My biggest fear...

My biggest fear if I ever become a successful stand-up comedian 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/ high-pitched voice/cankles, turn to the first person next to him, whether it a roommate/random passerby/ 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.

I'm pretty sure that's what the feminist movement was all about, and I would know, cause I'm a lady.

Boom.

Oh, I'm scared shitless...

I need to start doing stand-up. It's seriously the best way to get hired as a comedy writer for basically anything, but I’m not even going to pretend that I’m not not scared shitless…

…also…I’ve been drinking. God damn you,  Michelob Ultra, you sexy, sexy, man you so this post may turn into a train wreck. (But aren’t those the best wrecks to watch?)

Any who…let’s get back to me being scared shitless…now I know…I know you think I’m infallible…and perfect… and let’s be completely honest…I am.

But I’m pretty sure, even Jesus would suck at stand-up…that cloth robe thingy he constantly wears? Talk about a heckler’s dream.

And that beard? Already perfected by Galifinakas.

I know I’m going to suck. That’s inevitable. Everyone has to suck at first. Right?

Right?!?!

And what’s my stage persona going to be? A bitch? No. no. no. That shits been done. I don’t want to be just another bitch. I want to be a jackass. A lady jackass. 

But I’m too cute to be a perceived as a jackass at first glance.

“Oh no…she’s pretty…she’s just going make jokes about having HPV…who this bitch think she be? Amy Schumer?”

It’s so much easier being funnier on paper (for me at least)…and unless I’m constantly vomiting on stage…I’m not quite sure what people are going to laugh at exactly.

At first I was just going to use my blog posts as materials, but my friends shut down that idea real quick.

“I would advise you not to do that.”

“Wait…why not?”

“You talk about mayo, like a lot.”

“Yeah, and?”

"Ew.”

Dammit. I was totally going to talk about mayo the whole time.

Meat. Mayo. Porn. Honestly, those were going to be my staples of my act. Or maybe I should talk about being fat for what…17 years?

Or maybe I should get fat again and make that my act?!?

No.

Adult braces?

No.

Spray-can icing on tortilla chips?

Yes…..?

Taco Bell? Oh…yeah….taccccccoooooo belllllllll. That’s a gold mine, fuckers! Specifically when Mr. Bell gave me good poisoning during driving school. Good times.

Oh. Dear. God. Help. Me.

Politics?

I’m not that smart.

Catholicism?

If I do…the devil will eat my soul…

As you can see, I’m a very deep person, especially when my days only consist of mini-donuts and bean and cheese burritos….

…however, I do, do a good impression of my mother. It helps that I look and sound exactly like her, but whatever…fuck you. I still do a better impression that you, asshole. I don't need your judgemental stare right now!

Hmmmmmmmmm.

…well I’m pretty fucked…and I haven’t even begun yet….this is not good.

Thanksgiving reminds me of one thing.

MRSA.

Yes, my fine-fellowed friends, MRSA.

It was a cold November day when I looked down at my thigh and saw a red oblong blotch.

This worried me…I was perturbed…and being too afraid to WebMD, “Red oblong blotch on upper thigh that hurts like a bitch when I move” I went to the next best scientific thing…my friends.

"Natalie stop being a pussy. It’s just a spider bite. Now shut up and watch "The Hills.'"

It wasn’t a spider bite.

For about about two days I dragged my "spider bite" along, because at this point walking properly required a constant look of “Why yes, I am getting an enema shoved up my ass at this very moment. Good day to you!”

This was not good.

When I showed my parents “it”... “it” had now spread from my upper thigh, down to an inch above my knee.

"This is not good."

“Wait…it’s not just a spider bite?”

So like every normal family, the day before Thanksgiving started with an emergency trip to the hospital, followed by a military doctor running out and screaming bloody murder at the sight of my “spider bite,” but of course not before he could say…

“You have 24 hours to live.”

…and finished off with a tall, cool, Oreo McFlurry.

Luckily my parents understand that I have the mentality of a 5-year-old and that ice cream, specifically any type of McFlurry, would temporarily distract me from the eminent danger I was so knowingly in.

“Now, listen, your doctor said we need to put an extremely hot washcloth on the opening to bring the infection away from your knee joint immediately, or you could die, mkay?”

“You know Oreo Mcflurry’s are the best. So smooth and refreshing, with the prefect blend of choco flakes and vanilla fro-yo…it’s a beautiful union really.”

Now back to that "extrememely hot washcloth." Here's the thing, my mother didn’t exactly understand the difference between hot, and "I'm trying to melt off your skin with steam." Or she did, but she was hoping the ridiculous amount of drugs they put me on would take the edge off.

They didn’t.

Next thing I know, I’m screaming in agony as the scalding wash cloth slowly seared off my skin…

“Holy fucking Jesus Christ.”

“Natalie. Stop being a pussy.”

After seven hours of this personal hell, it was time to go to bed and dream about turkey legs… stuffing…possibly not having my leg amputated…

“Hey Nat, are you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m okay. I’m just worried about losing my leg.”

