Well, the milkshake and mashed potatoes one-two punch of usual satisfaction did nothing to ease my miserable mood. Boo fucking hoo. It feels like someone is driving a railroad spike through my right temple. My nose is raw. It's taking a lot of effort not to go into the conference room here in my office, lay my head down on the table, and weep. I know, I know, I promised no pity-me-parades. But I need to vent this out, or I might have a breakdown for real. So pay no attention to the wreck behind the kleenex curtain.
There's a birthday party tonight for myself and the three thousand other people I know with my same birthday, but as of now there's about as much chance of me going as there is me giving birth to a two-headed iguana. Man I want an iguana. They're cool. Anyway, I'm going to piss off people by not going tonight, but I just can't do it. I wish it weren't my fucking birthday, I wish I could just crawl under a pile of sharp rubble and hide.
I haven't seen the boyfriend since Sunday... was it Sunday? I can't even remember if I saw him on Sunday. I think that's right. Anyway, I've just been going home, taking Benadryl and collapsing in a pathetic heap of flesh. And I can't decide if seeing him will be good or not; if his presence alone will snap me out of my funk, or if I'll simply act like an annoying bastard the whole time he's around and piss him off. I'm hoping it's the former, I think he'll be coming over tonight. While I avoid my co-birthday'd friends and hope they don't hate me.
Friday, my actual birthday, the boyfriend, myself, my roommates and a couple other people, will all be going to see Willy Wonka, which was the boyfriend's idea. Honestly I don't even have that much desire to see the movie, much less on opening night, but if it's the route of least personal interaction regarding my blasted birthday then I will deal with it. I certainly don't want a party. I hate birthday parties. All those people looking at you and smiling and you have to put on this "natural" performance of hospitability and delight and it's so fucking exhausting I just want to collapse. Have I mentioned I'm not the best at dealing with people? Well, I go through phases, sometimes I'm fine, but I'm definitely in one of my lows right now, where the thought of mingling and making conversation sounds like running a razor blade across my eyelids.
I am the conductor of the misery train. What was that song? "Runaway Train"... who sang that? One of those grungy hair's-never-been-shampooed filth-mongering 90's bands. Counting Crows meets Collective Soul. Fuck. Who sang that? Google, do yer thang...
Ah, yes! Soul Asylum. Barf. Wash your fucking hair, you neo-hippie poseur bitch.
Where did I see it written lately that "The 90s never happened"? It seemed like a profound statement where ever it was. Can't remember if it was on a t-shirt or a poster or something. God knows with all the stimuli one's confronted with in this visual googolplex of a city.
Okay, now this post has become my crutch. I just need to keep connecting random thoughts and I feel okay. I don't spiral any further down the drain. Keep it moving...
Great. Now I've called attention to it and immediately murdered my flow. "Murdered my flow"? What the fuck am I even talking about? GOD.
I keep reading lately about people being fired because they bitch about their job on their blog. So I'll refrain from that. This is me actively making an active suppressive effort at not bitching about my quite-possibly-but-uncomfirmed-here-highly-bitchable-about job and my quite-possibly-but-uncomfirmed-here-highly-bitchable-about co-workers whom I have no comment about officially but if you were to read between the lines you would probably go blind from the vile stench of my completely unconfirmed feelings.
I feel the need to defend Winona Ryder. She dated that dirty-hole lead singer of Soul Asylum, didn't she? Is that why she's suddenly sprung to mind? Well I'm not going to defend that choice on her part, because he looks like Scabies. But I feel bad for Winona. I wish she'd come back and make more movies. So, she likes her prescriptions? So, she gets some thrills by stuffing overpriced scarves in her bag? We've all been there! She's a fine actress who's never gotten the credit she's deserved. She has to stop making movies, while Keanu Reeves continues plodding on like a narcisstic vaccuum who murdered River Phoenix (my completely factless claim)? Does no one remember her in The Age of Innocence? She gave a fine performance. It's well past time for Winona's comeback. Come back, Noni! We miss you!
My office is overwhelmed with the scent of soggy french fries. No wonder I can't breathe.
Is Rich Little dead? Hmm. Google, I call upon thee! No, he's fine. Phew. He came up for reasons I can't even begin to remember in conversation with the boyfriend yesterday, and I argued that he wasn't dead, and that he was younger than Johnny Carson, while the boyfriend argued that no, Rich Little was as old and dead as Bob Hope. Crazy man! Rich Little is 13 years younger than Johnny Carson (was), and 35 (!) years younger than Bob Hope (was). Wow, Bob Hope was old. Born in 1903? Jeez. What about George Burns, when was he born? 1896! Man. Why do I feel like I'm already getting to an age where the "youth" won't even know who the hell I'm talking about? You know who I love? Phyllis Diller. God, she was born in 1917? That can't be right...? She's that old? Her and her crazy, crazy hair. HA!
Ohmigod! I was looking through Rich Little's filmography and I can only imagine what a nightmare his version of A Christmas Carol would be to sit through. Look at the characters he plays playing characters from the book:
"W.C. Fields as Scrooge/Paul Lynde as Bob Cratchit/Humphrey Bogart as the Ghost of Christmas Past/Peter Falk as the Ghost of Christmas Present/Peter Sellers as the Ghost of Christmas Yet-To-Come/Richard Nixon as Jacob Marley/Truman Capote as Tiny Tim/Groucho Marx as Fezziwig/Edith Bunker as Mrs. Cratchit/Johnny Carson as Nephew Fred/Jimmy Stewart as Scrooge's boss/John Wayne as businessman/George Burns as businessman/Jack Benny as boy outside window/"
Rich Little impersonating Paul Lynde playing Bob Cratchit??? Or Truman Capote as Tiny Tim??? How did this not cause the space-time continuum to buckle and everything we know to collapse into flames and blackness? I wonder if this is on Netflix? Nope. Dammit. That would be the surefire solution to my duldrums.
