And now, another episode of. . ."Birthday Similes!" aka "B-Day Be Like. . ."

Birthdays are like attempted suicides. Just one lonely person getting a little closer to death.

Birthdays are like funerals. It’s supposed to be about you, but it’s really all about the partygoers and how their day is going.  

Birthdays are like road trips. You pass a few important milestones, and then you’re like, “fuck it, let’s just wing it from here on out.”    

Birthdays are like ghosts. They come out once a year and remind you of your mortality.*

Birthdays are like poops. When you’re a kid they’re an accomplishment, when you’re an adult they’re just routine.

Birthdays are like séances.  Lots of candles, and always one annoying bitch gets possessed by the spirit and tries to surprise you by jumping up and screaming.  

*Ghosts can enter the world of the living only on Halloween. Ooooooh.

The UNIVERSE is probably shaped like a donut. Just saying.

(A 3D circle of life. So beautiful in so many ways. *sigh*)

A: To be frank, I hate seagulls. They are the most disgusting, vulturous animal I can think of. At the beach once, a seagull flew right by my face and took an entire sandwich from my hand.

Frank: How dare you! I would never say that.

Is it just me, or do you see "penis" every time you see the word "panini?" Like, they're not really spelled the same, but I feel like "penis" should be spelled "panini." That seems nice and pleasant.

On Fitting In

I saw a tan lizard scurrying up a tan wall and I was all, "Is that lizard the exact shade of the wall, or can he change color to blend in? Does he belong there or is he trying to hide so he can get away? Is he happy there or does he wish he was green on a leaf or like pink on a flower or something?"

And it was all, like, a real life metaphor for me, or whatever.

A word used ubiquitously (my word of the day) but not often used correctly, today I felt truly AWKWARD: 

Try holding, and making silly faces at, a baby, while having an entirely cold-war-style fight (no blows, just boiling blood) with the mother. (Someone else handed her to me.) 

Let's just say, eye contact was avoided. 

(Awk city, bitch. Awk, awk, city bitch. . .)

I am a consumer in every sense of the word. My three favorite activities of all time and space are. . .

1. consuming food
2. consuming entertainment
3. consuming, like at the mall (or TJ Maxxxx) (idk how many fucking x's are there?)

The Dr. Jekyllll (really how many letters does a person need at the end of their name?! Jk though, letters are coooool. . .)

So, the Dr. Jekylll to my Hungry Hyde is my "creativity." I use this word in quotes because its existence inside my mind is questionable.

This is the person I want to be in my "good" brain. The creator. The worker bee. Building my artistic empire from the ground up with only my wits and the dirt I find (and lots of other resources like education, family support. . .)

But. The problem is Hungry Hyde. He only wants to eat in bed and binge watch TV on netflix.

(Moral: It's not my fault, I'm really just a complex, split personality individual with good intentions and no will power. But, with the help of a quick trip to Marshall's to find something on clearance, a frozen pizza and a good movie, I can again remember the unstoppable god that I am.)  

Angst Much?

My life is lame. And hollow and slack

Got a witch at my door and a wolf on my back

a dagger in my heart and an itch in my soul

The devil’s bridge is ahead

and I don’t have the toll.

Inspiration is only the beginning. . .

of a period of false contentment in one's life followed swiftly by a downward spiral of self-hate into a hole of despair.

Happy Friday :)

On Cool

Today the thought crossed my mind, without carrying much weight because I made sure to use a really sarcastic tone in my thought-voice, "my life is in shambles, and I don't have any accomplishments at all..."

Then, this thought came, unbidden, directly behind: "at least I'm cool."

*facepalm*

I based this conclusion on the awesome song I was listening to, the marginally creative car-dance moves I had going, (I really mixed up the beating on the steering wheel gamut,) and my outfit that I proudly threw together in 2 seconds. (Really, A, you didn't invent cutoffs, get over yourself.)

The problem here, friends, is that at almost 23, I must step back and wonder if the concept of "cool" holds any value, if being "cool" gives ME any value, if "cool" is real, as it is based on nothing and entirely subjective...

