themselves "Occupella Wall Street." They would sing all different types of songs, some that make a lot of sense and others that have no meaning at all.
Now, that is not to say that I am against Occupy Wall Street. But it also is not to say that I'm for it. I generally have mixed feelings about the whole thing. However, I will say that if I see one more person post some ignorant status update about how people need to pick themselves up by their bootstraps--just like they did right after their mom and dad paid their way through college (at which they spent most of their time drinking and screwing frat boys)--I will leave my cat's shit in their boots with the fur that likely have no straps and set them on fire. OK?
Click and read.
Anyway, in addition to OWS, I also went to MoMA last weekend. It was there that I learned that I don't really understand modern art. A lot of it looked like Google maps blown up and framed (potential business endeavor?). I did really like this one, though, mostly because it looks a lot like cheese:
I went to NYC this weekend to visit my very good friend, Pat. He kept trying to convince me to move there by tempting me with music venues and delicious food. For example, this Peanut Butter Cheesecake:
Fuck.
Finally, he brought out the big guns when he fed me this line: "I really don't think you'd be single here." Now, this would have been more convincing if it didn't come after the following events:
1) Very old man comes up to me at the bar, rubs my arms, and whispers in my ear, "I just really needed to touch you." -- Um, haven't we learned anything from Penn State? Just because you want to touch someone (much much younger than you) doesn't mean you're allowed to, sir.
2) Homeless man yells at Pat, "What the hell are you doing with my wife?!" -- This was simply terrifying. Since Pat and I are not married, we were initially utterly confused as to why this man was yelling at us. We actually thought he was yelling at the woman with the baby walking in front of us, which was disturbing in its own way. But ultimately, we realized he was inadvertently hitting on me. That in no way was reassuring; trust me.
So if these are the reasons why Pat thinks I wouldn't be single in NYC, then I'm not really sure I want to not be single in NYC. Then again, recently, in a desperate (and drunken) moment, I exclaimed to my roommate that I would date "anyone, even a homeless person." So maybe I should reconsider New York?
When I was little, I aspired to be a Melody Maker. You probably don't know what a Melody Maker is. In fact, I used to tell people I wanted to be a Wailer because it was more recognizable. But I really wanted to be a Melody Maker.
I spent countless hours in my bedroom practicing to be a Melody Maker. Then, one day, I realized that, despite all my hard work, I'd never be a Melody Maker for two key reasons: 1) I'm not part of the extensive Marley family and 2) I am also not black. It was a sad realization.
I discovered last night at the Fitz and the Tantrums show that this desire hasn't really faded. I spent most of the night desperately envious of this chick:
I kept thinking to myself, "Why don't I play the tamborine?!" and "Why am I not black?!" Then again, a lot of people say I have a black girl's ass. But that means nothing to me unless I have the dance moves and vocals to back it up.
Oh well, I guess I'm not destined to be a black back-up singer. At least I got that lucrative English degree.
Guess what, everyone. I'm 5'1"! Apparently I grew an inch since my last physical. I didn't even know you could grow at all at age 25. Maybe the nurse didn't know what she was doing. Whatever, I'm 5'1" now.
I'm mostly excited because this means I can weigh more. And by weigh more, I mean lose less. But still, what a treat.
On that note, I'd really like to know how people can eat a muffin in the morning and not want to kill themselves. I was out of the office at a workshop today, and about half of the people in class ate a muffin for breakfast. Do you know how many calories are in a muffin? Like 600. And these assholes just eat them without a care in the world. Do you know what happens when I eat a muffin? I instantly gain three pounds. Three. Instantly. It's like my superpower.
Although, according to a few of my friends, if I had a superpower, it would be the ability to conjure up a cab anywhere, anytime. This is because I have been known to disappear from social gatherings unannounced and unnoticed. They say I take a taxi away from my problems--a problem taxi--a praxi. I've also been known to take a prain. But anyway, in the event that I'm featured in a Marvel Comics film, it will be because I can make a taxi appear out of thin air. Even if I'm in Yemen. Even if I'm on the moon. The drawback? I still have to pay the fare.
I wish that I could get a cold without automatically thinking I have AIDS or cancer or Lupus. I once saw a billboard that said, "Could you have Lupus?" and immediately thought to myself, Could I?! And then proceeded to WebMD Lupus symptoms in order to confirm or deny my diagnosis.
