Back to my old, "no holding back" self... enjoy.

“So I took a pregnancy test to calm myself down, and then got my period two days later.”

“Natalie, why are you telling me this?”

“Because you wanted a close and open relationship with your daughter and that is what you got, god damnit! And it was stressing me the fuck out!”

“Don’t say god damnit.”

“Fine.”

“And you are getting on the pill immediately, god damnit!”

“Fine.”

As some of you may know, the pill freaks me the fuck out. Come on. It hasn’t been around for that long, and quite honestly I don’t think we know the real side effects of the pill, just yet. So I stick to condoms.

But I’m catholic, with an irregular period. So basically, every time I have sex…I think I’m pregnant.

And seeing as my mother put me on speaker phone when we had this conversation without me knowing, and my father was so lucky to walk into the room at the “pregnancy test” part of that convo, it has now been decided, that at the ripe age of 24, it’s time for their only daughter to go on the pill.

Honestly, I was slightly relieved, until my friend was like, “Uh, even on the pill you are going to think you are pregnant.”

Well fuck, what’s the point then? I would just like some peace of mind for once god damnit! Or at least for men to have to carry the burden of possibly getting pregnant.

Yeah, dudes. You go buy that 3-pack pregnancy test for 18.99 cause you were too cheap to go for the 30-dollar pack but not cheap enough to go for the store brand pack. And yeah, have the cashier lady who is barely sixteen look you down from head to toe with that, “Bitch their ain’t no way you are having sex if you are wearing a t-shirt with a sub shop logo on it,” look on her face.

And yeah! Then you get defensive and scream, “Well you know what! I am having sex! Bitch.” To the cashier lady who technically said absolutely nothing to you besides, “You’re total is 18.99.”

Side note, NYCer’s…. there’s no tax on pregnancy tests. Score one for the whores!

And another thing! Gentlemen, I am so sick of you all assuming that we, the ladies, are the ones who are supposed to supply the condoms. That shit has got to stop. We deal with EVVVVVVVVVVVVVVERYTHING else, you can cough up a few condoms in return. It’s only fair. Well really, it’s not fair at all, but for the time being, it will do.

I also can’t pretend like I’m not drunk while writing this…and Matthew may or may not have just introduced me to Chat Roulette a few hours ago and I find it fucking hilarious…I know, I know, Chat Roulette is so two years ago, but I didn’t understand it’s allure then. I have since been corrected.

Any who, the funniest part of this all, is I was told I have to go on the pill, right after I basically vowed to myself that I need to take a break from sex. A long break. Not going to lie. I’m kind of sick of it.

This isn’t a, “I need to find myself” moment. Believe me, I know myself…. Alllllllll too well. This is just a, “I don’t want to have sex” moment. Cause I don’t want to fucking have sex! I sound so angry as I type this. I’m not, just drunk. But come on. Am I the first to ever feel this way? The opportunity’s are there, you just ain’t feeling it. And it’s not them. It’s you. Which probably isn’t a good sign.

Fuck…and the cat lady transformation begins.

I wish I knew how to quit you, chocolate covered bacon...

The fact that I am not morbidly obese yet baffles me.

I eat. Like a lot. Like I’ve finished whole pizzas on my own. Consumed full course dinners while still having room for a 12-inch sweet onion teriyaki chicken sub (with extra mayo) from Subway that was literally consumed in under ten minutes (and if you don’t believe me, I have people to attest to that to that glorious fact).

Condiments (with one in particular) hold a special place in my heart. I love you Hellman…always and forever.

There will be two cakes at my wedding. One for me and one for my guests…the one for myself will be bigger.

I have put chocolate syrup on bacon. On more than one occasion.

If that doesn’t scream “type two diabetes” I have no clue what the fuck does.

And it’s not like I’m fat…I mean I could be skinnier (said the skinny lil' white girl)…but I wear size six jeans. All my fancy jackets that are currently in my closest rotation are size small. I’m what some would call a “little petite white bitch.”

Artery clogging amounts of s’mores, Oreo balls, cookies, etc. have been shoved into my mouth on multiple occasions. And I looked good doing it too…well I looked like I was about to vomit…whatever…tomato tomato.

Hmmm…that saying doesn’t seem to work as well on paper. Whatever, fuck it. You know what I’m trying to say.