"Yes!" My emotional inner soul cries, "Cool is real. You can't see it, but you can FEEL it." It's that beautiful in-between. Not what you are naturally, not what you choose to do with it--cool is HOW you do it. And for some people, it is natural, and for some people it is a choice, but it's all a non substance, not the real thing, not the real point of it all, just decorating the fringe like. . . colorful fringe. . . 

But I have to believe that it holds substance! It's the mise en scene! It's the mojo! If Austin Powers can fight for it than so can I!

And quite frankly, it is all I have right now: my youth and a modicum of style. So if I must make something out of nothing, so be it. 

I'll let my style hold up who I am for now. I will be the most awesome skeleton there ever was. All sexy bones and no meat, blood, heart or soul. . .and maybe someday, my pursuit of the empty will become full, as some freak side effect perhaps, because I sure don't have a plan, and I'll inadvertently accomplish something and hopefully realize I had been flesh all along. 

Some days, my heart feels like a donut being stuffed with cream on cream on cream on cream. So much cream that I'm worried it might explode like a cream-filled zombie being slaughtered by a zombie hunter with the most effective method of extermination found through years of experience zombie hunting: overcooking in a giant zombie-sized microwave.

But it never does. (Explode.) The cream just layers in like fossils, smushing them into dense hard-packed angry layers of crunchy cream like too many similes stacked on top of one another.

All I want to do is punch a hole in my donut-heart's powdery fucking face.

All donuts should have holes.

Six word story.


I eat my feelings for breakfast.

I write deep poetry.

This is called. . ."Now and Later"

Staring into the abyss I decided
may as well have nothing now and nothing
later, when the alternative is
nothing at all.

Hi. My name is A and I am a basic bitch.

(Hello, A)

It all started, when I heard Siri say, "starting route to Starbucks. . ."

Bitches be trippin
My patience be slippin
Imma be rippin
Someone a new asshole

B: Fuck the haters!
A: No, they don't deserve our love.

B: This room is so cool!
A: I know it's fucking freezing.

B: This car is the bomb.
A: B, run!!!

Praise the D! (by which I mean donut)

Donuts are the holiest of all bakery items. Because they have holes in them.

Do-nut be a square! Because donuts are circles.

Also, do-nut be a loser, because donuts are winners! (sponsored by Donuts for Hole-some Living)

Piece out! (the piece in the middle)

I wrote a six word story!

At night I eat in bed.

Bonus six word stories:

Handicapped cat (missing soul) seeks home.

Lost: scrub. If found, never return!

(A scrub is a guy that thinks he's fly, and is also known as a buster. . .)

B Helps Me Not Be Eaten by Adult World:  

B: A, your really need to stop letting people tell you what to do. Make me a smoothie, would you?

A: Sure, B.

B: As I was saying, you really need to find your voice. Figure out what you want and then stand up and say it, loud and proud!

A: Well, I’ve been thinking—

B: Also, stop being a doormat.

A: I was welcoming you into my house.

B: And try not to let people condescend to you, do you think you can manage that cupcake?

A: That’s good advice. . .

B: Stop listening to other people and start listening to the Y.O.U!

A: Okay. I mean no, wait—if I listen to that advice, I’m simultaneously not taking that advice. In fact, that advice is actually impossible to follow because it dictates that you don’t follow advice . . . right?

B: Yes, yes dear. And make sure you command your audience; speak clearly and forcefully, and make other people listen to you when you speak.

A: Erm. . . ermmmkayyyuuuh. . . 

B: And don’t care what anybody thinks.

A: Not sure if I can entirely control how I feel, I could probably pretend that I don’t care like most people. . .

B: But make sure everybody loves you.

A: Not sure if I can control that either. . .

B: And don’t be an idiot, everybody hates that.

A: I’ll try?

B: Alright, I’ve got to run. Text me later.

A: Wait, so I shouldn’t text you because I’m not being subservient anymore?

B: Fucking text me, you idiot! What do you want, no friends?

A: (to herself) I am very confused about life. 

