I couldn’t form sentences today, so I made a list instead…

1. I’m twenty-two years old and about to graduate. I have no idea what I want to do with my life or if I even want to work in the field that I studied in. oddly enough, I’m ok with this….for now. I’m predicting a meltdown soon though.
2. My college professor came to class today with jeans on that had rhinestones on her ass pockets. I feel like she is too young to be my college professor.
3. I hate it when the waiter comes to the table to ask me how everything is right after I take that enormous bite of food that will take me a good five minutes to chew.
4. I wish that when I told my parents that I wanted to go to school out in Iowa, one of them would have hit me….hard.
5. Sometimes when something in a classroom or public place smells bad, I pretend to be overly disgusted just so that people know that whatever smells is not me.
6. Sometimes I lie about how Disney songs got onto my itunes and I say that my younger siblings downloaded them.
7. I will never understand why people blow their nose and then look at the Kleenex.
8. There should be a sanitization area outside of the ball pit at Chuck E. Cheese, that’s how swine flu starts.
9. I’ve learned that you don’t need to be the prettiest girl at the bar, you just need to be willing to show the most cleavage.

10. What is the point of sunflower seeds? It’s too much work to eat. Buy them out of the shell.

11. When people tell you that it’s what’s on the inside that counts, what they are telling you is that you might need a nose job.

12. When I buy tampons at the store, I don’t care who is at the checkout stand. When I buy pads, I make sure it’s a girl….or a really ugly guy.

13. I can’t believe I went through my entire college career without ever getting arrested or charged with something alcohol related.

14. I feel like I always have better and funnier stories than other people and I don’t enjoy having to pretend to laugh at my friends stories.

15. Was there educational value in playing Oregon Trail, or did we just have time to kill in computer class?

16. There are some things that should never be diet or reduced fat.

17. If I meet a boyfriend on a dating website, I’m likely to lie and tell my friends we met at a bar.

18. Who thought that website with all the local sex offenders in your neighborhood would be a good idea? That shit is scary….no matter where you live.

19. Sometimes it’s hard for me to remember if I’ve actually met a person, or if I’ve just extensively stalked their facebook profile.

20. The shamwow and the snuggie are very disappointing products. Why didn’t I think if that?

21. Why is it that when I go out and I look like I just crawled out of the gutter, I always run into people I know?

22. I will never understand people who forego smoking because of the health risks, yet they will go tanning.

23. I don’t understand the point of washing a measuring cup that was only used to measure out water.

24. Sometimes my favorite songs get used in crappy commercials. This pisses me off.

25. Hey vampire trend, that’ll do. That’ll fucking do.

26. People never look as good in real life as they do in their avatar. That’s a fact.

27. I think women who carry mace or tazers are women who think “I’m really good looking, and someone is totally gonna try and rape this fine ass of mine.” I always think they are full of themselves.

28.  Buffet food always tastes like regret….always.

29.  It’s fun to paint your hand with rubber cement and then peel it off, I don’t care what anyone says.

30. If you are a woman, and you type your symptoms into WebMD,  I think that 90% of the time it will tell you you’re  pregnant.

31. Birth control and pregnancy tests should be in the “pest control” section of the convenient store.

32. I automatically dislike anyone with a sub par grasp of basic grammar skills. Please learn to use the correct forms of “they’re, there, and their.” Thanks.

33. Why is it that in all of my really difficult classes in college, I have a foreign professor who barely speaks English?

34. Foreign professors should not be allowed to dock points off of papers for grammar mistakes. Guess what? “How do you call it?” is the BIGGEST grammar mistake possible.

35. I don’t care what your political affiliation is, Barrack Obama is our President right now and you should show him respect whether you voted for him or not.

36. Whenever things are really not going well for me, I wonder if it was because I neglected to forward that email chain letter to fifteen friends.

37. I have yet to meet a woman who finds the smell of axe body spray appealing.

38. Sometimes after alcohol induced decisions, I wish I were a praying mantis and could bite the heads off of men I’ve slept with. I can’t have those bad decisions wandering the streets.

39. Sometimes I pretend to be dyslexic and when the teddy graham box says you can eat 24 bears for 130 calories, I eat 130 bears and pretend it was only 24 calories.

