Hey guys, here’s some exciting news! I got another official blogging gig over at a new site, called SelfAbsorbed.me. You can check it out at…. SelfAbsorbed.me. And yes, that’s the real URL. I’ll be writing exclusive new stuff for them under the alias Marilyn McNugget, and if you check out the site and my stuff it helps us greatly and will eventually contribute to my puppy fund. Don’t worry though, I’ll still be writing for Googly-Eyes too, but to bask in the full breadth of my genius you should bookmark both sites and subscribe to my RSS feed at SelfAbsorbed here.

Don’t worry, I haven’t sold out, I’ve simply taken a job that will pay me in direct relation to how much I am able to self-promote. Hang on a second, I’ll finish this post once I get a cool refreshing bottle of Coke. Mmmm aahhhh Coca-Cola. Live on the Coke side of life

Yak, as in puke, not be a yak.

There are days where I often find myself thinking, “God, I hate everyone.” Living in New York has made me incredibly stressed out and anxious, and I am frequently presented with the opportunity and strong desire to scream, “Would you fucking move?!” at complete strangers, or, the urge to just shove them down stairs or into traffic. Yes I realize this is abnormally violent impulse to feel whilst on my way to the Greenmarket or shopping in Forever 21, but I swear to God, both these places make me feel unbearably homocidal. So one might think, if I have such loathing for complete strangers, how must I react to people I’ve actually spoken to and developed a real, legitimate (to me) distaste for? In an ideal scenario, once I’ve decided I dislike a person I would just never see, speak to, or think of them again, hence, problem solved. But life is not perfect, and I am often confronted with people I can’t stand in unyielding situations where I am forced to make pleasantries and save my toxic abhorrence for third parties at a later date.

Without naming names, there is one such individual at my job who I consider to be a complete toolbag. I find myself disgusted and disbelieving when people, who were students yesterday, suddenly consider themselves knowledgable enough to teach others and even bestow a prestigious title upon themselves. Like director of photography. Who the fuck are you? Director of photography? Conrad Hall is a director of photography. Roger Deakins is a director of photography. You’re a skeezebag with a digital camcorder and a serious detachment from reality.  Shooting a fake commercial doesn’t mean you’ve “shot commercials.” This is the same kind of general logic that got Sarah Palin on the presidential ticket. Just because she lives near Russia doesn’t mean she has “foreign policy experience,” and just because you’ve taken a picture , that doesn’t make you a “director of photography.” I can think of a number of people I know who have decided, at the age of roughly 22, that they are professional DPs. So logic can tell us then that the requirement for getting on my shit list is to give yourself credit that isn’t due, and present yourself as someone more experienced and knowledgable than you actually are. And if you use the phrase, “I got bit by the film bug,” I can guarantee that we will never have a real conversation. The only bug you should get bit by is one that has West Nile, resulting in severe brain swelling and then death. That’s right, I went there.

In the words of a dear friend, “Modesty is a commodity,” but as it turns out, this does not apply to those who are deluded, insane, freakishly enthusiastic and completely annoying.

I just wrote and sent this to my former roommate, and thought it was so poetic it deserved to be shared:

You did not send me any electric bill. You were supposed to pay it, and then I would reimburse you for half. Please tell me you paid it.

Also, I was pretty pissed off at the disgusting condition the apartment was left in – it was obvious that no one cleaned anything in the month that I was gone and it looked like it hadn’t been cleaned in a year. The amount of human scum that I dealt with in the bathroom and kitchen was just abhorrent and made me want to barf. You left stuff in the fridge including a giant bag of potatoes. You left your moose mug. You left your Bill Cosby album. All have now met their end in the garbage. I had to pay some schizophrenic weirdo $80 to remove the air conditioner, because even if I could get the bolts out of it, there was no way I could carry that thing and no way I was going to touch it after it had been sticking out of that window collecting rainwater and pigeon shit for 6 years. Turns out, the bed frame was the least of my problems. If you show your face around New York City ever again, it’s going to meet up with my fist in a knuckle sandwich of destiny.

So please, tell me you at least paid the electric bill. Since all that, life’s been good.

I’m gonna file this entry under the category, “You Know What Really G’s and G?” as in, “grinds my gears,” “gets my goat,” and “gripes my Grandma.” And I’ll tell you what G’s my G – Americans pretending to be British. Let’s begin.