That awkward moment when a has-been candy bar takes a bold stab at the future with an expose-your-nuts punning commercial and confuses and disgusts everyone.

Consider the idiocy of the world lamented. 

Once upon a time, in magical Easter Land,

There was a chick named Bunny in an Easter punk rock band.

Bunny wanted to be a rabbit, and though she was not,

She sometimes dressed like a Playboy Bunny, and looked super hot.  

(The equivalent mag for women is Playgirl by name,

But dudes don’t dress as bunnies, and that shit is lame.)

One night Bunny donned her ears and fluffy little tail,

She went onstage to rock, and heard a ruckus and a wail,

All the rabbits freaked for this hard-rock Bunny chick,

She blew up the club, the country, then the universe like a rocket,

Fucking quick.

Happy Fucking Easter

(ROCK AND ROLL FOREVER)

The other day, I saw a man wearing Serial Killer Glasses. He helped me not hit a car when I was backing out of a parking spot, by giving me those little “keep coming” hand waves and thumbs up and stuff.

As I drove away, I gave him a merry little wave.  How wrong of me, I thought, to judge this harmless man by his glasses. I knew that by waving to him I had done a good deed: I had alleviated some of the prejudice that still exists in America against Serial Killer-looking people.

Later that night, as sense of terror rushed over me. I realized that the reason I thought “Serial Killer Glasses” is because he had the same glasses as the serial killer on American Horror Story. I thought, WOW. WOW, America. Good job.

I would have never been able to spot him, otherwise. . .  

In the words of the great composer Tim Minchin, “All I know, I learned from Telly.”

Thanks, Telly.

A and Associates would like to thank American Entertainment for helping us identify dangerous men, through the education of modern entertainment: including, but not limited to, men in wife beaters, men in beanies when it isn't cold outside, men with bad teeth, men with accents (excluding British) and all ugly men.

Let’s talk about clowns. . .

What could be more attractive than a man who hides behind a caricature and sacrifices his dignity and pride for nothing nobler than cheap entertainment?

. . . I also have a thing for big feet.

I like to make lists so I can

A. Categorize myself

B. figure out who I am

C. be an individual with opinions

D. not be a blank slate

E. Seriously, who the fuck am I?

(What are we really but a bundle of likes and dislikes, choices and life systems based on initial attractions and repulsions?)

Let’s begin!

Likes

1. donuts

2. dogs

3. dudes (haha jk, I meant ATTRACTIVE MEN DRESSED AS CLOWNS)

4. dinosaurs (not trying to D alliterate everything right now, but I actually do like dinosaurs)

5. tinted lip balm that offers real moisture, just a hint of color, and actually smells and tastes nice (not easy to find my friends, not easy to find. Same with the hot clowns. . . )

6. sleeping

Dislikes

1. dicks 

I must post a post posthaste!

My World

Today I paused

to look at Mother

Earth and her wonders. I saw

the Sun stretch

his fingers across the Clouds

and the Clouds

carried his colors across the sky.  I saw

an endless dome curving

above my head, sinking

into a darkly hued arc of

possibility in pinpricked Space

where the Universe’s light came

peeking out to shine on my blessed

bent head, while the fragrance

of the Earth and her blooms

swelled up to breeze

across my face. I knew   

these spectrums and glows,

spaces and breaths,

were mine.

April Fools!

THE WORLD IS A SOULLESS DEMON THAT WILL DEVOUR YOU ALIVE. YOUTH OF AMERICA ABANDON ALL HOPES AND DREAMS NOW.

   

Guys, (she pauses, fingers hovering over the keyboard like a hovercraft, [what else hovers?] her own writing style a poignant reminder of how her language is being controlled by the patriarchy even as she types. . .)

Um. . .(she’s caught, nothing else flows from her fingers quite like. . .)

Guys. I don’t want to totally change your life right now, but with the knowledge from a science class from years past having a little comeback (like the Backstreet Boys!) in the back of my head, (“individuals don’t evolve” my teacher screamed! That’s basically my research) I have actually solved our patriarchal problem.

We must sever the dicks from our society, both figuratively, and literally. Now you may not think that I know what those words mean, and you are right. But I know that one way AND another, the dicks must go.

