Wednesday, January 22, 2014

It's not about the destination, it's about the lunatics on the bus.

Passive Aggressive Letters to the Passengers on the New York-bound megabus, departing Washington DC Wednesday, January 22nd, 11:59 pm:

Dear man just behind me and to the left,

No one understands love gone wrong like I do. I’m really sorry about Shanna.  She sounds like a dick. You said it yourself; she disrespected your grandmother. You know what I think you should do? Forget that ageist assclown, and get off of the fucking phone.

No one on this bus is going to appreciate your self-righteous indignation, so why waste your poetic sermon on deaf, silently enraged ears?  No, good sir. You keep quiet until the morning. Then, at the crack of dawn, go to the top of the Rockefeller Building and dispense this diatribe on the unsuspecting tourists who pay fourteen dollars to climb to the top of a building in the middle of winter.   

Like the rooster of our generation, you’ll wake them all to the sunrise of this new day, this brave new world where love has lost for once and for always.  You’ll crow a song of anger, a song of love, a song of Shanna; that cold, shrill voice on the phone who keeps hanging up on you.  That’ll teach her. That’ll teach them all.

Dear man just next to him,

Weezy does rule. And I am very curious to know whether rapping his songs aloud is some kind of elaborate protest against the man just behind me and to the left, an open audition for any booking agents or club owners who might be taking this bus, or just an ardent display of fandom. However, after seeing Weezy live in 2009, I came to the realization that his stuff is way better when heard through a sweet set of speakers. It just doesn’t translate as well to live performance, y’know? 

Keeping that in mind, please, shut the fuck up before I strangle you with your Skullcandy earbuds. 

Dear man just in front of me,

At first, I thought you were watching American Horror Story: Coven, but then Woody Harrelson showed up, and I don’t think he’s on that show.  In fact, I think this is a movie.  And now the plot thickens--Christopher Walken and Colin Farrell are onscreen.  Kind sir, what the fuck is this cinematic revelation? Why is everyone in it? Is that Kevin Bacon?  And did you seriously bring popcorn and beer on the megabus?

Man in front of me, I think I love you.

Dear very well groomed man just to my right,

Your Louis Vuitton bag is a decade out of season, but in a really great way.  I especially love how it appears to be actual Louis Vuitton.  Like, Louis himself made that initials-speckled purse on your lap, and you are wearing the hell out of it.   Since you’re on a megabus, you appear to be a bargain-minded, gentleman, so I feel compelled to divulge a little secret…

Did you know that Sonoma for Target does a really great Vuitton  knock-off these days?
Never mind, you're way too classy for that shit.

To the group of five nineteen year old boys who just boarded in Baltimore, smelling strongly of weed,

 Good on you.  But, no—you cannot sit next to me.

Might I suggest that you go sit with the guy just behind me and to the left, now loudly weeping over Shanna energetically enough that I am convinced he is the Edgar Allan Poe of our generation, and Shanna is his Lenore.  Sounds like he could use a bowl or two.

Dear Shanna (who is still on the phone with the man just behind me and to my left),

I cannot believe he is forgiving you for this shit. It’s unacceptable, and you know it. You can’t treat a person that way. Especially when he needs to express his forgiveness at such a decibel.

This whole bus hates you so fucking much. Change your name. Change your address. Cover up that tattoo of a peace sign on your upper hip. I’m fucking coming for you.

Saturday, January 4, 2014

Nobody likes you when you're 23.

Things To Do Before Turning 23:

1. Blog about how I feel about getting married at 23.

2. Reference other blogs about getting married at 23 in my argument.
Note: It is best to ASSert how wrong the other blogger is, and how much her personal choice has placed all women on a nonstop train headed straight to misogynyville. It Does Not pass Go. It Does Not Collect $200. It cannot be the Tophat.

3. Justify my conclusions with gratuitous purple prose and personal anecdotes,
EX: how I realized that love is just a construct when I looked into the blue eyes of a person I thought I loved and saw only iris and pupil and a big coward so I decided to pretend we never met and be alone forever instead.
OR about how when you know you know and I totally, like TOTALLY know that this is absolutely the best my life will ever get so let's throw a fucking party and get a ring and dress up fancy because by 35 everyone has gross wing-like upper arms. Arms like that look terrible in a strapless white princess gown and no one's grandchild will ever admire that kind of body type so let's take the pictures now!

4. Reblog likeminded women warriors championing whatever it is that I personally believe; force all Facebook friends to comment, pontificate, elaborate and masturbate their way through the article.

 5. Learn how to shut up a cat in heat.

 In other news, a 60 year old man named Ira really wanted to take me to see Malcolm Jamal-Warner in Guess Who's Coming to Dinner, so I guess I haven't really got all that much to be jaded about.

PS: I do not care if/when/how you get married, as long as you have an open bar and you invite me.