“Oh no, that’s not Syphilis! That’s just my Twitter acting up again!”

I acknowledge my Twitter account about as often as I intentionally throw myself down a flight of stairs. It’s like having a hicky above your eyebrow or a non-athletic son.  I’m just embarrassed to have it and I question its purpose on a daily basis.

You may be asking yourself, why am I reading this b***shit? That, I couldn’t tell you. So hopefully you are asking, if you curse the very existence of Twitter, why do you have an account, a-hole?  Take a breath and I’ll fill you in.

A fellow writer/friend/literary confidant we’ll call “M” had been encouraging me to sign up for this “twitter” business for quite awhile. I was apathetic. Uninterested. Dare I say, blasé? I had no interest in being part of some sort of community that involved “following” one another. What is that? That’s like the creepiest Dateline ever. That’s like a Gin Blossoms song. That’s like hearing footsteps creeping up behind you and realizing you forgot your rape whistle. I wasn’t digging it.

She gave up for a short time, only mentioning Twitter here and there in casual conversation:

M: “So, Lena. Are you going to see Bob Dylan this summer?”

L: “I like, don’t know, you know? Like, damn.”

M: “Isn’t he touring?”

L: “Like, I mean. He’s a musician, so like, whatever.”

M: “I’m sure if you followed him on Twitter, you would know.”

L: “Yeah, for real. It’s like, whoa. Right?”

But when she took it upon herself to so brazenly inform me that she had “agent interest” in her novel, based on a contact she had developed through this “twitter” situation, I knew I could no longer be so impassive. I signed up.

Love you, Mark! xoxo

Now, nearly two weeks later, I wrestle with my decision. I feel dirty. Like a “sell out,” overpricing screen tees by $30 at a merch table at a Nickelback/Hinder concert. I log into my Facebook account, hoping Zuckerberg won’t sense the seedy nature of my adulterous status updates. Facebook fulfills all of my social networking needs. I know this! And yet…yet…

I need to shape up or ship out. According to twitter, I only have 3 people in the world who care that I have dreams about dismembering school buses. But I know better! After all, I have enough sorry individuals reading this blog to make me feel like at least one non-relative has some interest in my existence. So I need to either:

A. Foster my inner Joaquin Phoenix, and commit myself 100% to something entirely pointless


B. Drain the Twitter abscess, flipping its logo at the world.

I’d prefer to go with option A. So please, readers who share my links on Facebook but don’t ever reveal yourselves driving me insane with curiosities about your identities, follow me!

Stalk me!

Cyber bully me!

I’ll be watching…


The girl currently known as lena_ziegler

Posted in Life lessons | Tagged , , , , | 2 Comments

The “alone on my birthday” blog: 22 Underrated “Accomplishments” achieved while 22

Tomorrow is my birthday, and it has been looming over me for the last three weeks, like an oncoming herpes break out. I am depressed, bloated, and seriously constipated with thoughts of suicide. Not really. I just wanted to use the word constipated without a feces visual.

Starting over.

I am depressed, bloated, and currently contracting West Nile virus on the patio attached to my new apartment. I wish pasty legs had the same effect on single, witty, SBGs (Sexy Bearded Gents, see: previous post) as they do on blood sucking insects. If I had this many men biting my knee caps at 9:30 at night, I’d be in heaven or some sort of state-funded free clinic. But a girl takes what she can get.

The point is, I have 1 hour left until my 23rd birthday. Since moving to Tennessee, I have been pondering how I will spend this wretched day. I know, and I mean this in all seriousness, three people in this state. Yeah. That’s right. THREE PEOPLE. My yet to be conceived unborn child knows more than three people here. How much of a social train wreck am I that in three weeks of residency, I have only been in the company of three people? This fact alone makes me want to shave off my eyebrows.

But I need not get discouraged. I need to look at this as a character building experience. Sure, all of my family, friends, and random but familiar town hobos, are 900 miles away. But who cares? No big deal. I have my roommate’s Roku and an individually sized chocolate birthday cake my mother had delivered to my apartment today. Upon receiving the cake, I gave her cellular device a ring, just to thank her for the thought. The conversation went something like this.