40. No one looks cool when they wear their sunglasses indoors, douche.

I don’t get it…

So, my lovely class this evening was canceled. I had put on a cute outfit as opposed to my regular sweats and a t-shirt, a cute scarf, and had my hair done up all cute for a presentation that was supposed to be given in class. I had my scalding hot pumpkin spice latte in my hand and I was bound and determined to stay awake and focused during class….the class that was canceled.

This of course is a good thing though because A, a class that lasts for three hours creates way too much daydreaming and doodling time for me and B, this class cuts into my new favorite show, Glee. If I don’t get to see Glee on Wednesday nights when it airs, I become an incredibly bitter and angry person. It gets me through my week, people!

On my drive home to curl up on the couch in front of the cozy fireplace that I can’t turn on because A, I don’t know how to work it and B, I’m too poor to pay for that extra utility bill, I noticed something interesting. Actually, I noticed something rather annoying. Outside of my building earlier today around noon I heard constant honking. Now, if you live in Ames, Iowa, you would know that traffic jams and hurried people aren’t really a source of problems around these parts. The honking would sometimes last for a few minutes and then die down for a bit only to start up again.  Once I had driven back to my apartment, I found the source of the honking. There were about seven people standing outside holding signs that said “Honk for Peace.”

What. The. Fuck. How is honking for peace going to solve any sort of problem in the world? What you’re doing when you honk outside of my peaceful apartment is called “making noise.” Noise, if you didn’t know, isn’t very fucking peaceful, jack wads. In fact, when you “honk for peace,” all that makes me want to do is scream for humanity and then go outside and straight up murder your stupid ass.

Now, I love peace as much as the next person, but I also love quiet and I’m a fan of time management. What do you do in your life that you can afford to take the day off of work to go stand out on the street and ask people to honk for peace? Guess what? Creating noise does not create peace and it’s a little bit of a contradiction. It doesn’t make sense. Just like low fat krispy kreme donuts don’t make sense. And also, that guy at the gas station that I saw today who had the bumper stickers for “going green”  and “peace and love” on the back of his HUMMER doesn’t make sense. If you’re going to drive a military utility vehicle around that guzzles gas, can you spare me the peace and love bullshit? Because unless you’re singing kumbaya in there and smoking a peace pipe, I just can’t understand you, even if you do use corn based E-85 fuel.

So please people, if you must honk, honk because some douche-tard driver forgot a turn signal or is stopped at a green light. Don’t honk for peace because A, you’re not helping the cause at all, and B, you’re kind of fucking annoying.

Seriously…

So…this isn’t really a real blog post so much as it is a thought that I just can’t fit into the 140 characters that twitter provides=) Anyways, did you all hear about the woman in Indonesia who gave birth to a nineteen pound baby? Yea, you read that right, NINETEEN POUNDS. What the fuck kind of pregnancy cravings have you been having that allowed your sea monkey fetus to grow that large inside of you? I mean, seriously. This is why I never want to get pregnant. The whole birthing process really scares the crap outta me. With my luck, I would be the woman to give birth to a full grown teenager or some sort of freaky crap like that. NINETEEN pounds! Oh. My. God. 

People always say that giving birth is such a joy and it’s so special and beautiful. I just don’t think that anything would be special or beautiful about some living thing coming ripping out of my favorite orifice. Does your vagina EVER look the same after something that traumatic happens to it?

I also really think I would suck at having a kid because I hear that you have to make sacrifices and compromise and give them unconditional love. Here’s how I see a conversation with my child going: 

Kid: “Mommy! I want the new Hannah Montana CD’s”

Me: “Well, I have an expensive shoe fetish….sucks for you, kiddo. Get a job.”

I wish I were kidding about that.

Yea…kids are cute, but so are Marc Jacobs dresses.

Project: I’m a hot mess

So, this Saturday I’m participating in an event called Project Runway. It’s basically exactly what it sounds like. It’s a campus run event in which teams of designers have eight hours to design and complete one outfit and send it down the runway to be judged. Sweet P., from a previous season of the actual show on Bravo (now on Lifetime channel) will be here and will also be one of the judges. My friends asked if I would be on their team and I reluctantly said yes. For one thing, the competition begins at 8 am on a Saturday and I REALLY love to sleep. For another thing, I kind of hate sewing and the last time I sewed a project, it was a disaster. Naturally, I thought I would share my story with all of you.

