I’m not going to lie…I kind of pictured being 22 a little differently in my head.
I don’t know something like…graduating college, moving back to nyc and living just like the women of “Sex and the City”…you know…something like… “Let’s get shitty and be whores, while still being ridiculously successful in our careers and never having our reputation ruined for the amount of dick we’ve intaked!”
…It’s every girls dream, really.
However, I didn’t quite foresee breaking down into tears every time the vanilla-icing spray can ran out mid spray…
…why god? Why do you want to hurt me so?
And I never thought that I would watch so much porn in one sitting that I’d have to revert to a House Hunters International marathon for sexual stimulation.
“You’re getting a seven bedroom, five bath in Sicily for 300,000 euros?!?! You’re so naughty…do it again…just do it.”
Or not talking to my mother for 3 days because she had the audacity to buy light mayo…LIGHT FUCKING MAYO…because she thinks I have an “abnormal” obsession with that magical elixir of happiness and prosperity…
…bitch, you don’t know me.
And there’s never a better feeling in the world than when you feel your cell phone vibrating in your back-pocket and you hope…no you pray… it’s the boy you’re semi-interested in…only to find out that that “vibration” was just the strategic timing of your thigh and lower ass rubbing up against each other…
…pretty much the fatso’s equivalent of snapping your fingers…
My life has become a joke…and a poorly written one at that.
I’m embarrassed, yet intrigued all at the same time…everyday I wake up and wonder… “How long will I play with my boobs today?”
And nothing says, “I’ve got my shit together” better than waking up half-naked and consuming a whole bag of cheeto twisted puffs, while dancing to N’Sync/Spice Girls/Kesha for more than two hours straight.
What happened to all that potential my professors said I had? Did I sit on it? Did I eat it out of spite?
What the fucking fuck happened to me?
Okay…that’s not really a question, I’ve always been like this…now it just seems a little more pathetic than usual.
I’m not going to lie…I’m feeling a little lost right now and quite honestly, all I want…no…need in life right now is for a human size vat of mayo to spoon me, but until Hellman’s mayo sees the need for a human sized vat of mayo…I’m shit out of luck.
God damnit.
I'm just saying what everyone is thinking...or not
I really want to bag a jew.
Is it bag or bone? I really need straighten this out.
…when I was younger I thought “jazz” was actually the correct term for “jizz”…fuck you, it makes sense.
“Yeah, that hoe just got jazzed in the face, yo!”
Poetic, really.
Any who…back to the jews. I would like to bag one (or two) whatever’s cheaper.
I just think it’s a demographic that I haven’t really hit on yet…well…scratch that…I hit on them all the time…I think the stench of my catholic guilt scares them away… that or my abnormal mayo consumption…one of the two.
Honestly, I just think it’s every catholic girl’s right to bag/bone/feed Taco Bell to a jew.
…I’m assuming Taco Bell is kosher. I mean, we all know it’s not really “meat” meat.
Whatever, even if it isn’t kosher I’m still force-feeding you a “steak” quesidilla, bitch.
Deal with it.
But really, it’s like the ultimate “fuck you” to the catholic church. Like, remember all those years you told me to become a nun, catholic school, remember?
Yeah…about that…
Ima do you one better and revert back to the religion that precedes all the teachings you shoved down my throat and bone a jew… tell him I’m pregnant…but really just shove a pillow under my shirt…he’ll never notice… then force him to marry me…then tell him I’m not really pregnant…told you it would work…. and live harmoniously as a catholic and a jew….
…but in two years I’ll force him to convert to Catholism, because honestly, I’ll be too cheap to give our children a “Chrismakauh” and support my raging drug addictions for one more god damn year…so in the end I guess you win, Jesus.
You win, Jesus. You always do.
Is it bag or bone? I really need straighten this out.
…when I was younger I thought “jazz” was actually the correct term for “jizz”…fuck you, it makes sense.
“Yeah, that hoe just got jazzed in the face, yo!”