Me: I got the cake, thank you! It looks amazing.

Mom: Are you sure?

Me: Yeah, I love it. Thank you.

Mom: I was really debating getting it. I didn’t want the fact that you have no one to share it with to depress you.

Me: Oh. Yeah. I actually didn’t think about that until you said it.

Mom: (laughter)

Me: Now I’m depressed.

Mom: Have you thought about going to a singles club?

This, ladies and gentlemen, was the single most depressing moment of my life, beating out last Valentine’s Day and the time in 6th grade social studies class when I got my period all over my desk chair. My mind immediately flashed to visions of glitter body cream, Lady Gaga remixes, and roofied vodka red bulls. Is fauxlitely pretending to be seduced by southern townies the way any young woman, on the cusp of fabricated break out stardom, should spend her birthday? I think not.

So instead of canoodling with a “good ole boy” in a Confederate flag wife beater stained with sweat and Natural Light, I have decided to ring in my birthday by creating a list of 22 things I accomplished while being 22.

  1. I learned how to spell the word “ulterior.”
  2. I lost 63 pounds.
  3. I wrote 75 pages of a novel.
  4. I sold a couch on Craigslist.
  5. I attended five concerts:
    1. Ramblin’ Jack Elliot
    2. Dave Matthews Band
    3. Bob Dylan
    4. Goo Goo Dolls (sucked)
    5. Ray LaMontagne
  6. I fell out of love with someone who was wrong for me.
  7. I quit my job and moved to Tennessee on my own.
  8. I casually dated 5-10 different losers, but who’s counting?
  9. I started this blog.
  10. I realized I have a pretty singing voice and should probably not be so shy about it.
  11. I learned how to shovel snow with a dust pan.
  12. I survived the coldest winter of my life without using heat.
  13. I realized its ok to cry over people who don’t deserve it.
  14. I flirted my way out of paying New York tolls and driving tickets.
  15.  I made fantastic commission at a job where I did barely any work.
  16. I kissed and I told.
  17. I only overdrew my account once.
  18. I survived a painful divorce.
  19. I found a bra that fits.
  20. I grew my hair 7 inches.
  21. I realized for the first time in my life, that I’m kinda, sorta, pretty…once in awhile.
  22. I found an excellent recipe for Sangria.

So there you have it. My 22nd year, wrapped up in one verbose blog entry.  I think tomorrow I’ll go to a local beach, or possibly a bluegrass festival nearby. Or maybe I’ll stay home, watch Roku and eat birthday cake, before putting on cowboy boots and heading to a local honky tonk in search of some good old fashioned birthday lovin’.

I am open to suggestions, recommendations, and redneck-produced death threats.


The girl who is almost 23

Posted in Life lessons, Tennessee | Tagged , , , , | 2 Comments

Talkin’ Dragonfly Sex and the Old Testament Blues

I can’t write. No seriously. Everything that I type has the overwhelming stench of failure permeating around it. I’m not used to this. Normally I write things of biblical showmanship and long term importance. Not today. Today is like the Old Testament, washed up and irrelevant, not to mention a serious downer. Lighten up, peeps. Check it.

I’m thinking perhaps it is the venue at which I am “writing.” Back in Pennsylvania there is this bistro, (please note: “bistro” is actually in the name of the business. I am not enough of a hipster to use that word on my own, and I’m not cultured enough to know what it means) that has free Wi-Fi and really fantastic kettle-cooked chips. I frequented it regularly, composing soul-seducing prose of global significance. Or flirtatious haikus for my online boyfriends. Whatever. Point is, that was an excellent location for me to get my freak on, from a literary stand point.

Now that I have moved to Tennessee I have been on the hunt for a similar location. For awhile I was spending time at this independent coffee house called Jozlaowerokjaskdljfkjwsw, or some J-word I can’t spell. But I was tired of paying $2.50 for a coffee just to use their sub par internet service. So I have come to use Panera Bread, where I can surf for free and make imaginary love to all the bearded men that spend time there.