I went into the field of fashion design with very little knowledge of sewing. I could hem things and sew on buttons, but creating an entire garment in an allotted amount of time was not my cup of tea. In fact, I would sooner sew through my fingers than be asked to sew an entire piece of clothing. Cutting out the patterns, draping dress forms, and measuring to ensure fit is not my idea of a good time. My sophomore year of college, I was in a pattern making class and I was determined to show the best final project of all time. I was going to make a wedding dress. I spent over one hundred dollars on beautiful fabric and crystal buttons, organza, and hundreds of swarovski crystals that would cover the skirt of the dress.

I was in love with my design. My professor however was less than impressed. She made her own changes to my design and suggested that I implement them in order to receive a good grade which, by the way, I think is a fuck-ton of bull shit. I mean, we’re supposed to express our creativity. Design is not subjective. Now I was less than thrilled to start sewing this dress. At the same time, I was preparing for a final exam which would test not only your sewing skills, but also your sketching, pattern making, textile science, and comprehensive skills as well. The pressure got to be too much for me. 

I already knew that I really hated sewing. Creative design just was not the right major for me. The fabric that I chose to work with for the wedding dress was a nightmare. It kept tearing and splitting and it was difficult to line up evenly. One night before the final dress was due and I still needed to sew up the left side of the dress. I took a huge bottle of wine, poured it into a nalgene bottle, and walked to the sewing lab from my apartment. This does not end well. I got entirely too drunk to sew anything in a straight line. The more I stressed, the more wine my friend and I consumed while sewing our project. By the next day, the dress was complete, but I had to make a make shift sash to tie around the dress so my drunken sewing skills didn’t ruin my grade. 

The final exam went even worse. I sat at the sewing table and we had about twenty minutes to sew a small jacket. I couldn’t stand it. I hated sewing and I knew I wanted to change my major. I had an epiphany right then and there. I was then handed a scantron test in which I proceeded to fill in the bubbles and draw sail boats and hearts all over the exam. I had fucking had it with this major. I knew I needed to change and do less sewing in order to be happy.

So, the next day I spoke to my advisor and switched my major on my degree transcript from creative design to product development, which deals more with computer aided design. 

The funny part? I managed to get a passing grade on that final exam and a ninety percent on the wedding dress I had sewn. The not so funny part? In order to celebrate I decided to squeeze my fat ass into the wedding dress and parade around the apartment with my bottle of wine while toasting my room mate, Lauren with my successes. Unfortunately, since the dress was made to fit on a dress form sized six and not on a human, I had to be strategically cut out of it. 

My room mate took a picture of me the night that I drunkenly sewed the dress. I think it perfectly sums up my emotions regarding being a seamstress. I will look similar to this on Saturday at Project Runway…wish me luck!=)

Happy Bright Day…

As I sat here and tried to write this, I found my thoughts elsewhere. The first week of my last year of college has ended and the fact that I don’t still live in Los Angeles with my boyfriend has not yet set in completely. I’m not writing this post to talk about how much I miss my summer though or how much I think my last year of class ever will drag on. I 

had to go to the store prior to writing this post. Sometimes I need to just get out of the apartment before I go “stir crazy” as someone likes to call it. Sometimes I need to go to the store to find inspiration for a post too. Often times I find inspiration at the bottom of a wine bottle, but this time to avoid misspelling and incoherent sentences, I opted to search for inspiration to strike while striking the bottom of a pint of ice cream. Soy ice cream….dammit lactose intolerance.

Anyways, nearly twenty-two years ago my birth mother placed me for adoption. As many of you readers know, I finally re-connected with her last year and getting to know her and the rest of my family has been, in a word, surreal. I never in a million years dreamed that I would get along so well and feel so at home around people that I had just met. I finally found that missing link in my life. Suddenly, everything seemed to fit.