Poetic, really.
Any who…back to the jews. I would like to bag one (or two) whatever’s cheaper.
I just think it’s a demographic that I haven’t really hit on yet…well…scratch that…I hit on them all the time…I think the stench of my catholic guilt scares them away… that or my abnormal mayo consumption…one of the two.
Honestly, I just think it’s every catholic girl’s right to bag/bone/feed Taco Bell to a jew.
…I’m assuming Taco Bell is kosher. I mean, we all know it’s not really “meat” meat.
Whatever, even if it isn’t kosher I’m still force-feeding you a “steak” quesidilla, bitch.
Deal with it.
But really, it’s like the ultimate “fuck you” to the catholic church. Like, remember all those years you told me to become a nun, catholic school, remember?
Yeah…about that…
Ima do you one better and revert back to the religion that precedes all the teachings you shoved down my throat and bone a jew… tell him I’m pregnant…but really just shove a pillow under my shirt…he’ll never notice… then force him to marry me…then tell him I’m not really pregnant…told you it would work…. and live harmoniously as a catholic and a jew….
…but in two years I’ll force him to convert to Catholism, because honestly, I’ll be too cheap to give our children a “Chrismakauh” and support my raging drug addictions for one more god damn year…so in the end I guess you win, Jesus.
You win, Jesus. You always do.
so that's why you're not supposed to do that.
I have a very bad habit of “shitting where I eat.” If you are unfamiliar with this term, it pretty much means, don’t fuck someone you work with, or someone you have class with, or pretty much anyone you don’t want be stuck in an enclosed area for more than 13 minutes with after screwing.
Yeah. I have an issue with that. Especially with dumb guys.
The aftermath of sex, enclosed spaces and dumb guys is like a witch’s brew of death just stirring awkwardly around.
“So what if he just told you Africa is a country located in Europe,” you tell your drunken self aloud. “He’s hot.”
Not really.
“Who cares if he looks constipated when you use words with more than three syllables, as long as that isn’t is “O” face.”
It was.
“And who cares if you’ll see him tomorrow sober, he’s stupid so sex is probably the one thing he’s good at.“
It wasn’t.
You don’t really see the physical repercussions of “shitting where you eat” until weeks later. It’s like a bomb implanted in the back of your head that explodes at the sight of that stupid guy killing a fly.
With his bare hands.
In an apron.
Then your mind flashes back to that night and you suddenly realize that the expression he made while killing the fly is the same exact expression he had while you two were, for a lack of better words, doing it.
Boom.
It’s all fun and games until someone whispers, “That was inside of you.”
He’s proud of his manliness as he waves the dead bug in your face and while it would have been cute if it had been a dog or better yet a big fluffy bear wagging its paws in front of your face.
But no. It was an adult; a grown man. Whose greatest accomplishment in life was killing a fly.
Well done, whore. Well done.
Yeah. I have an issue with that. Especially with dumb guys.
The aftermath of sex, enclosed spaces and dumb guys is like a witch’s brew of death just stirring awkwardly around.
“So what if he just told you Africa is a country located in Europe,” you tell your drunken self aloud. “He’s hot.”
Not really.
“Who cares if he looks constipated when you use words with more than three syllables, as long as that isn’t is “O” face.”
It was.
“And who cares if you’ll see him tomorrow sober, he’s stupid so sex is probably the one thing he’s good at.“
It wasn’t.
You don’t really see the physical repercussions of “shitting where you eat” until weeks later. It’s like a bomb implanted in the back of your head that explodes at the sight of that stupid guy killing a fly.
With his bare hands.
In an apron.
Then your mind flashes back to that night and you suddenly realize that the expression he made while killing the fly is the same exact expression he had while you two were, for a lack of better words, doing it.
Boom.
It’s all fun and games until someone whispers, “That was inside of you.”
He’s proud of his manliness as he waves the dead bug in your face and while it would have been cute if it had been a dog or better yet a big fluffy bear wagging its paws in front of your face.