Things started out great. I was dazzled by the low-fat smoothies and perfectly reliable appearance of Sexy Bearded Gents (SBG). But today, while sitting in the PB I find myself dumbfounded, unable to produce a single sentence worthy of my 3.5 daily readers.

What has happened to my charming wit and non-cliché turn of phrase? I fear I may have driven away my own creative thoughts by watching too many episodes of “Ice Loves Coco” and binge eating orange freeze pops. I am going to ponder this for the next 22 minutes, allowing time for the ovulation of my creativity to hopefully result in something as entertaining as watching two dragonflies get jiggy with it while hovering over the driver’s door handle of my car. I waited a good 2 ½ minutes before swatting them away. In my experience, that is more than enough time.


The girl who in a past life was a dragon fly

Posted in Literary Works of Unparallelled Greatness, Random Ramblings About Writing | Tagged , , , , , | 1 Comment

Losing a baby panda in weight: The Lifetime Original Movie

So, about a year ago I started “dieting.” I put this in quotes because admitting to dieting is like admitting to pleasuring yourself to a Zac Efron movie. Not really. But it is embarrassing for some reason. Anyone who has ever been overweight and made the decision to knock off a few pounds, can likely relate to the slight humiliation you experience when you tell someone who is thin, that the reason you cannot eat a piece of the cake they made for the office party is because you are dieting.  (Please note: 92% of the time, this cake is contrived from a 200 year old recipe carried on by their recently deceased Jewish grandmother, who nearly lost it in a German concentration camp, but managed to retain it and bring it to America. It is to be made only for very special occasions and at maximum once per every five years.)

Said thin person’s eyes quickly scan your physique from head to toe, lingering on the marsupial belly hanging from the front of your body. Smiling slightly, they release a noise that sounds something like:


Awkward and unsure of what to say, you nod and smile. They break into a “smile/laugh” or a smaugh. I know you’re familiar. It’s the kind of facial expression that starts as a smile and turns into a laugh, with lots of bleached teeth showing.

“Well isn’t that…wonderful,” they continue. “Good for you, getting control of things.”

While on the surface this may sound polite, even encouraging to the untrained ear, I can see this type of comment for what it truly is. Passive aggressive bitch talk, also known as PABT. It implies that at one time you were “out of control” and your current appearance is a result of that. You can also deduce by their faux politeness, or fauxliteness, that what they are actually thinking is “I can’t believe you are just starting this now. If you really wanted to lose weight you would have stopped adding ½ cup of mozzarella cheese to your Lean Cuisine meals at lunch.”

As always, I have digressed.

Anyway, at the end of last June I began a diet. Things were ridiculous, even dare I say, out of control. During my last relationship and the utterly shitty marriage that followed, I gained a whopping 63 pounds. Oh yeah. You read that right. Sixty-three mother f***ing pounds. The madness had to stop.
So I began this diet and by late September lost a total of 50 pounds. Yay. But during this time I was doing outside sales for a chocolate company. You can see where this is going. As time passed I found that this diet was getting in the way of my over indulging in free chocolate and eating teaspoons of melted butter and sugar. So I quit that oppressive regimen and went “off the diet.”

The holidays came and passed. The New Year started and I was determined to start dieting again. My body however rejected this concept and maintained a lovely state of immobility from January to May. I’m not sure how I passed the time, but I do know I spent a lot of it eating Chinese takeout and watching The O.C. on my laptop. Amazingly, I only regained 5 pounds all year.

In early June I contracted a terrible stomach virus that helped me to lose a few pounds, getting the ball rolling toward my nonexistent “beach bod.” I took this opportunity to restart my diet.

Two days ago I weighed myself to reveal a total weight loss of 61 pounds, or 2/3 of Kate Moss. I am quite the happy Panda, which is coincidentally the baby animal I lost in weight.

So kudos to mah-self I guess. Two more pounds and it will be like I never got married at all. Holla.


The girl who is momentarily ignoring the fact that 2 pounds from now she will still be fat.

