Because the hate can't be contained on this blog, I've started podcasting.
I've known one of my best friends, Lizzy, since we were like 7 years old. We hated each other, then adored each other, and now I think she's just kind of indifferent. But we teamed up to start something that we're calling "The Perfect Squares".
Go listen. Now. Then come back and tell me what you hate about it!
CLICK ME!
Showing posts with label impractical. Show all posts
Showing posts with label impractical. Show all posts
Tuesday, November 29, 2011
Monday, October 3, 2011
Postcards
I want to be perfectly clear about this: postcards ruin vacations.
No one likes them, even if you thought you did, and here's why...
Say you're planning a big vacation. You'll be gone for awhile and decide you should send a reminder to those friends and family at home who obviously weren't cool enough to get invited, but you want them to know that despite this you still like them. There you are, honorably making a list of names and addresses. You make a mental note to also find your passport.
Days later, you're in sunny ____________ (or if you have absolutely no sense of traveling when the season is good, you're in jesuschristthatbugwashugeandthatwasmylastumbrella _____________). After a tour of something touristy you thought was important to see but really was a huge waste of time, you get dumped into the gift shop. Great opportunity to shake off the disappointment and pick up some postcards.
"I'll write a note on each of them and address them tonight at the hotel!" you say to yourself smugly. What a great friend/daughter/brother-in-law you are. WRONG. You'll definitely be too tired that night. Writing gets put off but it still looms over you, a slight damper on the remaining days of your trip.
Maybe you are a better person than I am and you diligently sat down and spent time telling your loved ones interesting tidbits about your travels. I can tell you're feeling smug again. Now you are faced with the problem of finding stamps.
In this hypothetical situation, you're in a foreign country and it's your first time visiting. So clearly you are unfamiliar with the postal service and have to figure out where to buy stamps, how many you need, and where the post office or post box is. All this is happening while you could be doing way more awesome things like enjoying your trip.
If you're like me, and because I don't know you I have to assume you are, then you return home with a bunch of postcards (some of them already written or half addressed) that you didn't have time to mail or were too incompetent/lazy to figure out how to mail. Maybe you can just send them from home and hope that no one notices where it was mailed from? Obviously that would make you a terrible person, and even you would judge yourself, so you don't do that.
You are now left with a stack of postcards that remind you of your secret shame every time you open that junk drawer you keep meaning to clean out.
This may be semi-autobiographical and I possibly use postcards that were meant for friends and family to decorate the walls of my office. I might be a bad friend/daughter/brother-in-law.
I hate postcards.
No one likes them, even if you thought you did, and here's why...
Say you're planning a big vacation. You'll be gone for awhile and decide you should send a reminder to those friends and family at home who obviously weren't cool enough to get invited, but you want them to know that despite this you still like them. There you are, honorably making a list of names and addresses. You make a mental note to also find your passport.
Days later, you're in sunny ____________ (or if you have absolutely no sense of traveling when the season is good, you're in jesuschristthatbugwashugeandthatwasmylastumbrella _____________). After a tour of something touristy you thought was important to see but really was a huge waste of time, you get dumped into the gift shop. Great opportunity to shake off the disappointment and pick up some postcards.
"I'll write a note on each of them and address them tonight at the hotel!" you say to yourself smugly. What a great friend/daughter/brother-in-law you are. WRONG. You'll definitely be too tired that night. Writing gets put off but it still looms over you, a slight damper on the remaining days of your trip.
Maybe you are a better person than I am and you diligently sat down and spent time telling your loved ones interesting tidbits about your travels. I can tell you're feeling smug again. Now you are faced with the problem of finding stamps.
In this hypothetical situation, you're in a foreign country and it's your first time visiting. So clearly you are unfamiliar with the postal service and have to figure out where to buy stamps, how many you need, and where the post office or post box is. All this is happening while you could be doing way more awesome things like enjoying your trip.
If you're like me, and because I don't know you I have to assume you are, then you return home with a bunch of postcards (some of them already written or half addressed) that you didn't have time to mail or were too incompetent/lazy to figure out how to mail. Maybe you can just send them from home and hope that no one notices where it was mailed from? Obviously that would make you a terrible person, and even you would judge yourself, so you don't do that.
You are now left with a stack of postcards that remind you of your secret shame every time you open that junk drawer you keep meaning to clean out.
This may be semi-autobiographical and I possibly use postcards that were meant for friends and family to decorate the walls of my office. I might be a bad friend/daughter/brother-in-law.
I hate postcards.
Friday, May 6, 2011
Do you have a lighter?
Now that I live in Los Angeles, I encounter celebrities. Not regularly mind you, but it happens sometimes. Like erectile dysfunction.
Usually when I encounter a celebrity, I don't even realize until I see the paparazzi (p.s. they all look exactly the same to me… is that discrimination to say it out loud?). I then let out an audible sigh.
Almost always, I have the same thought when I see a celebrity and I don’t know from where in the dark recesses of my mind this comes.
"I want to light her hair on fire."
