Oh fuck, I just ate half a bag of chips and my dinner's on the stove. I'm not even hungry anymore. It's 9 o'clock at night and I'm not going to be hungry for another hour. I have to work tomorrow! I can't eat at 10 o'clock at night. But I don't want to starve! God dammit. And I can't eat late and sleep on a full stomach either?! God I'm an idiot. This fucks everything up. I can't believe I did this again. Yesterday with the hummus and today with the green "mojo" wholegrain tortilla chips. Does anyone even know what "mojo" is? Some dried green chili pepper powder or something? Whatever, it doesn't matter, but you're not supposed to eat that for dinner. It could be a casual app maybe with a beer, but this is crazy.
A whole dinner cooking over there, for nothin'. Think of the energy I'm wasting. My gas bill's not outrageous, but that's no reason to waste all that energy. What if we all acted this way? What if we all decided to cook a bunch of food we wouldn't even eat? Cook some food, then realize you've no use for it: dump it. Look, I'm going to put it in some Tupperware and I'll eat it later, so it won't REALLY go to waste. But you know what I'm saying. Look, it's just I have ballet tomorrow night and "mojo" chips are not an energizing food source or something that makes me look good in a leotard. There. I feel fat. Are you happy now? I feel like a fatty. Eatin' all those chips. LIKE A GLUTTON. Go ahead, oh sure, take some more--shove 'em down! There you go, you happy now? Are you? Are ya? Happy now? Oh, well that's just great, because now your clothes don't fit and you feel like shit. Bravo. Just, braaaavo, Pamela. Slow clap.
No, I KNOW--I'm KIDDING. I'm just kidding about the fat thing. I don't really feel fat, c'mon. I'm fucking kidding. I know I look good. I think I could make at least a two ex-boyfriends miss me right now if they saw me. So it's fine. It's just all that food, it's embarrassing. There was just such a lack of ceremony to those chips. I wasn't even thinking, I just pushed them in there. No ceremony at all. With the lentils at least, they'd have been in a proper bowl and garnished with a little spring of parsley. It would have been nice. I would have sat down, checked Facebook, ate. But now it's just Facebook and my lips scraped raw from the mojo powder. Fuck! I shouldn't have done that.
Fact: writers cannot dress themselves. I am no exception. And, because I spend a lot of time at home alone, and because I pay for my own heat (meaning the thermostat never goes above 65), this winter has resulted in several baffling and hilarious sartorial combinations. To wit:
- thermal underwear twin set from Kmart, size 1X (for that sexy kurta effect) worn under quilted, checkered construction worker shirt
- grey "sweater leggings" from Target rendered unwearable in public due to extreme knee-bagginess, thermal undershirt and flower-print summer dress under turquoise cowl-neck sweater
- thermal underwear set again, avec quilted down vest that is exactly the same as the one worn by the old Chinese lady at the fruit store
- grey sweatpants, grey cashmere sweater with holes in it, long, black-and-grey Dorothy Zbornak-esque sweater (to be honest I wear this most days)
- same thermal underwear set, this time paired with a pink bathrobe for that stay-at-home mom look
- completely naked except for a blue hooded sweatshirt and my husband's bedroom slippers, no socks (laundry day)
- same blue hooded sweatshirt, paired with heart-patterned granny undies from the Gap, fuzzy bathroom slippers (laundry day variant)
Most of the time, these wardrobe choices are accessorized with a pair of taupe gloves from H&M that I cut the fingers off of so little balls of taupe synthetic wool scatter like tumbleweeds across my desk when I wear them.
On a related note, I just found a Museum of the Moving Image sticker on the back of my calf.
Since I'm rapidly withering on the vine and prospects for me having a kid within at least the next 12 - 18 months look unlikely, I've decided to post my fantasy baby names publicly, since all of my friends always steal them anyway. So go ahead guys. Shatter my dreams. Steal my grandma's name. Go ahead. I'm cool with it. Because I don't think I really want to go nine months without bourbon anyway. I mean, just beer and wine? For nine months? Forget that.