When I was younger and my parents would ask me what I wanted for my birthday, I would always ask for a picture of my birth mom. It was the only thing I wanted. Just a simple photo so that this faceless and unknown woman would actually seem like a real person to me. I told my parents “You don’t have to give me any presents. All I want is to see a picture. I just want to see what she looks like.” My heart would sink every time I woke up on my birthday morning and saw boxes and bags full of tissue paper. I knew it meant that there was no photo. People say that a photo is worth a thousand words, but I always knew that her photo would be worth so much more. It would speak volumes to me. I wanted to know where I got my eyes and my smile and my cheeks from. I didn’t want my birth mom to just be some figment of my imagination. Some word….”birth mom”…it sounded so harsh at times and impersonal, but s comforting and endearing at times as well. 

On my birthdays I would often stare into the distance and wonder “Is she thinking of me? Does she miss me? Does she remember what the day at the hospital was like?” I don’t need to ask any of these questions because I know that she was doing the same thing. I finally have all the pieces to my little puzzle. 

This year, I don’t need to ask for anything for my birthday. I feel like my life has finally come together and things have started to fall into place. I have everything I have ever wanted.

Although, if I’m speaking honestly (which I pretty much always do), there is one other person I wonder about. Last year I contacted my biological father as well. We emailed back and forth a bit. I actually found him on facebook. He seemed shocked that I found him and also less than thrilled to get to know me. He offered to answer my questions, but didn’t really seem to bother asking a whole lot about me and my life. He told me he was there at the hospital after I was born. He held me. He spent some time with me at the hospital. 

…. All of a sudden, the emails stopped. He never called. He never planned a visit. He sent me one picture of himself, his wife, and his three little girls (my little sisters). I have to wonder if he’ll write to me on my birthday. If he’ll remember. If he’ll think about me….

At times I don’t understand how one could have a daughter, have seen her at birth, and be completely uninterested in the life that daughter leads today. Especially because he is a parent now. Doesn’t he get it? Doesn’t he wonder what he missed out on with me?

Right now though, none of what goes on with my biological father seems to matter all that much. I’ve worked on accepting the fact that he may never be a part of my life. But really, my mom is so damn wonderful, she makes up for all of that (not to mention the rest of the kick ass and amazingly loving family from her side.) She used to call my birthday her “dark day,” but now for the first time it can be a bright day. Happy bright day to you, mom! I love you.

 

One year old, Maddie=)

I’m kind of a shit show…

One of my favorite stories to pass onto people is the story of why hard liquor is no longer a friend of mine. I never really drank in high school with the exception of possibly three times in which a margarita at a friends house was involved which typically ended after two drinks and passing out with her dog Milo on the couch. (If you are already a light weight, the elevation in Colorado makes it difficult to hold your liquor.)

When I got to college, my freshman year roommate did not drink either. This phase of not drinking in college was short lived only after we discovered that drinking was quite fun and that we could typically get guys to pay for drinks for us. This excited us to no avail. We never really got drunk though until the fateful night of Halloween. My roommate Rachel was dressed in all white and was playing the part of “naughty nurse” while I had on a sailor costume, naughty of course.

We decided to go to some random house party that Rachel knew of. I don’t know how, but she always knew where the best parties were going on without ever knowing anyone who was actually throwing the party.

 I can remember walking up to the house and seeing a girl who was  sitting outside on some concrete steps. She was dressed in all green with glittery wings on. I asked her what she was and noticed one antennae bouncing around on a spring on her headband. “I’m a cricket.” She said. She was clearly drunk. “A mean boy ripped off my other antennae after I tried to get out from under his magnifying glass.” She sat there with her red solo cup in hand. “Try some!” She offered. “It’s delicious.” I told her I would go get my own inside. It was delicious. It tasted exactly like fruit punch. Some guy in a very small tarzan-like loin cloth was scooping it out of a large bucket where fruit was floating around in. It was  red. It was toxic. It was jungle juice. 