But no. It was an adult; a grown man. Whose greatest accomplishment in life was killing a fly.
Well done, whore. Well done.
Supposedly I'm disgsting...
My parents think I’m disgusting. I don’t know why though.
However, I will say this: if it was socially acceptable to not brush my teeth on a regular basis…I so wouldn’t.
Gah. It’s just so fucking annoying, and you have to do it like what? Four days a week? Jesus Christ, it’s like a fucking full-time job.
Next thing you’ll tell me, I’m supposed to lather, rinse and REPEAT. Um, fuck that noise.
And don’t even get me started on deodorant. Am I right McConaughey? Am I right? It’s a biological fact that we all have a specific scent, and we are thus attracted to other people’s specific scents.
By covering our body with unnatural scents like cologne/ perfume/ febreeze we have unintentionally continued the vicious cycle of divorce/failure/Jenny Craig.
You can fake happiness all you want, but in god’s name, you better not fake your own goddamn scent.
Doesn’t the percentage of marriages that end in divorce make so much more sense now? Lying about our scents has forced us to lie to our significant others about monogamy/your late night trip to Quiznos /your penis size, until we wake up one morning to the musty smell of lies and flatulence.
“I think we need a divorce.”
“What? Why?”
“You smell like dick.”
All weather is lie-related. Don’t you get it? Denial causes lightning; masking a scent causes humidity. Just look at the world you’ve creating by just applying deodorant once a day. Can you live with yourself? I sure hell hope you can’t.
Don’t act like you’re so surprised, you knew what you were doing every time you sprayed your cologne/perfume you fascist bastard. Complaining about this heat wave? Oh wait; it’s your fucking fault.
I just blew your mind didn’t I?
Good.
However, I will say this: if it was socially acceptable to not brush my teeth on a regular basis…I so wouldn’t.
Gah. It’s just so fucking annoying, and you have to do it like what? Four days a week? Jesus Christ, it’s like a fucking full-time job.
Next thing you’ll tell me, I’m supposed to lather, rinse and REPEAT. Um, fuck that noise.
And don’t even get me started on deodorant. Am I right McConaughey? Am I right? It’s a biological fact that we all have a specific scent, and we are thus attracted to other people’s specific scents.
By covering our body with unnatural scents like cologne/ perfume/ febreeze we have unintentionally continued the vicious cycle of divorce/failure/Jenny Craig.
You can fake happiness all you want, but in god’s name, you better not fake your own goddamn scent.
Doesn’t the percentage of marriages that end in divorce make so much more sense now? Lying about our scents has forced us to lie to our significant others about monogamy/your late night trip to Quiznos /your penis size, until we wake up one morning to the musty smell of lies and flatulence.
“I think we need a divorce.”
“What? Why?”
“You smell like dick.”
All weather is lie-related. Don’t you get it? Denial causes lightning; masking a scent causes humidity. Just look at the world you’ve creating by just applying deodorant once a day. Can you live with yourself? I sure hell hope you can’t.
Don’t act like you’re so surprised, you knew what you were doing every time you sprayed your cologne/perfume you fascist bastard. Complaining about this heat wave? Oh wait; it’s your fucking fault.
I just blew your mind didn’t I?
Good.
El Diablo
Only two things come out of being catholic: border-line alcoholism and the inevitable pit of doom that the devil will one day possess your soul. Gawk if you must, but this is an uncontrollable fear instilled in most, if not all, Catholics.
They start it young; the nuns converge at night, taking pleasure in inventing new sins, that our god-fearing or, rather, devil-fearing souls will lap up in pure terror the next morning in class. Catholic school is literally just a seven-hour lecture of what you absolutely can never, ever, do unless you want an exorcism performed on your pre-adolescent body.
“Wait, are we not allowed to ever think a single bad thought?”
“God always knows what you’re thinking; and so does the devil.”
“And I always have to pray every night?”
“Unless you want the devil to eat your soul, then by all means, don’t pray. Ever.”