Even my roommate is baffled by my eating habits:

 “I feel like you’re the monster in the village that I have to feed constantly or you’ll kill everyone.”

 “I feel like in every scene you should be eating.”

Matt: “When you get famous can I be your personal assistant?'

Me: “Oh god, I don’t even know what I would do with a personal assistant.”

Matt: “Are you kidding? Buy you food. Make you food. Feed you food. Go buy you more food.”

Even random people are baffled by this shit:

Waitress: “He got the single burger…she got the double (laughs and pointing at me). You think it be the other way around.”

…I did not leave her a tip. Well, I did...put only 20 percent! I bet she'll think twice about saying such hurtful things about my eating habits, or not, bitch.

And I’m not really complaining about this situation. I love to eat. And I’m lucky enough to not gain (that much) weight with my daily binges. However, I know this moment is fleeting.

Cause when this shit catches up to me…it ain’t going to be pretty.

Last moody post, because I swear to God I'm much happier than this sounds.

There it will be. Staring right back at you. Something so minute and frivolous, that no one would ever be aware of its meaning, unless you took the time to explain the previous moment that got you to this place right now.

But you won't. Not that you don't want too, you're just too lazy.

"Maus."

Why here? Why did it have to be fucking here?

You meant to look it up, you really did. You said you would, but then again... You said a lot of things.

You remember that conversation so vividly even if it had happened eight months prior.

Actually reading the book eight months prior to this exact moment would not have changed a thing.

You are where you are, for reasons beyond your control. And there is nothing you can do to change that fact. And at this point, you really don't want to.

The book is your enemy. You want to pick it up so badly, knowing inevitably you will enjoy it, but you're afraid of what other emotions it will stir at a moment when you feel content.

And now that you know it's in your place of business, it will forever stare at the back of your head as you constantly attempt to avoid eye contact with an inanimate object. Which is much harder than it sounds, thank you very much.

You've changed. Not jaded. Just confused, by age and reality and what's to come next.

You're not used to being so moody. Yeah, you can be a bitch, but this is just ridiculous. You can only blame your period for so long. Five to seven days to be exact.

Emotions are such a bitch. Fuck this shit. You pick up the book. And you move the fuck on... While scratching your stomach as you turn to the next page.

And it finally feels right.

Words....icky....

  1.     Smear

…Nothing good can come from “smearing” anything onto anything. Well nothing that isn’t food related. So yes, Ray Liotta…you may smear chocolate all over my body, but only if you insist.

     

      2.     Vagina

…Vaginas are icky, which is why I like to stick to my very scientific vernacular of “lady who-hahs.” Trust me…I’m a lab assistant at Mt. Sinai, and yes they all think I’m hilarious. Well all the black sassy nurses think I’m hilarious…

     

      3.     Clitoris

….Ew.

      4.     Tinkle

…What are you four? Any adult that uses this word in a serious manner, should be force fed lard. Immediately.

      5.     Moist

…This word is ONLY okay when you are talking about red velvet cake…and German chocolate cake…and Twinkies…

      6.   Bowel Movement

…Basically, if you this phrase in a serious matter, I would also life to force-feed you lard, because I’m assuming you use the word “tinkle” too. Don’t you?!  You sadist piece of shit, you!

      7.     Puss

…Probably because I always accidently say “pussy” when I try to say “puss”, and then I get super embarrassed when people call me out for saying “pussy” instead of “puss.” Whatever…fuck you all! It’s still fucking gross.

      8.     Family

…Ew.

      9.     Secretion

…Things shouldn’t “secrete.” They should be “injected” with Bavarian crème…chocolate crème…. artificially enhanced lemon goo crème…

      10. Babies

…This is just the most unnecessary blight on society ever created.

      

      11. Thick

…Unless you are talking about a burger, this word has no meaning to me.

     

      12. Prenatal

…Stop shoving your prenatal hullabaloo in our faces, assholes. (See #10) Just eat your fucking vitamins and shut the fuck up. Unless you want me (and the rest of the rational society) to ralph onto your “prenatal” stomach. Believe, I would be honored.

Happy birthday...what a bummer.

I’m 24 today. That just feels weird to say. I know it’s not old, but I have to admit I’m definitely in the midst of a mid-life crisis.