I propose the removal of dicks from dick personalities. In this way, all men that are dicks will die off within a few generations (barring underground dick fugitives) and all men that have dicks will then not be dicks. And thus dick-ish patriarchal values will be wiped from the face of the earth. The end.   

#AModestMouseProposal 

(Cause I just watched "Lampshades on Fire" have you guys seen that shit? Cray.) 

omg, I LITERALLY couldn’t blog today, I was sooooo busy. But, like, here I am. Yay me!

Guys, I love being a girl. There is a graveyard of hot pink mascara tubes in my car and it is a fucking masterpiece. (Mascara is the haphazard finishing touch to my devil-may-care chic, thus it is applied hastily at red lights, and the bottle is subsequently forgotten, until it is rediscovered when being joined by another of her sisters tossed aside in my center console. At that point however, it has baked, melted, and reformed so many times in my hot car that I am fearful it will be toxic if applied to my face and may actually eat my eyelashes like acid.)  

My bathroom counter is similarly a work of abstract art. Do I need that many different colorfully labeled and cleverly named products to look this amazing? No, asshole, I just like the way they smell. And sometimes a splash of color that wouldn’t naturally be found on my face is refreshing and oddly flattering to my features in its alien-ness. And skin doesn’t moisturize itself and yes I still get the occasional pimple all the fucking time, five years past puberty whatthefuck? .

So yeah, it’s not like I life (to life, it’s a verb, or a typo. . .) on soap and water. Which brings me to my glamour caveat.

Girls, (and all other people,) you do you boo! If you don’t want to wear makeup or shave your pits don’t let anyone tell you you should! You shouldn’t. You look better with that soft down keeping your underarms cushy anyway! I feel like Lady Gaga right now, but for real, you were born that way and you’re perfect. (I should take a sec to note that if you are a serial killer you might be an exception to this post. Strongly consider the contents of your freezer before continuing.)

Think about who you are right now. Close your eyes for a second and imagine yourself. What’s your flavor? What’s your thing? Don’t think about who you used to be. Or who you want to be someday. Imagine yourself in this moment.

You’re perfect RIGHT NOW. (And by “perfect” I mean that your flaws are endearing and otherwise balanced against your virtues. Real perfection doesn’t exist, dorkwad.) So be you today!  

As the great composer Mika says, “big girl, you are beautiful” and I’m sure he would also say, “awkward string bean girl, you’re beautiful too.” (And “pear shape girl you’re pretty,” and “upside down butternut squash girl, you rock” etc. etc. why are we all fruits and vegetables?!)

So be who you are. Decorate your body or not. But only do it for fun and never do it for anyone but you.

Letters are the fucking coolest. They make words. Like the word "cool." That has two of the same fucking letter in it. It makes me say "cool" instead of "col." F-ing cOOl. #fooforlife 
(Real talk, guys, what the fuck is a hashtag? #whatthefuckisAhashtag)

Quick note about blogging and me: I am technically illiterate.

(By which I mean that I am unknowledgeable on the topic of technology, not that I am technically unable to read and write.)

I wrote a poem!

I did something today

I’m not proud of per se

Had a roll in the hay

With a man who was g—ugly. 

Hello interwebs. I’m A, and B and I just had this A-mazing (get it?) F-ing conversation. (I like letters.)

It was so rad I have to share the transcript with you. (We always have a transcriptionist with us. Don’t worry! We throw him our pizza crusts when he gets hungry.)

B: Hey A!

Me: Hey B!

B: This person I know was gonna write for a magazine, and I was like, I could do that!

(subtext: not a bright person)

Me: Fuck yeah!

B: Then I was like screw that, I could write my own magazine.

Me: Screw that!

B: Then I was like screw that, I could write whatever the fuck I want!

Me: Whatever the fuck!

B: Then I was like screw that, I should just hook the internet up to my brain, and they would make of that shit what they will!

Me: What they fucking will!

So then I stole B’s idea and started my own brain-internet hook up, i.e. blog.

Here it is. Booyah.