Posted in Fat Fatties talking about Fat | Tagged , , , , | 9 Comments

Reason #49 why I will always be alone: No man in his 20’s can satisfy my facial hair needs.

So apparently, Panera Bread attracts a large population of well-bearded men. All but one of the five men in my line of sight have beautiful, manly, tuggable beards that I want to play with until the wee hours of dawn.

Sitting on a laptop, hoping no one has noticed that I am drinking a coffee from somewhere else and never actually made a PB purchase, I can’t help but wonder why I am always being confronted by these sightings of manly beards that will never be mine to enjoy. I also have to wonder why all of these men are always at a minimum of ten years older than me, and when I will see a man in my dating age bracket that will satisfy my facial hair needs.

Probably never.

This is the #49 reason I will always be alone.

I’m pretty sure #48 has something to do with the fact that I am a 22 year old woman, picking my gingerbread man scab in the corner of a food service location.

Bring on the cats.

F*** that. I want an iguana.


The girl with a translucent farmer’s tan

Posted in All about men, Distorted views on love | Tagged , , , , | 9 Comments

Gingerbread Scabs and My Fiery Displeasure with the Tennessee Heat

I’ve said it once, I’ll say it again. Pennsylvania is basically the deep south of the north. For this reason, one would assume my recent relocation to Tennessee would be as easy a transition as switching from regular to lite mayonnaise. But since I am alone in my insistence that regular mayonnaise is the only mayonnaise option and lite tastes like ground up rat testicles, I will also insist, that this transition has not been easy.

The move has been a welcoming experience at best, and a padlocked, electric fenced sauna at worst. Everyone here is nice. All the time. No really, ALL the time. Milfy grandmother types come out of the woodwork while I’m walking down the street just to compliment my outfit. Children say “sir” and “ma’am” to anyone over 3 feet tall. But most importantly, I have yet to see one of those hanging rubber ball sacks so many of my male peers attach to their rear bumpers, in their chivalrous attempts to attract wife material and settle down. Though I do expect a sighting any day now.

Gas prices are lower and Sabra Hummus is cheaper ($2.99/container, suck on that Mason Dixon Line!), so I’m sure you are wondering what could possibly be the problem with my newfound Utopian lifestyle. Allow me to explain.

Mosquitoes are a summertime staple, I get that. But in my first week in Tennessee I counted 726 separate Mosquitoes bites on my mangled body. Or something more realistic. The exact amount is unimportant. What matters it that it was an all around bad time. I itched, I scratched, I took steel wool to the calf, but nothing. There was no relief to be had. But on the upside my painful itching was met by adorable gingerbread-man shaped scabs. Could they be friendlier? Well sure. But more charming? I think not!

Aside from my new skin-dwelling companions, my only major issue has been dealing with the heat. The air is thick, the heat is palpable. There is no escape from the 100+ degree weather I am being so rudely subjected to. These conditions have inspired angst, suicidal thoughts, and the following poem.

Burning: My Fiery Displeasure with the Tennessee Heat

   By: The girl with sweat stained undergarments


I am burning

Every inch of my skin

Shriveled and red

From my three minute mailbox excursion

I am burning

Like the unfiltered urine

Of an actress in porn

After filming a twelve person orgy

I am burning

With the intense loathing I feel

For a heat no less brutal

Than a botched medieval abortion

I am burning

This seat buckle branding

Leaves permanent scars

I answer now only to “Ford”

I am burning

Leaving deep pools of sweat

On the leather car seats

Only Southern swamp ass destroys

I am burning

With regret as painful

And discomfort far exceeding

The chafed privates of a twelve year old boy


Despite my irrational sentiments, I have faith that over time either one of two things will happen. I will either:

A. Grow accustomed to these extreme conditions and later refer to this experience as a character-building tool much akin to walking 20 miles in the snow to get to school, or spending an afternoon watching Mob Wives.

B. Die

Here’s hoping for option A.