So it seems like everyone has at least one person in their life who makes a sad attempt at being something other than American when we all know damn well they were born and raised in McBurgerland and putting on a fake accent ain’t gonna do nothin’ to change it. I know at NYU there was an infamous character by the name of “Fake British Rob” who I personally never encountered, and everyone’s got at least one (if not several) person(s) from their high school who wanted desperately to move to Japan so they could work in a Hello Kitty Factory, watch anime, be accepted by their peers (good luck!) and compete on Most Extreme Elimination Challenge (that is what they do over there, right?) But aside from those incredibly obvious (and somewhat desperate and sad) attempts to pull off another national identity, I’ve noticed an ever-increasing, yet subtle, trend amongst the speech and behavior of young Americans that I can only assume is meant as an effort to appear more worldly and learned, ipso facto*, British.

If there’s anything we’ve learned from Arrested Development, it’s that English people are smart, cultured, and have an innate fashion sense (and are not mentally retarded females) that could only demand envy from us slack-jawed American yokels across the pond. Popular media has also taught me that British people will use any excuse, a simple entrance or exit, for example, as a reason to hug and kiss you, and that they often address other human beings as “love,” “lovely,” or “darling,” when really I’ve only just met them, they’re actually Belgian, and I’ll thank them to keep their waffle-loving paws off of me. Case in point, I’ve noticed many blatantly American Americans referring to one another as “love” and also hugging and kissing for no good reason. That’s a great way to get mono, people, and I don’t know about you, but I can’t just be slobbering all over strangers and then miss a month of work. Now I’m told that in England, or “Great Britain,” if you will, there is no disease among the non-sailor population, unicorns are abundant, and the local chipper is flagrantly and intentionally incorporating as much trans fat as possible into their food. And let me tell you, I certainly don’t want to live in a hellhole like that.**

I’m sick and tired of fat lazy Americans trying to escape the reality of their dull lives by injecting some fabricated wonder and culture into their vocabulary and ends of typed messages or notes, with a stock “xxx.” If you’re not British and you’re not writing to someone British, please keep to the standard American closing message of “Fuck you, you dirty rat bastard.” Look, the fact is, we’d ALL rather be British, but we’re not and we’ve got the Second Amendment to keep it that way. I’m perfectly happy not paying an exorbitant tax on tea, and if you want to keep your arsenal of guns and dental insurance, well then you better stick to the good old American way of doing things – hurriedly, miserably, and without affection. Pretending to be something you’re not will only make you interesting, mysterious, and more attractive to the opposite sex. Thank you, and good day.

And for a closing disclaimer, I suppose all of this suppositioning doesn’t apply to people who are actually British and now living in America, residents of Little Britain, or Americans who have moved to England (you gotta talk the talk if you wanna survive in the rough streets of London.) And it doesn’t apply to me because my boyfriend is Irish, thereby earning me the right to use phrases like, “What are you on about?” and “Were the lads slagging you off?” and “Your fanny’s fookin’ deadly!”

*I’ve already proven that I’m worldly and learned by using the phrase “ipso facto” thereby exempting me from pretending I’m British.

**I wish I lived in Britain. Please someone take me away from this horrible place.

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Reply to: see below
Date: 2008-08-25, 2:50PM EDT

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Remember Mad Libs? Why did we think those were so great? They were the most unimaginative, generic, fill-in-the-blank stories ever. Oh wait, now I remember: because when I was doing Mad Libs (around age eight) with my brother, they would all turn out something like this:

Two peniswrinkles, both alike in dignity,
In fair Poop Factory, where we lay our scene,
From ancient peniswrinkle break to new mutiny,
Where civil blood makes civil hands unclean.
From forth the fatal loins of these two foes
A pair of star-cross`d buttmonkeys take their life;
Whole misadventured piteous overthrows
Do with their assgoblin bury their parents` strife.
The fearful passage of their gay love,
And the continuance of their parents` rage,
Which, but their children`s end, nought could fart,
Is now the eleventy-billion hours` traffic of our stage;
The which if you with stinky peniswrinkle attend,
What here shall poop, our toil shall strive to mend.

Hah! Now I remember why they’re so great. That shit is hilarious. We would spend every spare minute in the car giggling uncontrollably at the words “peniswrinkle,” “gaylord,” and “buttmonkey.” And I have to say, not much has changed.