It hasn’t been fun. No one likes to deal with the bad shit about themselves, we hide that for as long as we can until something or someone reveals every shortcoming in our lives and we are forced to inevitably deal with it.

Today also marks the one-year anniversary of me moving to NYC. Yep, I moved up on my birthday. Fun, I know.

It was filled with 7 hours of traffic, Chinese food and my dad continuously yelling, “Yeah, Natalie. 

Let’s not take Spanish in high school like your father suggested. Oh nooooooooooooo, let’s take German. Cause you are definitely going to end up in German Harlem one day. Yep, you’re never going to live in a place called Spanish Harlem. Oh no, that’s just stupid.”

Have I grown since my last birthday? Matured? Absolutely not. Which is disheartening to say the least. I’m glad I’m still the same person, but come on. I need to grow the fuck up.

I’m wasted my time.

My first year here, I spent 11 months obsessing about a boy that was obviously unattainable. Barely worked on my book that I’ve been approached by a successful writer to help me with. Spent too much money on alcohol, Papa John’s pizza and mayo. Made fun of hipsters. Had too much emotionless sex. Lost track of my goals in life. Accidently dyed my hair purple. Cried in central park, multiple times…. before realizing my Ray Bans were in my purse and I could hide the tears, but not the atrocious sobs that seemed to be coming out of my throat. I’m still a nanny with a college degree in journalism. And I’m completely lost.

I’m not trying to give you a sob story. Believe me, all of this is very embarrassing for me to admit to. Where’s the joke, you’re wondering. Sadly, the joke is my life.

I fucked up. I’ve done everything wrong. Everything I told myself I wouldn’t do. And now I’m lost, and have no clue where to really start over.

It scares me how easy it is to distract me from my own life. And even more so how easily I can hide my emotions. A random fact, I know, but a big part of my life that is affecting me in more ways than I can handle at the moment.

God, I sound like such a whiny little bitch. But it’s my fucking birthday so I can do whatever the fuck I want.

I guess right now for me, the first step is to calm the fuck down and stop trying to force shit to happen in my life.

For once I don’t really have a plan, and I think that’s good for me. Or the worst idea ever. But I guess I’ll find out soon enough.

Okay... Maybe I haven't hit rock bottom yet.

It's always a good decision for me to go home during my emotionally wrecked moments.

"She accidentally smoked crack."

"She accidentally smoked crack?!?"

"Yep. And she gained weight too, like 200 pounds. Easily."

"Fuckkkkkkkkkkkkk. But Side note, did you see that episode of 'Girls' where Shoshana accidentally smokes crack?"

"Yeah, it was fucking hilarious."

"So I haven't hit rock bottom yet, have I?"

"Not even close."

"Sweet... God dammit. I got queso on my iPhone again."

As much as I like to self pity myself. I'm nowhere near the path of destruction I like to pretend I'm teetering so closely to.

Honestly it's just an excuse to use Hellman mayo as a comfort food with my friends in public.

"Don't you dare make that 'I'm going to fucking hurl" face! I'm really hurting right now!"

Hellman's and unnecessary guilt... Delicious.

Does this mean I'm officially okay? Meh. Sort of.

But don't tell my friends I said that.  If there is one thing I never want to give up, it is forcing my friends to pretend that it is socially acceptable to pull out a vat of mayo in central park.

...because IT IS socially acceptable to pull out a vat of mayo in central park.

A girl can dream.

And this is why you always do a marriage pact with a best friend...

Jealous?

Six o' clock in the morning, and I'm peeing in the shitty bathroom on the Megabus...

This is where i am in my life. Jealous?

I turn to look for the hand sanitizer, there is none.

"Awesome."

I take this as a defining moment of who I am as a person... Not washing your hands (especially in a public restroom) is fucking icky. Seriously, dudes. You touch your penis while doing your business, and you don't wash your hand(s).

...Gross.

I do a quick 360 around the toilet, well... in front of the toilet with my jeans still at my ankles and there I see it, the window... With a car filled with 3 men peering in from outside said window.

"God fucking dammit."

When did the Megabus start putting windows in their fucking bus bathrooms? Who was the fucking jackass who thought a bathroom on a moving double-decker bus was in dire need of a window... With fucking curtains?!?

"Listen, listen, listen! If we put a window in the bathroom on the bus it will be much more ascetically pleasing, plus you may get a glimpse at a few lady parts from outside if you time it just right."