This is not normal. However, browsing someecards.com makes me feel like I'm not alone:
Currently, I'm ill with what is most likely a cold or flu virus, but I can't stop thinking that I'm nearing death. I'm popping Vitamin C like a drug addict even though that definitely won't cure the cancer I inevitably have.
Worst of all, I'm worried this illness is going to ruin my weekend. I live for the weekend. Without the weekend, I would sink into a deep, dark depression and consequently feel suicidal (side effect of depression, confirmed via WebMD).
It's impossible for anyone to avoid discussion of Kim Kardashian's divorce. It's all over the internet and the "news" and, most importantly, Twitter -- which is where I get pretty much all of my information these days.
That being said, I think it is truly disgusting how much time people waste reading/writing/talking/caring about celebrities, especially those who do absolutely nothing of value. But I hope that if something can come out of this overly-publicized divorce, it's a surge of support for gay marriage. Because opponents of gay marriage constantly tout the "sanctity" of marriage, while straight people across the country, like Ms. Kardashian, continuously spit in its face.
So I hope that instead of feeling bad for Kim Kardashian's "failed" marriage, you feel remorse for the institution itself and the legislation surrounding it. I hope that you think the best thing Kim could do with the 15 MILLION DOLLARS she earned from her outrageous 4-hour wedding special is donate it to the Human Rights Campaign so that everyone can have the opportunity to be married for 72 days. I mean, that's only chump change for the girl who makes a $35 million a year partying in a crumbling economy.
I woke up Sunday morning with blurred vision. I blinked a bunch of times and it didn't go away. There was a moment of panic during which I thought I had literally drank myself blind. As it turns out, I just forgot to take my contacts out before bed.
Anyway, this led me to look up the lyrics to "Blinded By The Light," which apparently includes the line "revved up like a deuce." I always thought it said "wrapped up like a douche." Anyone else? No? Ok.
In other news, shortly after I posted my last blog entry, I got the following email from OkCupid:
Hey kateeks,
Quick question: have you been happy with your experience on OkCupid? I ask because I just noticed that you haven't answered any match questions and you're probably not showing up in people's searches as much as you could be if you answered even just a few. I'd love to get any feedback you might have on how we can make OkCupid better for you.
Thanks! — Chris
To which I responded:
Dear Chris, It's not you, it's me.
-- Kateeks
I gotta hand it to OkCupid's customer service--they certainly are on the ball. And, despite my blog title, I don't think their site is stupid; it's just not for me. But they do publish some awesome charts:
I've always envisioned myself meeting someone the old-fashioned way -- drunk in a bar -- which was 99% of the reason I joined a kickball league. Because after approximately 20 minutes of light activity, everyone heads to the bar for four hours of flip cup and debauchery.
But after two seasons of this, all I'm left with is 10 extra pounds and a lack of dignity. Certainly not a boyfriend. This is why I've been toying with the idea of trying online dating. However, after browsing some of the clientele on one of the sites last night, I'm thinking it may not be for me for a few reasons:
1) I'm an asshole, and I will immediately write you off if you:
a) take pictures of yourself in the mirror using your cell phone -- this method is best used by teenage girls with low-self esteem and people still on Myspace, not grown men. Grown men should never, ever do this. Ever. You look like an idiot. You also probably have no friends if the only picture you have of yourself is the one you took of yourself in a mirror.
b) say you "like to go out but also like to stay in sometimes." This is not interesting; you just described living.
c) spell things wrong, use improper grammar, generally treat the English language like a piece of shit whore. d) are too positive. For example, one person wrote that he "sees the good in everyone." I find this unattractive and weak.
2) Online dating is fairly superficial (see #1). If I met you in person, I might not know that you think "advise" is a noun and therefore give you a chance.
3) Meeting you in person allows you to buy me things sooner. Things like food and drink. This is critical because I'm always hungry and also poor. And because cheese is the way to my heart.
And lastly,
4) I want to be courted, not emailed.
So although I'm sure online dating is great for some people, I think I'm going to continue focusing on beer for a while and see where that gets me. That is, until I'm 30. If I'm still single at 30, you should call 911.