The girl with evaporated tears

Posted in Literary Works of Unparallelled Greatness, Tennessee | Tagged , , , , , , | 3 Comments

Six Characteristics of My Future Ex-Husband

At 22 years old with one ex husband and several appalling attempts at romance under my love handles, I have decided my pursuits for happiness need to be better focused. For that reason I have concocted a list of the six characteristics necessary in my next semi-serious, emotionally sadistic relationship.

Because I am incapable of committing to anything other than my credit union, I think it wise to look at this list not so much as a guide to eternal happiness, but as a guide to the brief happiness I will experience when I foolishly divulge in a relationship that will most definitely end up in the shitter.

I digress. Here we go.

 1. Crazy beard – There are two physical characteristics that make me want to give up wearing underwear entirely: nice eyes and a wild, unruly beard. Since my preference in male eye color changes more often than my love/hate relationship with Anne Hathaway, I am going to count my fetish for excessive facial hair as my one physical requirement. Some (lesbian) women hate facial hair of any kind. I however am a facial hair enthusiast. I am not happy unless a man has an unmanageable, unkempt, mountain man, beard. Beards are sexy in a “I’m too busy hunting grizzlies and chopping firewood to shave my chiseled jaw” kind of way. I want it. I need it.

Moving on.

2. He needs to have his priorities straight. A sample list should look something like this:

1. Bob Dylan

2. Me

3. Gas station cappuccinos

My next miserably, drawn out relationship should begin with our mutual                  obsession with Bob Dylan and fulfilling our sick need to bring him up at least seven times a day. I want him to cancel plans with me because he is going to the same Bob Dylan show he didn’t realize I already had tickets for. I want him to use Bob Dylan lyrics in conversation more often than his own thoughts, because if he’s truly a Bob Dylan fan, he knows that no matter what he wants to say, Bob Dylan has said it better.

After Bob Dylan I am flexible.

J/k. Obviously myself and caffeinated beverages need to come before his family, friends, and dignity.

 3. A varied vocabulary: I want him to use words like “vestibule,” “sanctimonious” and “pronk” in daily conversation, and preferably in the same sentence.

Example. The Neo Nazi prayer group that met in the dusty cobweb strewn    vestibule inspired sanctimonious feelings in the pronks and dregs in attendance.

Bam. Schooled. Just like that.

 4. A wide collection of plaid shirts – I’m not sure where the current trends of graphic tees and argile sweater vests came from or why anyone finds it appealing, but I do know one thing for sure. Nothing gets my non-steely thighs to open faster than a guy in plaid. Plaid is hot. A guy in plaid can hike for four days without a shower and still look delicious.  Plaid is sexy. Plaid will get you laid by this chick, delusional about the powers of patterned clothing.

5. The ability to identify countries like Cameroon and Tajikistan on a map:

Why? Because I can’t and he needs to bring something to the relationship.

Hahahahhaha, J/K, I can. I’m very familiar with South American geography.

6. An appreciation for my translucent skin tone, bloated physique and misusage of the word “intense”:

I am a pasty, borderline albino, with a tendency to misuse words that begin with vowels. My permanent water retention, best depicted in my pants size, needs to be cherished and appreciated. I need a Cappuccino-drinking, plaid-wearing, well-spoken, Bob Dylan fan, with an excellent sense of direction and a disorderly beard, who is attracted to the type of girl that could live six weeks off of nothing but her own body fat and her uncanny ability to entertain herself.

So…yeah. There you have it.

If any of you reading know of a man that meets these requirements, please let him know that I am single and anxious to enter into a parasitic romance that will no doubt result in a costly divorce and a mutual, life-long loathing for one another and all members of the opposite gender.


The girl with high expectations and overgrown eyebrows.