"Sold!"

Sometimes I feel like I'm stuck in my own shitty sitcom...sans laugh track. There shall never be a laugh track in my life... I have some dignity god dammit.

Case in point, I ate a roast beef sandwich at seven in the morning on that bus. The hot black dude sitting next to me ate a banana. We both acknowledged and judged one anothers choices.

I like to think dignity and utter disgust can frolic amongst one another rather harmoniously. They don't, I just like to think that.

I took a trip home to clear my head but I think it just reaffirmed how not okay I am, which is always easier to swallow when your parents buy 3 cases of Michelob Ultra for your impending arrival. 

I guess this is just one of those moments where I have to admit to myself and to others that I really am not okay, and I don't know when I will be. And it sucks. 

It suckity, suck, sucks.

But it's reassuring to know that this feeling will one day end, until then...I'm shoving a shit ton of Michelob, mayo, and Mcdonald's down my gullet.

I like to think that overeating and skinniness can frolic amongst one another rather harmoniously. They don't I just like to think that.

My biggest fear...

My biggest fear if I ever become successful, with my own television special (now this wouldn’t be for a long time seeing as I still need to do the whole “stand-up” part) is the inevitable fact that some guy I’ve screwed is going to be flipping through the channels, recognize my face/shrill voice/cankles, turn to the first person next to him, whether it a roommate/stranger/cellmate and say:

“Dude…fucked her.”

And now, it’s not really the guy I screwed I’m worried about because yeah, whatever, I made my bed now I have to lie in it. It’s the roommate’s/stranger’s/cellmate’s reaction I’m worried about.

“Gross….” Or “Nice…”

Look, cellmate 17389 you don’t know me. Maybe I chugged a few too many wine coolers that night, and Joey called me fat, okay? And I loved Joey and he didn’t love me back, and I was feeling chunky that night. And maybe, just maybe, your buddy, cellmate 71377 or as I like to call him, Jorge, told me I was a fine slice of white-heaven as he held my hair back while I vomited on his shoes.

Would you say no to that, cellmate 17389? Would you?!

Or maybe the guy I screwed was way out of my league. It doesn’t matter that it’s taking him way tooooooooo long to figure out that simple math in his head, stranger who is at a loss for words. And maybe, just maybe, he likes high-fiving more than the average male. Whatever, he’s hot, dumb and was filled with the adequate amount of ruffies at the time. Sorry if I saw this golden opportunity and jumped on it… literally.

I’m an opportunist, not a thismightbewrongist.

A bunch a word vomit while I try to figure some shit out.

I did not have a "let's play outside" stage when I was younger" stage. I had an "I'm going to sit here and watch SNL and Kids in the Hall reruns while eating two chicken burritos and two corn dogs" stage.

And just to clarify, that's two chicken burritos paired with two corn dogs, so yes, a total of four artery clogging food-ish substances entering my black hole of a mouth on a daily basis at the mere age of 11.

If that isn't the early stages of comedic writing gold... I don't know what the fuck is.

Did I mention I was fat when I was younger? This probably was part of the reason why I didn't want to go outside very often, but who knows, I'm swayed pretty easily by food. Put a corn dog on a string and I would (will) have followed it anywhere. 

Now would I have caught up to it? Absolutely not. Speed has never been my forte.

I don't know why, but I always feel the need to clarify how fat I used to be. Well not even just how fat I was (and could potentially be again) but I feel the need to clarify about everything gross about myself.

"You always make weird faces in pictures, Natalie."

Why, you ask? Oh it is definitely because I used to hide my fugly teeth by averting ones attention to my cross eyed googly face. Don't worry, I've gotten corrective adult braces since then, so now the googly face is just out of habit, but damn.... I make a mean cross eyed googly face.

What's that thing on your foot?

It's a wart.

Why are you always naked?

I probably haven't done laundry in a month... Probably.

Hair on big toes?

I'm for it!

Nature?

Fuck it.

I like people knowing exactly what they are getting with me, yet at the same time, I'm constantly told I am a hard person to truly get to know. It probably has something to do with the fact that deep down, I'm at my happiest when I'm alone.

 It's a gift really. You try finding the perfect balance between utter disgust and sex appeal. No seriously, find the perfect balance and get back to me because I could really use some help in the dude department.