At the mere age of five I was told to love God more than my parents and you know what? I did. Sorry mom and pops but can you stop the devil from eating my soul? Um, no.
Actually, my mother seemed to revel in this fear, taking advantage of any moment my prepubescent soul was exposed to the truth of demon possession.
Even the soap operas my mother watched religiously, knew. Joey, the handsome young man in a coma wasn’t actually Joey, but Joey’s evil twin and according to this episode, the devil knew.
“Mom? What are those two red dots glowing over that guy?”
She paused to answer; slowly reeling her head toward my stricken face, revealing viciously green eyes staring into the depths of my innocent soul.
“Well young child. Those are the eyes of the devil!”
Two hours later my father found me in the corner of my parent’s room, rocking in the fetal position and watching Barbie’s disco workout tape. So I was fat and scared of the devil, whatever, I had tons of friends…
But scarring her daughter just once, was never good enough for my mom. She wanted me to think that the devil was already in me.
“You know. You have piercing green eyes. Just like the devil.”
“Wait…what?”
“Just like the devil.”
I was seven.
“Dad? Am I the devil?”
“Has your mother been talking to you again?”
“Yes.”
I had to eat all my vegetables. If not, he would come. I could never lie. If I did, he would come. And worst of all I could never hit my brother in the “no, no” spot. If I did, he would come, and he would be pissed.
“Natalie! Did you hit your brother in the balls again!”
“No…”
“Lying and kicking…the devil is sure to come tonight.”
“Can I sleep in your room?”
“Nope. Sleep tight.”
I was nine.
Praying soon became a necessary step in survival. If I didn’t, the devil would come. It became OCD-like. Five Hail Mary’s for every important person in my life every night before I went to bed. It took two hours every night. I finally weened myself of this habit last month. I don’t sleep well anymore.
Of course this fear has never subsided. And why would it? Years and years of pivotally scarring devil moments in a child’s life don’t just disappear into thin air. To be frank, they hide in one’s mind until someone accidently trips on crazy weed that they were not told was crazy weed.
Next thing that poor innocent girl hears in an empty apartment is a devilish voice screaming.
“You are being possessed by the devil!”
Well, thank you, Sister Lisa. Tripping on drugs should have been a fun experience. My mom saw cows walking on two feet when she tripped. What do I get? The devil. Awesome. That’s one way to stop someone from doing hard drugs.
Any talk of the devil in my apartment always ends with me and my bestie, Kerry, another Shi’ite Catholic, sleeping out in the common room, because obviously it’s way harder for the devil to possess two souls than just the one.
We catholics picture el diablo differently; from red horns to an evilishly charming and suave young man. I like to keep it old fashioned, however. My man is all red.
“How do you picture the devil?”
“I picture a red monster that’s kind of hot, but eats my face.”
“Really? Because I picture Al Pacino.”
“Well if it makes you feel better I picture God as either Morgan Freedman or Coolio.”
“So who’s going to get your soul? Coolio or Al?”
“Um hello, ‘Gansta’s Paradise’ was the shit.”
I still curse. Still lie. Still steal the occasional candy bar. I still do drugs. I don’t hit my brother in the “no no” spot, but that’s just out of common decency. Catholics don’t follow the rules; we just drink away the fear of exorcisms when needed. Which, honestly, is often.
With the rosary in one hand and holy water in the other, we Catholics know the truth; good behavior doesn’t stop anything. He’s coming. Fuck.
They start it young; the nuns converge at night, taking pleasure in inventing new sins, that our god-fearing or, rather, devil-fearing souls will lap up in pure terror the next morning in class. Catholic school is literally just a seven-hour lecture of what you absolutely can never, ever, do unless you want an exorcism performed on your pre-adolescent body.
“Wait, are we not allowed to ever think a single bad thought?”
“God always knows what you’re thinking; and so does the devil.”
“And I always have to pray every night?”
“Unless you want the devil to eat your soul, then by all means, don’t pray. Ever.”