Posted in All about men, Bob Dylan Related Ramblings, Distorted views on love | Tagged , , , , , , | 5 Comments

Glass ceilings for the dowdy Pennsylvania girl and her mostly ignored blog

There have been several times these past few weeks when I’ve seen or heard something that could have incited an incredibly profound blog entry about something as important as people who drink the milk left over in a cereal bowl and people who discard it. But with my non menopausal “life transitioning” from a dowdy Pennsylvania girl, to a chic Tennessee woman, (please note, neither of these descriptions have any reflection on who I actually am) I have allowed myself to become intoxicated by both legal and illegal substances enough to distract me from my duties as an unpaid, unappreciated blogger.

thigh-high slits and stilletos scream supressed feminist

I find myself with the constant urge to write and the inability to do so within the parameters of this blog. How many times will I have to ignore the overwhelming desire to blog about the pros and cons of dating a Charles Manson enthusiast? Or try to determine which is the most physically attractive fruit, bunched red grapes or sliced kiwi? I am being stifled both creatively and by the incessant Tennessee heat I am still growing accustomed to.

I need your blessing, reader, to break through the glass ceiling of this topical blog, and be free on the other side, where I can use the written word to express my innermost thoughts on my thighs that rub together and why I will always be alone.

Because this is unimportant and affects no one, I expect massive amounts of feedback. Anytime now.


The girl with textured fingernails

Posted in Random Ramblings About Writing | Tagged , , , , , , | 5 Comments

People who celebrate Father’s Day and People who are ungrateful tools

I am a woman of few pet peeves. Though I may grow a stomach ulcer whenever anyone uses the word ignorant, ignorantly (boo-ya bitches) and dry heave whenever an adult woman complains that she is cold in 85 degree weather, in general I try to be a pretty laid back gal. But there are some sins of humanity that cannot be ignored. There is one thing this week, that irks me to the point of needing a new word to describe my annoyance (exasperate? aggravate? madden?). I cannot tolerate when people don’t celebrate Mother’s and Father’s Day

Before proceeding I must of course account for those people who have the right to not celebrate. Those who have lost their parents, those who do not know their parents, “The Child Called It”, and others with generally shitty parents.

This kid can be excused

Aside from that, all others who do not celebrate these holidays need to be dragged into the street and shot. Or something slightly less dramatic and less illegal. Let’s be real. But if you are one of these no class, free-loading leeches, who don’t celebrate these holidays solely because it is a “Hallmark holiday” you might as well go curl up and die.

Do I sound like a bitter mother whose children abandoned her in a nursing home right after her 65th birthday? No, not really. Holy, crow, I’m a 22 year old woman. Read someone else’s blog, a-hole. But if you are still reading and wondering why I feel so strongly about this, then drop those pupils to the next paragraph.

Your parents had sex. I know. Kill me. But they did. Lots of it. Tons of it. They lost their jobs and couldn’t pay their bills cause they were too busy having sex. You had to wear used underwear from the Salvation army, because your parents were too busy having sex. You had to drop out of private school and attend public schools where kids peed in each other’s lockers and ate their napkins for lunch, because your parents were too busy having sex. Ok, you get it.

So as a result they had you, the biggest regret of their lives. Crying all the time, throwing food, taking a dump on everything, and generally being a huge pain in the groin. But with weed and prescription pills, they dealt with that. They dealt with your swamp ass diapers and constant whining. They even burped you, when you were too lazy to do it yourself.

Eventually you decide all of this revolting bathroom humor isn’t enough to really mess with them. So you get a little older, little bigger, and decide to start ruining all their stuff. The stuff they bought with the money they made from the job they had to get once they had you. You spill your Pediasure on their newly paid off couch. Take your Crayola’s to the wall and write slurs about their bathroom habits, “Mommy smells like Poop,” “Daddy farts.” In other words, you become a real asshole.

A few years later, you get a little taller, a little hairier, and a lot bitchier. You start to pretend that you, in your measly thirteen year old mid-pubescent body, with your acne, weird body odors and confusion about the real use of tampons, know more about life than these people. These people who have literally had to wipe your ass with their hand on a camping trip when you wouldn’t stop defecating and went through all of your diapers on the first night. These people who have had to deal with your incessant voice-cracking pestering because you want the same cell phone that your friend Wyatt’s abusive parents bought him in payment for the eternal emotional scars they have left. But do you care? No. All you care about are glitter pens and sexting on your iPhone.