I couldn’t taste any alcohol in it and continued to drink cup after cup that was handed to me. It was around cup number seven that I really started to feel it and desperately needed to lie down. I searched for Rachel through the crowd of pirate hookers and men dressed as Britney Spears. I finally found her near a slutty red riding hood and a boy dressed as a jockey. “We’re heading to see Darell. Wanna walk with us?” Did I want to walk ten blocks with her? I could barely stand by myself, let alone manage to place one foot in front of the other. My friend, “slutty grecian goddess,” offered to drive me there. 

I was at the building Darrell lived in, but there was one problem. I couldn’t remember what floor he lived on. Rachel’s phone was going straight to voicemail. I sat on the curb of the street in the grass for a while. Then I sat in the lobby of the building for a while. Then I sat in the corner of the elevator for a while. 

I eventually decided to just check all seven floors of the building for Darrell. I knew where his apartment was in relation to the elevator, I just didn’t know which floor it was on. After barging in on some random persons apartment and sitting on their couch for a while, they helped me locate the apartment I was looking for.

Darrell opened his door and said “Wow, you should lay down!”

He was right. I needed to lie down…in a hospital bed. I felt so sick. I just wanted to go back to my dorm room. I needed to find Rachel. She had both of our room keys in her purse. After a quick nap on a futon and searching for Rachel for a good half hour, my neighbor Alyssa found me and helped me take the drunk bus home.

“Maddie?” She asked. “Do you know you were passed out on Lincoln Way (the main street in Ames, Iowa) and a group of fraternity brothers helped you up and got you inside this building? They told me where you would be. I’m taking you home.”

I sat on the bus and remember petting some girls long blonde hair and telling her how pretty she was. She told me that my boobs were falling out of my dress. I thanked the kind, pretty stranger and Alyssa helped me stumble up to my room.

“I don’t have my room key. I couldn’t find Rachel.” I told her.

She let me sleep in her room after I threw up every last bit of my fun night in the bathroom. 

Here’s the fun part f the story. Did I mention I had a concert the next day to sing in? Did I also mention that it was ten in the morning and my room was still locked and I was still in my naughty sailor costume? Did I also mention that this was the weekend that my mother happened to be in town?

I had to meet my mom in the lobby of the building in my sailor costume and explain to her that I was a slut and an alcoholic and had locked myself out of the room. It was a really fun mother-daughter bonding weekend for the two of us. 

After the concert, where I mouthed all the words because I thought if I really sang I was going to puke, I met up with Rachel in our dorm.

“Where the hell were you last night?!” She demanded. “I was at Darrell’s and I couldn’t find you anywhere!”

I told her I was there too. We had both looked for each other and had no luck in reuniting that night. 

Then, Rachel developed her pictures of halloween night. In every picture she took at Darrell’s place, Rachel was in the foreground of the picture and I was in the background, passed out in various locations, slung over some guy’s shoulder, or sleeping on the futon.

It was then that I decided that I should stop drinking….for like….ever. 

Cinderella is a Cunt. Thanks Disney.

This summer, I decided to go off of my anti-depressant medication. I was finally happy and carefree, so what did I need to be on pills for?! This was a dumb idea. I’ve learned that I can’t really function without my medication at times, but I hate going back on it because when I do, the first few days I start taking the pills again, I get very sick. I have a headache and I feel nauseous and it’s not something I like to inflict upon myself.

I worried about a lot of things last night and finally let out some stress and a few tears so I could wear myself out and go to sleep. The boy, however, caught me crying. I HATE crying in front of people. I feel dumb and vulnerable and I don’t like.

“What is this?” he asked as he wiped a tear.

“Umm….nothing…..my contacts just made my eyes really watery tonight. It’s nothing.” I said trying to hold back some tears. I didn’t want him to catch me crying. He probably already thinks I’m enough of a basket case of emotions sometimes.

“Yea…I’m not buying that. What’s the matter?” he said.

I was stressing out about leaving Los Angeles….and more over, leaving him. I have two weeks left here and it finally hit me that I’ll be returning to Iowa soon to finish up my last school year. I guess I get worked up about leaving because having a long distance relationship can be really hard. I’m especially used to men in my life letting me down. I’ve had a failed engagement already, I don’t have a good relationship with my father, and my biological dad wants nothing to do with me and all of those things really hurt. It’s hard for me not to be jaded about love and not to worry about a relationship with a man. 