“Oh okay. I just hope you don't die…good night.”

I cried all night.

Oh, and I didn’t die…just in case you were wondering.

It's not that weird...I swear!

I don’t know if you have noticed, but I do some pretty weird shit, like, all the time. And for the most part, I’m not ashamed of those weird things. I basically have no shame when it comes to anything that would publicly embarrass myself.

Well that, and the fact that I usually don’t realize that those things that I am doing are in fact weird until I tell Matt and he goes, “Natalie, that is really fucking weird.”

Whoops.

So case in point, when I want to scare myself, I Wikipedia serial killers. That’s not that weird right? 

Like, other people want to read about serial killers, right? RIGHT?!

Okay, maybe not. Fuck you.

Ladies, I recommend starting with Ted Bundy. (Because obviously, I’m about to force you to read about serial killers as well, as to make myself feel less weird about this situation.)

If you don’t know who he was, he was a handsome and charming man, who used his good looks and an arm in a sling (or crutches) to lure many of his beautiful victims. 

This probably why I never trust hot dudes when they hit on me.

And these are just the first documented killings...it get's worse. But I'll let you decide if you want to read further. (For reals, though...you should totally keep reading about Bundy.)

And you know what the best part of Wikipediaing serial killers is, America? There is usually a little blue link thingy that will lead you to yet another serial killer...It's like the gift that keeps on giving!

On Bundy's page, if you dare to go on, will lead you to a Mr. Gary Ridgway, whom Bundy was in contact with in prison. 

With 48 confessed killings, it is presumed that he actually killed over 90 victims. He became very religious in adulthood and many speculated that Ridgway was torn between his uncontrollable lusts and his staunch religious beliefs.

Fucking crazy right?!? No, not me. The serial killers.

And if you don't want to go trolling on wikipedia for serial killers, just get an enabling best friend that may or may not do the same exact thing on Wikipedia.

Side note: I'm the one in blue, just FYI.

You want to Wikipedia H.H. Holmes now, don't you? Muahahahahhaha! My job is done, bitches. 

Dear Facebook, you are ruining my life...

Dear Facebook,

You have ruined my life. Because instead of taking control of my own actions, I’m going to blame you, inanimate object, for all my shor tcomings in life. I’ve given you a list. Now fix it! All of it!

     1.    If I defriend a person, it’s because I don’t want them to see my shit anymore! Or I don’t want to see their fucking shit anymore!

Yeah, whatever, maybe it was childish to defriend that boy that I used to love, but I was getting sick of seeing his douchey statuses, showing that he was so obviously over me. Sorry but my, “I think it’s time to buy a cat and cry,” statuses can’t exactly compete with happiness. I mean, you of all people should understand this….Zuckerberg.

     2.    On a completely different note, can you stop letting those hot guys I used to hook up with, post         pictures of themselves with their shirts off!

      I don’t know if you read my blog, Facebook, but I’m not having sex at the moment. It’s a personal choice, thank you very much. But shit gets real hard, when I see those hot guys half naked on Facebook, all of a sudden emotionless sex seems like a very good idea to partake in again.  And, then I’m all like, “Wait, why were they hooking up with me? My body does not look anything like that…”

    

    3.    People doing better than me on Facebook.

Yeah…I don’t want to hear about it, Facebook. So why don’t you make a filter button called, “bitter jealousy,” so I can block any status updates about job promotions, relationship statuses, or any status with any hint of happiness in them. Mmmmmmkay, thankssssssssssssssss.

    4.    Can you make me look better in all those drunk photos?

Yes, I understand that it was I that was crossing my eyes and contorting my face into odd facial expressions that night. But I was drunk, so fuck off. Now it’s time for you to get your shit together, do your fucking job and fix that. Get one of your genius employees to create an application where I can uncross those damned eyes in that damned photo. Don’tact like it’s not possible to make me look pretty, asshole. Now chop! Chop!

    5.    I want more people telling me I’m funny on Facebook.

Preferably you, Facebook. Can you tell me I’m funny? Like all the time? And that I’m pretty? Or at least poke me every once and a while? Ever poke someone on Facebook because you missed the human touch, Facebook? Me too, Facebook. Me too.

I want to defriend this person, but their ignorant statuses are just too fucking funny.

Now, I just want to say, I was not a fan of either candidate. I think Robin Williams puts it correctly, "politicians are just like diapers...they are full of shit." This is not a, "Yay! Romney fans are stupid!" post. This is a, "Wooooooaaaaaaahhhhhhhhh.....certain people should not be given a voice on a social media platform....like...ever," post.

This is called ignorance people, and it is icky (and also looks terrible in khakis). 

Now go read a fucking book, person who wrote all these status updates (which I've blurred out their name, profile picture and...wait for it...fucking social securtiy number, for obvious reasons.)

**Honestly, I was shocked he even knew who Heller Keller was....and spelled her name correctly...but let's talk more about these "shits." 

**Right, back at yah, kiddo.

 **Now, I'm intrigued by this T-shirt venture you speak of, HOWEVER, I will only buy this shirt if "lying" is spelled incorrectly...I don't think society would want it any other way.