A few years later, you begin to grow out of this. Right when you start to become a tolerable human being, you go off to college, meet someone, move away and only visit on Christmas and Easter. And your parents are left in the dust of all the destructive torture you have put them through during the first two decades of your life.

Then May and June roll around. After calling you for months at a time to no avail, they finally catch you when you’re on your way out the door for a night of hard clubbing. The conversation goes something like this:

Daughter: “Ummm…..hahahah, shut up, Amber…..Hello?……HELLO?????”

Father: “Patricia? Honey? Is that you?”

Daughter: “What? Who is this?”

Father: “Patricia, dear. It’s your Dad.”

Daughter: “Dad? Um, what do you want? I’m leaving….hahahhaa, stop it Kimber!”

Father: “Oh, where are you going?”

Daughter: “Just out, Dad.”

Father: “Oh. Well, I haven’t talked to you for awhile. We wanted to see how you are.”

Daughter: “I’m fine. Busy. Work’s great. I really gotta go.”

Father: “Oh, well I won’t keep you. But I was wondering if you’d be available for-“

Daughter: “Ummmm…probably not. I’m really busy. Chad’s parents are having a Father’s Day picnic and I’m going to visit them.”

Father: “Oh. You’re visiting Chad’s dad for Father’s Day?”

Daughter: “Um, yeah. I mean, Chad really wants to and I love him so……yeah….hahhaa….quiet, Kimmy!”

Father: “Oh. Will I get to see you at all?”

Daughter: “I.D.K., Dad. Look I gotta go. Tell mom, I love you, BYE!!!


Dad is left in the dark, lonely corner of his recently remodeled home that you never bothered to come see. He is nursing a bottle of whiskey, as your mother watches Leno in the other room, wondering where he went wrong and what he did with his life.Wondering why he gave up all the great sex, all the vacations, all of the fun times he could have had with your mom before she got stretch marks and a permanently flabby hoo-ha.

And you’re out, lying on a bar somewhere while your overly tanned boyfriend does Tequila body shots out of your belly button.

Quite a grim picture, huh?

So this Father’s Day, instead of being a Patricia or being a Chad, do the right thing and be a good son or daughter. Give your dad a call. Buy your dad a card. Make a surprise visit to his house. In other words, don’t be a douchebag.


The girl who is running late to lunch with her dad

Posted in Two Sorts of People in the World | Tagged , , , , , , | 1 Comment

People who can accept a break up AND people who can’t and continue to wallow in their own misery pretending there is still a chance when there isn’t

I’m a professional. Or at least I like to think I am. Of what, I am not sure, but I want to believe that there is some sort of code of conduct I will be violating with this blog entry. Because really, it is only satisfying if I am crossing the line, killing the illusion, or breaking the fourth wall.

I say this because there comes a time in every professional’s life, when they must take personal matters into their own frustrated, disgusted hands and rant about it in an online forum. I choose this very blog, (twosortsofpeople.com “like it” on Facebook!), to do just that.

Because, ladies and gentlemen, I discovered something tonight. Yes, yes, I did. Something many of you, formerly heartbroken individuals may already be quite familiar with. There is something called a “break up.” For those of you familiar with the term, you may skip ahead. But for others, who have yet to experience such a travesty, continue reading, my sweet break up virgins. You shall quickly be enlightened. I’ll start from the beginning.

Break up: (n.) A term used to describe the end of a relationship between two people due to one party’s eternal lack of character, respect, and non-asshole behavior.

Straight out of Webster’s, ver-f***ing-batim.

But if that does not characterize this situation well enough for your innocent minds to understand, allow me to consult Urbandictionary.com for further explanation.

On August 22, 2003, “Swampy”, a fine bloke of prominent upbringing, explained that a break up is “the most probable outcome after your girlfriend finds you playing hide the sausage with her sister.” Nice one, Swampy!

On July 21, 2006, “Babanash,” a well-educated fellow from Newport, Rhode Island, reveals that a break up is “the time when the person who you love the most kicks you hard on your ass and tells you to fuck off.” Poor, Baba.