So remember that post a while back where I relayed my cheeky and hilarious cover letter to American Apparel? For the longest time I didn’t hear anything, which is exactly what I expected. But, the other day, out of the blue, I get a call from an unrecognized New York number. And who should it be, but Aaron from the staffing department of AA, calling to see if I could come in for an interview! Well, Aaron old pal, I was sorry to tell you that that train has sailed and I have been taken by another lover, good old NYFA. Who would’ve guessed that two months after applying for a minimum wage retail job I would’ve given up on that dream and gone on with life? Not Aaron. Sigh. Don’t worry buddy, somewhere out there, in Williamsburg, there are a dozen hipsters waiting weeks by the phone to hear from you, for their chance at amazing discounts and the chance to sleep with Dov Charney. Keep in touch.

Me: What are your thoughts on Miley Cyrus?
11 Year Old Cousin: You mean Hannah Montana?
Me: Whatever.
11 Year Old Cousin: She sucks and is an embarrassment to young females of my generation.
Me: Yes, I agree.
11 Year Old Cousin: Yeah, she sucks major donkey balls.
Me: Totes for real.
11 Year Old Cousin: LOL.
Me: Did you just say “LOL”?
11 Year Old Cousin: I meant it ironically.
Me: Good.

Me: How are you Grandpa?
Grandpa: Good. You call and visit just as much as I’d like you to, and I am in no way bitter or resentful. 

Me: What are all these investments in my name?
Dad: It’s stock in Apple that I bought in 1986.
Me: When do I get to have it?
Dad: Tomorrow.

Me: Dogs are so much better than cats.
Brother: I know!!
Me: Thank you for admitting that.

Me: I wish you hadn’t died.
Grandma: I know, me neither. I had half a tuna sandwich in the fridge I was really looking forward to.

Me: Oh man, it’s Sunday, you know what that means.
Garfield: Oh no, tomorrow’s Monday! I hate Mondays.
Me: Let’s go get some lasagna and then mail Nermel to Abu Dhabi.
Garfield: Agreed.

It’s official! I’m moving to Brooklyn as soon as my checks to Century 21 clear, and hopefully with all of my black magic and voodoo this will not be a problem. Despite my usual tendency to fear and hate everything that is unfamiliar, I am actually very excited to move. Of course I’ll miss living on my block in Chelsea, quite possibly the best location in Manhattan, especially because it catered so well to my unbelievable laziness, with just about every train less than a block or a transfer away. My solution to the remoteness of Brooklyn? Get a pimpin’ ride.

My bike will obviously have a basket, a squeaky horn, and some glittery tassels on the handlebars.

In other news, today was SUPPOSED to be free Slurpee day at 7-11, but it turns out they’re full of shit. I was told the Slurpee machine was out of order. Skip was told that free Slurpee DAY ended at 2:00pm which sounds like some commie crap to me. 

In tomorrow’s news, several Manhattan 7-11s have been burned to the ground.

I’m the kind of person that never learns their lesson. Though I am well aware that eating certain foods will make me feel like some kind of monster that is the assembly of many different, mismatched human body parts and then shocked to life by a lightning bolt, I continue to ingest them. Known foods that do this are: coffee, any kind of soda, and now, tragically, Frankenberry. Who would’ve thought a neon pink, artificially-flavored, marshmallow and puffed corn cereal would have a negative effect on the human body? First, I ate it and enjoyed every second. Then I promptly fell into a 3-hour long sugar coma from which I could not be woken. Then I mustered the strength found only in those able overcome muscular dystrophy and got out of bed, only to suffer horrible abdominal pain. And you know what? At the risk of feeling like complete dog ass, I’ll have it for breakfast again tomorrow.

Other examples of times when I just didn’t learn? Being lured into shithole apartments, including one projects house, more than once by Craig’s List ads promising “no fee,” “new renovations,” or “bucket of truth.” Dating an Irishman. Taking that extra five minutes in the morning to watch the rest of the human interest story on The Today Show. Not following The Today Show’s advice to choose a career as a sex worker. Volunteering to wake up before 8am for various reasons, including, spending the day at the airport, working on student films, and taking that damn dog to the vet. Not carrying my umbrella every day in June. Making sidewalk chalk drawings right before a job interview. Having that third taco. Starting to write a blog while having horrible abdominal pain, knowing full well I’d have to leave halfway through to go to…. excuse me.