Alright, I'm done.
There's a birthday party tonight for myself and the three thousand other people I know with my same birthday, but as of now there's about as much chance of me going as there is me giving birth to a two-headed iguana. Man I want an iguana. They're cool. Anyway, I'm going to piss off people by not going tonight, but I just can't do it. I wish it weren't my fucking birthday, I wish I could just crawl under a pile of sharp rubble and hide.
I haven't seen the boyfriend since Sunday... was it Sunday? I can't even remember if I saw him on Sunday. I think that's right. Anyway, I've just been going home, taking Benadryl and collapsing in a pathetic heap of flesh. And I can't decide if seeing him will be good or not; if his presence alone will snap me out of my funk, or if I'll simply act like an annoying bastard the whole time he's around and piss him off. I'm hoping it's the former, I think he'll be coming over tonight. While I avoid my co-birthday'd friends and hope they don't hate me.
Friday, my actual birthday, the boyfriend, myself, my roommates and a couple other people, will all be going to see Willy Wonka, which was the boyfriend's idea. Honestly I don't even have that much desire to see the movie, much less on opening night, but if it's the route of least personal interaction regarding my blasted birthday then I will deal with it. I certainly don't want a party. I hate birthday parties. All those people looking at you and smiling and you have to put on this "natural" performance of hospitability and delight and it's so fucking exhausting I just want to collapse. Have I mentioned I'm not the best at dealing with people? Well, I go through phases, sometimes I'm fine, but I'm definitely in one of my lows right now, where the thought of mingling and making conversation sounds like running a razor blade across my eyelids.
I am the conductor of the misery train. What was that song? "Runaway Train"... who sang that? One of those grungy hair's-never-been-shampooed filth-mongering 90's bands. Counting Crows meets Collective Soul. Fuck. Who sang that? Google, do yer thang...
Ah, yes! Soul Asylum. Barf. Wash your fucking hair, you neo-hippie poseur bitch.
Where did I see it written lately that "The 90s never happened"? It seemed like a profound statement where ever it was. Can't remember if it was on a t-shirt or a poster or something. God knows with all the stimuli one's confronted with in this visual googolplex of a city.
Okay, now this post has become my crutch. I just need to keep connecting random thoughts and I feel okay. I don't spiral any further down the drain. Keep it moving...
Great. Now I've called attention to it and immediately murdered my flow. "Murdered my flow"? What the fuck am I even talking about? GOD.
I keep reading lately about people being fired because they bitch about their job on their blog. So I'll refrain from that. This is me actively making an active suppressive effort at not bitching about my quite-possibly-but-uncomfirmed-here-highly-bitchable-about job and my quite-possibly-but-uncomfirmed-here-highly-bitchable-about co-workers whom I have no comment about officially but if you were to read between the lines you would probably go blind from the vile stench of my completely unconfirmed feelings.
I feel the need to defend Winona Ryder. She dated that dirty-hole lead singer of Soul Asylum, didn't she? Is that why she's suddenly sprung to mind? Well I'm not going to defend that choice on her part, because he looks like Scabies. But I feel bad for Winona. I wish she'd come back and make more movies. So, she likes her prescriptions? So, she gets some thrills by stuffing overpriced scarves in her bag? We've all been there! She's a fine actress who's never gotten the credit she's deserved. She has to stop making movies, while Keanu Reeves continues plodding on like a narcisstic vaccuum who murdered River Phoenix (my completely factless claim)? Does no one remember her in The Age of Innocence? She gave a fine performance. It's well past time for Winona's comeback. Come back, Noni! We miss you!
My office is overwhelmed with the scent of soggy french fries. No wonder I can't breathe.
Is Rich Little dead? Hmm. Google, I call upon thee! No, he's fine. Phew. He came up for reasons I can't even begin to remember in conversation with the boyfriend yesterday, and I argued that he wasn't dead, and that he was younger than Johnny Carson, while the boyfriend argued that no, Rich Little was as old and dead as Bob Hope. Crazy man! Rich Little is 13 years younger than Johnny Carson (was), and 35 (!) years younger than Bob Hope (was). Wow, Bob Hope was old. Born in 1903? Jeez. What about George Burns, when was he born? 1896! Man. Why do I feel like I'm already getting to an age where the "youth" won't even know who the hell I'm talking about? You know who I love? Phyllis Diller. God, she was born in 1917? That can't be right...? She's that old? Her and her crazy, crazy hair. HA!
Ohmigod! I was looking through Rich Little's filmography and I can only imagine what a nightmare his version of A Christmas Carol would be to sit through. Look at the characters he plays playing characters from the book:
"W.C. Fields as Scrooge/Paul Lynde as Bob Cratchit/Humphrey Bogart as the Ghost of Christmas Past/Peter Falk as the Ghost of Christmas Present/Peter Sellers as the Ghost of Christmas Yet-To-Come/Richard Nixon as Jacob Marley/Truman Capote as Tiny Tim/Groucho Marx as Fezziwig/Edith Bunker as Mrs. Cratchit/Johnny Carson as Nephew Fred/Jimmy Stewart as Scrooge's boss/John Wayne as businessman/George Burns as businessman/Jack Benny as boy outside window/"
Rich Little impersonating Paul Lynde playing Bob Cratchit??? Or Truman Capote as Tiny Tim??? How did this not cause the space-time continuum to buckle and everything we know to collapse into flames and blackness? I wonder if this is on Netflix? Nope. Dammit. That would be the surefire solution to my duldrums.
Alright, I'm done.
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