On August 21, 2003, “EroticusPrime,” a middle-aged white man who sold his daughter’s Barbie collection on Ebay to buy the Full House dvd boxset, preaches that a break up is “when yo ho don’t want you no mo, and/or you don’t want her, you break up.” Werd.

As you can see, there are some consistent themes among the definitions of this term. Yet there still seems to be a disconnect for some people. Because what I learned tonight is that there are two kinds of people in the world:

People who can accept a break up AND people who can’t and wallow in their own misery pretending there is still a chance when there isn’t.

I understand that there are varying levels of intelligence. I get it. I’m not here to judge. Some people are simply not as intellectually gifted as others. Perhaps there are some people who take phrases like “I never want to talk to you again,” and “leave me alone,” and “stop calling me, I hate you,” as invitations for continuous contact, even, I don’t know, twelve months after a break up. Totally normal! Or is it?

After yet another vague and unaccounted for study, conducted by anonymous researchers, it has been found that only 1 in 27 individuals think this is normal behavior. The other 26 think you need to safely and quickly remove head from rectum, check for your ball sack, and deal with the fact that it is over. Yes, over. There shall be no miracle of miracles here that will reunite you with that special someone who wants nothing to do with you. Let it go, and for God’s sake, move on. It’s just getting pathetic.

Now, I may sound like a heartless, scum sucking, ho bag. But I preach a gospel of truth and unquestionable accuracy. There’s an acceptable amount of time you can contact an ex, before throwing in the towel and telling her to go die in a fire. A few weeks, of course. Three months, maybe. But twelve months later is not in that time frame.

SO for those of you who fall in the category of the kind of person who can’t accept a break up and chooses to wallow in your own misery pretending there is still a chance when there isn’t, I provide you with a top five list of ways, to NOT get over someone.

1. Three months after your breakup: Continue to text her several times a day, to no response, to remind her that she is a horrible person, and a whore for leaving you. Repeat this for the next several months, leaving her voicemails and sending her texts reminding her why no one will ever love her. Don’t forget to explain that you hope she is abused in her next relationship!

2. Six months after your breakup: Start a serious relationship with another person, only to continue asking, to no response, for sexual favors and other inappropriate things from your ex. She will continue to reject you, but that just means it’s working!
3. Ten months after your breakup: Impregnate your new girlfriend but pretend it is still your ex’s fault that your relationship didn’t work.
4. Eleven months after your breakup: Show up at your ex’s apartment when she is not home, then leave her a voicemail asking where she is.
5. Twelve months after your breakup: Text your ex, and proposition her for sex. She will most definitely be offended and angry but that’s ok! Just ask again! Explain that she is better than your pregnant girlfriend, because you’re a scumbag who can’t keep it in his pants.

These are five, surefire techniques to ensure you will spend a year staggering through life in a state of eternal self pity, unwilling to take responsibility for your own unhappiness.

This guy’s got the idea:

However, if you want to become the other kind of person, the kind who can accept a break up like a mature, rational, human being, please take the following steps:

1. Stop texting your ex. She has been trying to move on for a long time now. Let it happen. Stop making her more miserable than she has to be.
2. Stop reducing her to a sexual asset you once had, and cease to ask her for anymore sexual favors. She is NOT interested.
3. Focus on your new girlfriend. It is not her fault that you are too much of a jackass to get over someone before starting a new relationship.
4. Pull yourself together. ‘Nuff said.
5. Grow a pair and let it go. It’s been a year.

So there you have. Follow these steps and you will surely live a life of happiness and less regret.

Thank you for reading, supporting my rant, and allowing me the opportunity for some long due vindication.


The girl you want to have a watermelon seed spitting contest with

***Please note. Nothing in this blog was taken from real life or directed at one specific person. Facts and situations were completely fabricated for the sake of the topic, with the only exception being the entire entry.

Posted in Distorted views on love, Two Sorts of People in the World | Tagged , , , , , , , , | 8 Comments