I wanted to tell him this and talk to him last night, but he hates when I get into some long conversation late at night when he just wants to go to bed. I understand this frustration with me of his, but at the same time, sometimes I feel like when we’re in bed together, it’s the best time for us to talk. We both wear ear plugs to sleep so we generally seem like a bunch of idiots who can’t hear each other and are yelling back and forth. I feel like when we’re in bed together though it’s the perfect time to talk because it’s the only time that all of his attention is focused on me, with out the distraction of the television or the phone or the computer or chores.

I worry at times that because we moved in together so quickly, we lost a lot of the romance in our relationship. There was never really any normal “dating” that went on. Very quickly, mystery was shot to hell. When you live with someone, they know it was you who farted in the bathroom and they know that the bag full of make-up is the thing that keeps you from looking like the creature of the black lagoon everyday. There’s no hiding things when you live together. It’s all out in the open. 

I’m concerned too that we’ve become too predictable. I like some spontaneity in my life once in a while. We have developed a bedroom routine/rut where we watch the same shows every night, go to bed the same time, and have sex the same time. It’s hard not to develop a pattern though when you go to work, come home, eat dinner, and go to sleep only to wake up and do it all over again.

I’m just worried about how we will make a relationship work when we are living several states away. I’ll miss him so much. I’ll miss the butterflies I still get in my stomach when he kisses me, the way he constantly makes me laugh, the way he reads to me before bed some nights.

So last night as I tried to muster up my tears, the boy told me that I had to try to not let all the worries of my day get to me. I can’t think of things like that late at night. He told me that when he tries to fall asleep, he thinks of happy thoughts, like playing third base for the Dodgers. I laughed at this. When I was little and I couldn’t sleep, I would pretend and dream that I was Cinderella. This was, of course before I realized that Disney and “Happily ever after” was a complete crock of shit, manifested by evil minds to make little girls incredibly vulnerable to love. 

I’m sure leaving in two weeks will be hard, but I’m also sure we’ll do our best to make it all work out in the end.

In the meantime though, I went back on my anti-depressants this morning and while I will most likely be pretty sick today, the effect in the long run will be good one.

I think Cinderella had to be on some strong medications as well. What kind of mentally ill girl talks to mice and rides around in a pumpkin after all?

I. Am. Dumb.

 

So, I discovered last night that when you eat spicy foods before you go to bed, it doesn’t tend to end well. It’s not that I ate kung pao chicken or anything at ten o’clock at night, but I did drink some spicy V8 juice that the boy brought home. He wasn’t feeling well and he thought he should drink more juice. I’ve never heard that V8 juice (especially the spicy variation) makes ones stomach feel better, but oh well. I should also mention that he bought apple juice as well, but really no one cares. 

So anyways, right after I drank the spicy juice, homeboy decides to mention to me that drinking spicy things before bed is never a good idea because it leads to bad dreams and crap like that. THEN, he googles that shit for me and there were all of these stories about how spicy things before bed leads to nightmares and scary dreams and what not. (AND, I also tweeted about having a bad dream involving a fish and someone told me that fish in dreams is a sign of fertility and pregnancy. Why would anyone tell me that? Don’t fucking put those ideas into my head!) Anyways…

So what happens? First of all, it took me about forty minutes to fall asleep because I’m a paranoid crazy person who lives in Los Angeles. Second of all, I had the weirdest fucking dream that I’ve had in a long time.

I actually had a series of dreams that were weird and freaky and I kept waking up in the middle of my sleep.

I dreamed that I went to Pinkberry, which is within walking distance from out apartment. I’ve been craving Pinkberry for the past few days and naturally, sweets and candy are part of my dreams.

Anyways, in this dream where I was walking to Pinkberry, I dreamed that I got SHOT. It was only with a BB gun and it was only a dream, but I would imagine that that would still hurt quite a bit. I woke up after that dream and couldn’t sleep comfortably at all for the rest of the night. I kept waking the boy up (like I usually do.) I steal covers and pillows and hog the bed, but I rarely realize that I’m doing it.