I’m sorry but before that ended terribly and tragically, it’d be pretty funny, right? She’d be whipping her hair all over the place, synthetic extensions curling up and melting. Some girl in the entourage would catch her wet look leggings on fire from the stray ashes. There would be a moment where no one knows whether or not to laugh or cry. A bodyguard would eventually remember to stop staring and extinguish the fire, but until then, it would be like watching a phoenix be reborn--if a phoenix was able to wear Christian Laboutin heels while dealing with its fire hair disaster.
If prominent women in the entertainment industry were able to overcome that, I think I might respect them more.
Until then, I am going to remain at a respectful distance. Not for their benefit and privacy, but merely to keep me out of prison.
p.s. This was entirely fictional (although my strange thought to set a celebrity’s hair on fire was not) and I would never do that. Not to you anyway. I’m entirely aware that this rant derived from jealous insecurities, but you know what? When I’m a celebrity, I welcome you to try and set my hair on fire. I will have learned by then to wear hats. And carry pepper spray.
Wednesday, March 23, 2011
I didn't write this on an iPad.
I’m at the airport right now. Well, when you read this, I will no longer be at the airport. I’ll probably be passed out on the couch. Hopefully I’m not dead. Will you please call my house? I’m worried about myself.
Anyway, I’m here at the airport and every single time, EVERY SINGLE TIME, I say the same thing to myself: Why is that woman wearing her stiletto boots for her obviously pathetic trip to Butt-fuck-middle-of-nowhere Tennessee. Man she looks fancy. You aren’t impressing anyone lady. In fact, I think I might roll my suitcase a little bit into the aisle in hopes of tripping you over, just so I should say “Ooops! Better wear your Dr. Scholl’s next time!”
Oh hey!? What’s that!? Your fancy iPad!? I can do that too. Let me just pull out this maxi sanitary napkin and pretend to push buttons like I’m important. I know you’re playing Angry Birds. It’s an overrated game. Also my sanitary napkin cost me 50 cents in the public bathroom and it’s actually useful for something.
People are so stupid. And I never realize this more than when I’m at the airport. People always tell me, “Oh I love traveling and going to different places.” No you don’t. No one likes the airport. If you do, you’re obviously a serial killer. My logic is sound.
The airport is a really expensive bus terminal. It’s public transportation. And we’re paying to sit next to a smelly weirdo-beardo who is going to mouth breathe during the entire flight. Or the guy who just HAD to bring his McDonald’s McRiblet on the flight because he can’t wait another two hours to eat. He had to find the smelliest thing on the menu, “Oh yeah? Garlic tuna with curry? That sounds awesome. I’ll get two orders!”
I swear, there’s always a baby who is so obviously sick that I worry I might be exposed to some sort of antibiotic resistant bacteria (by the way, anyone see that story about that killer germ that they found on the BART? Way to go Bay Area. I blame the hippies. Stupid pinkos.).
I’m watching two stupid women pace back and forth in their dumb heels. One of them isn’t even dressed to wear them. Beret, sweatpants, and slingback heels? Ok I think I understand, you’re obviously making some sort of political statement. Maybe it’s performance art? It’s deep and moving. My apologies.
But for the rest of you, stop wearing impractical footwear that I’m convinced sucks the soul out of you.
I hate women who wear heels to the airport.
Anyway, I’m here at the airport and every single time, EVERY SINGLE TIME, I say the same thing to myself: Why is that woman wearing her stiletto boots for her obviously pathetic trip to Butt-fuck-middle-of-nowhere Tennessee. Man she looks fancy. You aren’t impressing anyone lady. In fact, I think I might roll my suitcase a little bit into the aisle in hopes of tripping you over, just so I should say “Ooops! Better wear your Dr. Scholl’s next time!”
Oh hey!? What’s that!? Your fancy iPad!? I can do that too. Let me just pull out this maxi sanitary napkin and pretend to push buttons like I’m important. I know you’re playing Angry Birds. It’s an overrated game. Also my sanitary napkin cost me 50 cents in the public bathroom and it’s actually useful for something.
People are so stupid. And I never realize this more than when I’m at the airport. People always tell me, “Oh I love traveling and going to different places.” No you don’t. No one likes the airport. If you do, you’re obviously a serial killer. My logic is sound.
The airport is a really expensive bus terminal. It’s public transportation. And we’re paying to sit next to a smelly weirdo-beardo who is going to mouth breathe during the entire flight. Or the guy who just HAD to bring his McDonald’s McRiblet on the flight because he can’t wait another two hours to eat. He had to find the smelliest thing on the menu, “Oh yeah? Garlic tuna with curry? That sounds awesome. I’ll get two orders!”
I swear, there’s always a baby who is so obviously sick that I worry I might be exposed to some sort of antibiotic resistant bacteria (by the way, anyone see that story about that killer germ that they found on the BART? Way to go Bay Area. I blame the hippies. Stupid pinkos.).
I’m watching two stupid women pace back and forth in their dumb heels. One of them isn’t even dressed to wear them. Beret, sweatpants, and slingback heels? Ok I think I understand, you’re obviously making some sort of political statement. Maybe it’s performance art? It’s deep and moving. My apologies.
But for the rest of you, stop wearing impractical footwear that I’m convinced sucks the soul out of you.
I hate women who wear heels to the airport.
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