Girls: Alice Ruby Nora(h) Vivian Charlotte (maybe)
Boys: Emmet (that's it for boys, actually)
There. Take them, they're yours. Who needs kids anyway? All I need is my solid gold car and rocket house and I'll be fine.
'Sup. Just look at me. See these pecs? They're actually made of plastic. Those arm hairs? Those are actually individual eyelashes. You know, the fake ones, sutured into the dermis of my forearm. Sometimes I slick them over with pomade. Anyway, I know I sort of look like an android but that's the look I'm going for. Have you ever played the video game "Need For Speed?" Well, everyone looks really smooth. Like, their skin is all soft and melty. It's like if one of those cardboard cylinders of Crisco were left out in the sun and melted, and then you poured the melted Crisco over your skin to make it shiny, and then it hardened and dried. That's how I like my skin to look. Not just 'cause it reminds me of video games and how awesome those smooth-skinned racer dudes are--all aerodynamic and hairless and shit--but it reminds me of my mom's cooking too. Mom makes the best cookies with that stuff. I think she used butter flavored Crisco, though, but whatever, I don't even care. What was I saying? Oh, yeah, I look only sort of like a man. Like an undercooked prototype of one. I'm a Millennial, so I'm not gonna chase after you and kiss your ass so you like me. You have to earn MY respect. You have to fight for ME. I'm awesome and if you don't see that it's your problem. It should be automatic that you like me. It should just be automatic. Just like the transmission in my Ducati motorcycle back there. I don't have a motorcycle license yet because those clowns at the DMV say I have to take some test or whatever and never sent me one like I'm entitled to. Just like this girlfriend thing. She's pretty, I guess. Yeah, she's hot and shit, I guess. But she has to fight for me, dude, 'cause I have things to do. I'm doin' my thang. Like riding my motorcycle and eating my mom's cookies and playing video games. Seriously, I'm really busy. This is my world: I am in command. I'm in control. Dammit, I'm a man-child, you gotta fight for ME. How about THAT? Yeah, smell that, bitch. ::WHUT::
Anyway, gotta roll. I got a man-date with my bros, DB (he's a rockstar) and my
man-child mentor Jared Leto. VROOOM-VRROOOOM!!!
It's 11:30. So far today I have made particularly tasty coffee and a stand-up omelet, perused dresses on the internet, and written an email to my sister. I would like to point out that today is a Monday and that I am self-employed. (OK, I sent out one press release. I am not entirely horrible, just mostly horrible.) However, I should also point out that if I worked in an office my productivity output would be about the same. What I'm trying to say here is: I am not a successful person.
For years I have imagined that my essential problem was laziness. But I wrote a book! How could I be lazy? It's also possible that I'm stupid. But I've met people far stupider than myself and they seem to be able to navigate the World of Human Adulthood.
Then today, as I was flipping through some magazines, I realized my problem isn't that I'm lazy: it's that I'm just incredibly un-serious. When presented with the New Yorker and The Atlantic what do I do? I flip to the back to check out the comics caption contest and the funny advice column respectively, then discard the rest of the magazine.
I'm silly. Flaky. Childlike. Nonsensical. A human non-sequitur. Incapable of earning a living because, while I technically have a profession, that profession, whimsically enough, doesn't pay actual money. (Writers are paid in fairy dust, rosewater, and dish-soap bubbles.) I traipse through the forest of my imagination all day long and tend to injure myself if I try to work at anything. Office-work results in papercuts and entanglements in staplers, and it's only thanks to the grace of God that I haven't killed anyone while waitressing. (I think I'd make a fantastic kindergarten teacher but I find flesh-children rather noisy.) I'm an outstanding ghost-tour guide, I will say that. Mainly because it is a profession predicated on being completely bonkers.
What can a person like me do? The Sedaris family has already cornered the market on whimsy, so I can't sell that. The New Yorker caption contest doesn't actually pay any money. Working for the J. Peterman catalogue probably isn't at all in real life as it appeared on Seinfeld. I suppose I'd better buckle down and finish that young adult novel about teen witches and hope that pays off somehow. But first I think I'll write a short essay on "Betty Boop in Snow White." Because that is the least practical thing I could be doing right now. And I am a very silly person.