So, last night I had to have Pinkberry. HAD to. I needed it! If I dream about getting something, I usually won’t rest until I have it. So the boy took me to go and get some frozen yogurt. He walked with me to make sure I wouldn’t get shot because I’m a paranoid psycho and I think that dreams can sometimes be a premonition. We got to Pinkberry and the server laughed at how excited I was about getting some yogurt. 

“I’m super excited! I had a dream about Pinkberry!” I reassured the server. 

“No, really. I went online to look at all of the flavor combinations I could have so I could decide what I wanted.”

He laughed at me.

“You laugh at me like I’m joking with you, but I’m being entirely serious.” I said to him. “And I take my Pinkberry selections very seriously!”

Obviously I love making a fool of myself whenever I get the chance.

I can’t believe the boy puts up with my ridiculous antics sometimes. He just looks at me and shakes his head or laughs most of the time.

He also made fun of me last night for scarfing down pizza and THEN wanting frozen yogurt. Did I mention I’m lactose intolerant? My tummy hurts today.

The lesson in this? Avoid spicy foods before bed, and the combination of yogurt and pizza when you are lactose intolerant. I’m fucking brilliant.

P.S.-Thanks for all of your concern about my sunburn! You readers are too kind=) It’s better now that I’m peeling. No worries, my dumb ass is staying out of the sun from now on. I’ll resign to being the palest person to ever roam the beach. 

P.P.S.-Sorry this post is dullsville. I have writers block!!! Grrr…..! The boy told me I need a new hobby and then he suggested I drink more. I couldn’t agree more with him. I’ll be consuming more wine soon and writing more drunken blog posts. Those are always amusing. Look forward to it, people. I know I am.

Humiliation…For the Win!

 

So, yesterday, I got this wild hair up my butt to go to the beach. I don’t know why I decided to go. The beach and I are never friends. I have a bikini top that my boobs need to be shoved into, i leave with sand in unpleasant places, and i more often than not acquire a tiny sunburn. I hate putting on suntan lotion, but it’s rather necessary given that I am transparent. Have you all met my mother, by the way? The African American woman who gave birth to me, but totally forgot to give me melanin but blessed me with black girl, curly, crazy hair and a booty to boot. Yea, thanks mom. 

I hate putting on suntan lotion, but I do it anyways. I never ever try to tan as it’s just really pointless and even unhealthy. So, being the health conscious girl that I am, what did I buy at the store? That’s right kids, one hundred SPF neutrogena sun screen. One hundred. Who does that? Me, that’s who. I get made fun of SO much for it too. Everyone else in the car on the way to the beach smelled like baby oil. I smelled like I bathed in a vat of sun screen…which, in case you are wondering, isn’t my favorite smell. 

We were at the beach for about two hours. I sat with a towel over my face to prevent freckling and I re-applied my sun screen once while I was there. You wanna know where I forgot to reapply though? My entire freaking back and my feet. I had dug my feet deep into the sand and let them cool off. I was also hiding the fact that my pedicure looked less than desirable right about then. 

When we left the beach, I was pleased to see that my arm looked slightly tanner. I quickly realized however that it was simply a combination of new freckles and dirty sand. Damn. Too good to be true.

After getting home I noticed that my feet were on FIRE. I looked down to see that my red toe nail polish perfectly matched the color of the rest of my foot. I could barely walk on them. I had small burns on my breasts, my thighs (I sound like a KFC meal here, don’t I? Breasts and thighs!) and on my back. The worst burn was on my back though. It looked so red compared to my pale white skin.

I slipped on a strapless comfy dress and tried to find a position to sit in that didn’t hurt me. The boy got home and was shocked by how red my back was turning. It wasn’t bad enough that I needed to see a doctor. I’d gotten a burn much worse than this once on vacation in Florida. Still though, it was miserable.

I lay on the couch as the boy brought me ice packs, rubbed creams on me, and sat next to me and rubbed….well, he pretty much rubbed my ass because it was the only thing on me that was not burned and didn’t seem to hurt when he touched it. 

“No more sun for you, little lobster.” He said. “My poor little lobster….you want me to rub butter on you?” He joked and tried to make me feel better.