**Now....maybe this is just me, but don't think I can vote for someone who can't spell campaign correctly...or tomorrow...

Also, I totally defriended this person. As much as I loved mocking them, it was time to let go...and plus my friends will totally keep me updated on this gem of a facebook profile.

Cause this is a totally normal conversation to have with a five year old...

5 year old: Natalie, are you wearing your Superman bra?

Me: ...No.

5 year old: Yes you are.

Me: How can you tell?

5 year old: They just look different.

Me: They look different?

5 year old: Yeah. They look happier.

Me: Happier?

Side note: Best way to communicate with children...just repeat the last thing they said. Totally sounds like you are paying attention.

5 year old: Yeah, you know. (Point to face then smiles.) Happier.

I look down.

Me: Yeah, I guess they look happier.

5 year old: Natalie. Can you just take off your bra so I can wear it?

Me: Uh...no.

5 year old: Why not?

Me: Because...because...no.

5 year old: Natalie, may I please wear your Superman bra.

Me: No.

5 year old: But I said please!

Me: No dice, kid.

5 year old: I don't want to play with dice. I want to wear your bra.

Me: It's an expression. It means you are not going to get what you want.

5 year old: Fine. I'm going to draw now. And I'm not drawing a picture of you.

Me: Are you going to draw Superman?

5 year old: ...Yes.

Wanna be a real New Yorker? This is what you do.

  

   1.     Throw up in a taxi.

…Preferably alcohol related. And try to throw up in multiple taxis on the same night…usually makes for a good story.

  

   2.     Drink cheap champagne on the great lawn.

…Don’t worry, it’s really easy to hide. Just red solo-cup the shit out of that situation. And when you run out of booze there will be dudes pedaling Heinekens out of a rolling cooler.

   3.     That being said, buy the beer from the random dudes selling Heineken after you’ve run out of cheap champagne, while drinking on the great lawn.

…Did you go there to get hammered anyways?

   

   4.     Learn how to properly walk in heels down subway stairs, or anywhere in NYC for that matter.

…I still haven’t mastered this technique yet…but I heard you look really hot once you do.

   

   5.     Hook up with an employee, especially if you’re an intern.

…Come on! They are having you working for free…you deserve some fun.

   6.     Crocodile Lounge.

…. Look it up. You get a pizza with every drink. Enough said.

   7.     Walk around like a total jackass.

…No, but seriously. You are in the greatest city in the world, whether you are visiting or you live here permanently, put on some sexy boots and classic Ray Bans and walk like you own this shit… everyone else is doing it.

   8.     Get so drunk you walk into the Subway and end up in Queens.           

…Especially if you live nowhere near Queens. Believe me, it’s good fun! Just make sure you find a taxi quick enough that you make it in time to hurl in the privacy of your own apartment… you might be naked while you’re hurling into the toilet…whateva, shit happens.

    9.     Fall in love.

…. Gross I know. But just do it. Long distance, or right here in the city. You grow up a fucking lot when you finally realize the world doesn’t revolve around you.

   10. Become a nanny (and/or manny).

… Best. Birth. Control. Ever.

   11. Just go with the flow.

…Some days (or nights) you are going to randomly find yourself around people you’ve never met in your life…they will soon become your best friends.

   12. Do what you fucking came here to do.

…We all came here for a fucking reason. Don’t get lost in the bullshit and booze. Well actually no, do get lost in the bullshit and booze but let it be apart of the creative experience, at least that’s what I tell my mother every time I drunk dial her.

   13. Drunk dial your parents.

…Don’t pretend like you don’t fucking miss them. Now call your mother and tell her swapping drug stories made you the fine lady (or man) you are today.

  14. Remind yourself that some of your old friends suck, and learn how to cut people out of your life.

…Fo real though. They do. You got out. You took a chance. And they will forever resent you for that. It’s going to be friends you don’t expect. People you thought always had your back. They don’t. They are dicks. Now take a shot and tell those assholes off.

  15. Piano at F.A.O Schwartz.

…That is all.

   16. Hot dog vendors…anywhere in the city.

…That is all.

   17. Brunch.

…Awww shittttt, should you be drinking before noon? Fuck. Yeah. You should be drinking before noon. Now here’s the thing. You need to find an “unlimited brunch.” These occur on the weekends and usually cost about 20 bucks for unlimited mimosas. You ain’t got money bitch, you live in NYC, you take that fucking deal.

   18. You know those friends that make more money than you?

…Yeahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh. When they offer to pay, let them. You can paint them a picture later.

   

   19. Remember “Sex and the City” is not real.

…You will never be Carrie. You will never live in a rent-controlled apartment in an amazing location. You will never have crazy amazing dancer-legs. You are five feet tall, if that. But you are spunky and funny and have been told you can do a mean Cartman impression when you are hammered. That is all you need to be happy in this city. And booze. Booze will make you happy.

   

   20. Sleep naked.

…Seems to be a real “New York” thing. I’m not against it.