At the mere age of five I was told to love God more than my parents and you know what? I did. Sorry mom and pops but can you stop the devil from eating my soul? Um, no.
Actually, my mother seemed to revel in this fear, taking advantage of any moment my prepubescent soul was exposed to the truth of demon possession.
Even the soap operas my mother watched religiously, knew. Joey, the handsome young man in a coma wasn’t actually Joey, but Joey’s evil twin and according to this episode, the devil knew.
“Mom? What are those two red dots glowing over that guy?”
She paused to answer; slowly reeling her head toward my stricken face, revealing viciously green eyes staring into the depths of my innocent soul.
“Well young child. Those are the eyes of the devil!”
Two hours later my father found me in the corner of my parent’s room, rocking in the fetal position and watching Barbie’s disco workout tape. So I was fat and scared of the devil, whatever, I had tons of friends…
But scarring her daughter just once, was never good enough for my mom. She wanted me to think that the devil was already in me.
“You know. You have piercing green eyes. Just like the devil.”
“Wait…what?”
“Just like the devil.”
I was seven.
“Dad? Am I the devil?”
“Has your mother been talking to you again?”
“Yes.”
I had to eat all my vegetables. If not, he would come. I could never lie. If I did, he would come. And worst of all I could never hit my brother in the “no, no” spot. If I did, he would come, and he would be pissed.
“Natalie! Did you hit your brother in the balls again!”
“No…”
“Lying and kicking…the devil is sure to come tonight.”
“Can I sleep in your room?”
“Nope. Sleep tight.”
I was nine.
Praying soon became a necessary step in survival. If I didn’t, the devil would come. It became OCD-like. Five Hail Mary’s for every important person in my life every night before I went to bed. It took two hours every night. I finally weened myself of this habit last month. I don’t sleep well anymore.
Of course this fear has never subsided. And why would it? Years and years of pivotally scarring devil moments in a child’s life don’t just disappear into thin air. To be frank, they hide in one’s mind until someone accidently trips on crazy weed that they were not told was crazy weed.
Next thing that poor innocent girl hears in an empty apartment is a devilish voice screaming.
“You are being possessed by the devil!”
Well, thank you, Sister Lisa. Tripping on drugs should have been a fun experience. My mom saw cows walking on two feet when she tripped. What do I get? The devil. Awesome. That’s one way to stop someone from doing hard drugs.
Any talk of the devil in my apartment always ends with me and my bestie, Kerry, another Shi’ite Catholic, sleeping out in the common room, because obviously it’s way harder for the devil to possess two souls than just the one.
We catholics picture el diablo differently; from red horns to an evilishly charming and suave young man. I like to keep it old fashioned, however. My man is all red.
“How do you picture the devil?”
“I picture a red monster that’s kind of hot, but eats my face.”
“Really? Because I picture Al Pacino.”
“Well if it makes you feel better I picture God as either Morgan Freedman or Coolio.”
“So who’s going to get your soul? Coolio or Al?”
“Um hello, ‘Gansta’s Paradise’ was the shit.”
I still curse. Still lie. Still steal the occasional candy bar. I still do drugs. I don’t hit my brother in the “no no” spot, but that’s just out of common decency. Catholics don’t follow the rules; we just drink away the fear of exorcisms when needed. Which, honestly, is often.
With the rosary in one hand and holy water in the other, we Catholics know the truth; good behavior doesn’t stop anything. He’s coming. Fuck.
This probably isn't a good thing...
I have a very bad valley girl voice and I never notice it, cause I’ve pretty much sounded since I was six…I was very popular in 1st grade, thank you very much.
…but I get really self-conscious once some one does point it out.
“He probably thinks I just had sex….how did he know?”
And by valley girl voice I really mean… I sound like a whore…a dumb one. But I kind of am a whore…so it kind of works…gentlemen.
This is what a whore sounds like…can you hear it? Can you hear it through the typing?