The worst part of this all? I feel awful because I was supposed to walk to the market today and go and buy a birthday present for the boy (who is celebrating tomorrow) and I can’t even walk my feet hurt so bad. I’m supposed to be baking a birthday cake and wrapping and buying a present for him and all I can do is sit here and reflect upon what a dumb idea it was to go out to the beach. Let this be a lesson to me.

I was practically asleep and in tears when he snapped this photo of me. The lesson of this story? Maddie should never go out in the California sun again. Even with 100 SPF, I still manage to get burned. Ouch!

Oh, and since Sebastian asked in the comments of my last blog post for a picture of what I have been looking like on a daily basis, I give you this: It’s titled “The boy broke my hair dryer so I don’t do my hair and I’m unemployed and enjoy comfy clothes.” Cute, right? Wow, that’s two shitty pics of me in one blog post. Sweet!

Love is the key…and I’m the dumb-ass who locked herself out.

When it comes to dating and relationships, my friends and family know to expect nothing more than complete failure and a “laugh your ass off” story about how it all went down. I’ve usually been the token single girl in my group of friends. Everyone else holds someone else’s hand and the only thing I’m left with a grip on are several emptied wine bottles polished off by yours truly. It’s been so long since I was in a good relationship that I almost forgot how to do it. Here I am with this wonderful guy and all I can fixate on is writing a blog post about how annoying it is that he never tells me I’m pretty? I. Am. Dumb. 

I realized what a dumb post the previous blog entry was only after I had posted it, but I decided to leave it up anyways. The night that I wrote that post, the boy came home and didn’t turn on his computer or play with his sexy girl i-phone apps at all. He sat next to me on the couch and told me that he liked my hair (which is basically as good as saying “You look pretty.” Right? Baby steps, people. Baby steps.)

We sat on the couch this past weekend and discussed when the last time I posted something on my blog was.

“I dunno.” I shrugged. “I’m done writing posts about you though, it’s too weird.”

“Wait….” He started. “You posted something about ME?” 

Shit.

And he didn’t read it yet?

Double shit.

And then he proceeded to read my entry and laugh out loud. He told me I could write about him, but I don’t think he was expecting my first mention of him in my blog to be such a harsh one. Hey, I let him off easily though compared to the “Karma is a Bitch” blog post (Part One and Part Two) in which I tore a new one out of a lovely hate mail I’d received. 

Anyways, it’s only fair that the boy has a chance to speak his part. He came up with this lovely rebuttal and demanded that I post it for you all to enjoy.

Thanks for the glowing report on our time together, princess. I’m glad all of your fans now think I’m Al Bundy. Pfft. Take it easy with the hyperbole, Shakespeare. The “other women we live with.” You make it sound like I have playboy centerfolds pasted all over the walls. Slow down, junior.

Next, I MUST know what Miley Cyrus is up to at all times. If those informative web pages also have some bikini pics of Megan Fox, so be it. They’re famous, that’s what they do for a living, have strangers gawk at them and judge their weird thumbs and huge gaps between their bosoms. You’re wrong on this anyway; 90% of my time on the Internet is sports sites and Play Him Off Keyboard Cat videos. Be grateful I don’t make you sit through 3+ hours of Dodger games EVERY night. Instead, I get attacked on the couch by your bosoms while watching cake-baking shows and Paris Hilton BFF shows. You didn’t mention that, did you?

And finally, coming home to a girl on the couch wearing sweats and a t-shirt doesn’t scream to me for compliments. “Oh, darling, that neon green shirt with the hot pink letters that say ‘University of San Diego’ really brings out your eyes. Who are you wearing tonight? Adidas? You’re a vision.” Sure, maybe I don’t throw the compliments around, but come on! Since when are you looking for that? You’re a lot more casual in real life than you let on, with your college attire. I’m not living with one of the Versace heirs.

I am totally a victim here, totally slandered. If any of your readers have jobs, they’ll understand what it’s like, that sometimes I get home and I just want to know what Kristen Bell had for lunch that day, and what Z-list celebutard she’s banging this week.  Life is perfect.

 

See why I love him so much? Funny guy, right? For the record though, I think he likes the Paris Hilton BFF show much more than I do and I think we’re both losing a lot of brain cells from watching it.