My friends in class would always be like, “ You sound like a whore.”
“I just answered a question in our media law class…how the fuck did I sound like a whore doing that?
But I did…I really did.
“So when you say like, 2+2 is 4…what exactly do you mean…cause this is some pretty e.t. shit… I abbreviated…not the alien thingy…don’t act like you don’t know what I’m talking about…cause that makes you the whore…whore.”
I think I figured it out though…it’s not necessarily when I ask questions (Okay maybe then too)…it’s when the teacher (or anyone for that matter) was answering my question when I really sound like a whore.
The teachers staring at you and only you... and you can’t look away cause you asked the question…and
I could never look away cause I’d knew the teacher would be like…
“That bitch ain’t taking no notes.”
And I wasn’t taking no notes…and you can only nod your head for long so to fill that awkward void in my heart… I started answering back…
“Yeah…okay…that feels so good…in my head…cause now it makes sense…say it again…just do it….do it again…”
So it just sounds like I’m having mediocre sex…
Maybe that’s why I only got a C in that class?
…but I get really self-conscious once some one does point it out.
“He probably thinks I just had sex….how did he know?”
And by valley girl voice I really mean… I sound like a whore…a dumb one. But I kind of am a whore…so it kind of works…gentlemen.
This is what a whore sounds like…can you hear it? Can you hear it through the typing?
My friends in class would always be like, “ You sound like a whore.”
“I just answered a question in our media law class…how the fuck did I sound like a whore doing that?
But I did…I really did.
“So when you say like, 2+2 is 4…what exactly do you mean…cause this is some pretty e.t. shit… I abbreviated…not the alien thingy…don’t act like you don’t know what I’m talking about…cause that makes you the whore…whore.”
I think I figured it out though…it’s not necessarily when I ask questions (Okay maybe then too)…it’s when the teacher (or anyone for that matter) was answering my question when I really sound like a whore.
The teachers staring at you and only you... and you can’t look away cause you asked the question…and
I could never look away cause I’d knew the teacher would be like…
“That bitch ain’t taking no notes.”
And I wasn’t taking no notes…and you can only nod your head for long so to fill that awkward void in my heart… I started answering back…
“Yeah…okay…that feels so good…in my head…cause now it makes sense…say it again…just do it….do it again…”
So it just sounds like I’m having mediocre sex…
Maybe that’s why I only got a C in that class?
Dear John.
I found myself in a very depressed mood the other day and so I started writing a letter. A Dear John letter. My first Dear John letter to be exact. And I thought I’d share it with all of you having to let go of someone you loved so dearly in your life:
Dear Lover,
I wish I knew how to quit you, Taco Bell. You had me at 89 cents taco Sundays. You have everything I could ever wish for in a taco, zesty sauce, savory beans, food poisoning and your classy grade F meat.
And if I find a nail gem in my taco from one of your fine, just out of parole, Mexican cashiers so be it. I’ll just consider the first time as your proposal to me. And I’ll say yes Taco Bell. I always say yes.
I miss you.
My –no –our, food baby misses you. He’s so big now. I wish you could see him.
McDonalds has been coming over lately. Sometimes he spends the night. I know you said he doesn’t love me the way you do. But he holds me when I need to be held, and he’ll emulate a golden shower with Fanta when I ask. You never did that, Taco Bell.
Our relationship had become toxic. Seriously, I farted after eating one of your steak quesadillas and killed someone.
I’ll always love you Taco Bell. I really will. The time we spent together will always bring me happiness and I hope you understand that. Remember that one time you bet me to eat 10 burritos in thirty minutes without vomiting? And I did? And I vomited. Oh how you laughed. That’s the day I feel in love with you.
This isn’t really goodbye, Taco Bell; it’s more like I’ll see you in the back alley corner tomorrow night. But for now I must walk away. You just seem to have too many ladies eating you nowadays, and I just can’t be “one of your girls.” I’m special, and I thought you knew that.
Sincerely,
The only one who ever really loved you.
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