Posts Tagged 'me likie'

Banksy’s Love Poem.

Funny cause it’s true.


Gym People. They scare me.

I recently joined a new Fancy Pants Gym [where I am paying astro-fucking-nomical monthly dues] under the guise that THIS is the most convenient gym for me to attend. Thus, despite my umpteen other various gym related memberships, joining THIS gym will cause me to actually work out, resulting in my becoming a skinny Diet Coke, as opposed a pleasantlyish plump Diet Coke.
Unfortunately, however, there are few problems with my new plan.

Problem #1:: I fucking hate the gym. Because 1) the gym makes you sweaty and tired [and not in a good way], 2) pleasantlyish plump people such as myself don’t look hot in gym clothes [no matter how awesome Lululemon makes their damn pants] and 3) gyms are gross.

Problem #2:: Fancy Pants Gym is worst than most because 99% of the people defy nature and are gorgeous while working out. I am not one of these 99% percent. This makes me feel like a failure. [Addendum 1:: This turns out not to be so much of a problem. While I am not trying to pick anyone up at the gym, having lots of cute boys around ain’t so bad.]

Problem #3:: Fancy Pants Gym, despite the aforementioned astro-fucking-nomical monthly dues, does not have enough tvs. How am I expected to get anything done without watching tv? This isn’t the third world people. One tv per person at ALL TIMES. Thems the rules. [Addendum 2:: This is totally false. I must not have noticed on my walk through, but the place has shit loads of TV. So many in fact, that no matter where I looked tonight, all I could see was the Lakers sucking.]
Problem #4:: People I know work out at Fancy Pants Gym. I do like the notion of looking not hot in gym clothes while being sweaty and tired in front of people I know. I bet it is not that awesome for them either.

Problem #5:: I suck at working out. From afar, it may look like I am doing awesome. You will often find me dripping sweat on a treadmill while seemingly running my tush off. A closer look, however, will reveal that my “sprinting” is the result of the treadmill only moving at 4.3 miles per hour. I don’t really get how that is possible either. I am an enigma.

And STILL, despite all the problems, I am off to the gym. Right….NOW. God bless me.

[Addendum 3:: Done working out. Feeling kind of awesome.]

Due to circumstance, I am prohibited about writing about my dating life. Actually, not so much “prohibited” as trying my bestest to abstain. As a result, I was finding it really difficult to write posts to inhabit my blog. Turns out there isn’t much to my life except lists and boys [and drinking].

Then, someone said “Predator.” [Bear with me people, this is a desperation post]

The mention of the movie title instantly took me back to my New York Era [aka – the Good Old Days, the Always Broke Days, the Really Badly Behaved Days, and Damn My Apartment Is Small And Really Expansive Days], where I spent the vast majority of my days and nights with a pack of five guys [one of them being my then boyfriend] with the occasional rif/raff random unsavory character mixed in. We spent about 5% our time being students [typically, the week or two before finals], 20% sleeping, and the rest [don’t ask me what “the rest” equals, I forgot math after high school] engaging in some combination of drinking/eating [tacos usually]/watching tv/general time wasting. Mostly drinking and wasting time. Or are those the same thing? Gosh, I was so good at wasting time back then.

On one particular night we all decided [one person decided, the rest of us were sheep] to gather at home base for what seemed at the time the to be the Worst. Plan. Ever. We were supposed to eat, drink, hang out [ok so far]…and watch the critically acclaimed movie Predator 2 [this is where the plan was lost me]. About three minutes into the movie, someone thought we ought to kick it up a notch by making bets on what point in the movie Gary Bussy was going to die*. There was an over/under, vegas style, and each person had to pick a specific time. You would think a bet of this nature would require some sort of high stake to be exciting, but in our case, the sheer glory of being right was always enough.

Immediatly after the bets were memorialized on the white board [why was a white board on hand? I have no idea] the night was transformd from a regular drinking night in a teeny tiny New York City apartment [which, by the way, had mice] into complete and utter magic. The highlight was when Garry Bussy died [or seemed to anyhow] and then came back to LIFE! AND THEN DIED AGAIN!!! Seriously, an outside observer would think our fathers had just won the world series or the presidency or something. It was sheer pandemonium. So much drama. So much fun!

A friend of mine was in town visiting me that weekend and was on hand to witness the glory. I will never forget her glancing over to me at one point with the look that said “So, this hooting and hollering, couch-jumping, Predator 2 watching jackass is your boyfriend? And these are the future high powered lawyers of America?”


* Come to think of it, I don’t remember if it was Gary or some other actor.

I like it twice a day.

Posting that is.

Anyhow, so I am TOTALLY f-word-ing obsessed with that Coldplay iTunes commercial. I don’t like Coldplay so much as a band, but I am so oddly/creepily/hugely intrigued (and maybe a little turned on?) by the way Chris Martin flails his arms around during the whole thing. Especially around seconds 20 to 22.

Can. Stop. Watching.


Every once in a while I rediscover something that I used to love and then forgot all about. Probably, as I do with most things, I ate/played/used/did it infinity times in a row until the very thought of it made me want to do something bad to my myself and/or others. And then a certain amount of time passes and then like magic, that long forgotten/shunned thing pops back into my life. And I can’t imagine why in the world I would have shelved such a glorious thing in the first place, because basically, it’s so fucking awesome.

Today, I made two such rediscoveries.

First: The Turkey Sandwich. Simple. Amazing. Healthy-esq. Will likely be my lunch and dinner for the next four to eight days.

Second: Ocean Breaths Salty by Modest Mouse. What an excellent song. Probably not top ten style, but if it should ever play on the radio, I promise the tuner will not be messed with. And if anyone I am with even comes NEAR the tuner, such person will lose .02 points on the “How Much Does Diet Coke Like X Person?” scale.

Also, does anyone still say “tuner” when referring to the radio channel changer? Why am I sounding like a 60 year old all of a sudden?

Well that is that and this is this.
Will you tell me what you saw and I’ll tell you what you missed,
when the ocean met the sky.
You missed when time and life shook hands and said goodbye.
When the earth folded on itself.
And said “Good luck, for your sake I hope heaven and hell
are really there, but I wouldn’t hold my breath.”
You wasted life, why wouldn’t you waste death?

I just scored another jesus skirt.

I start end every evening with a search on eBay. And I start this nightly session on eBay by seeking out a certain skirt that brings me the same amount of joy as jesus brings the jesus lovers. I am talking BIG JOY here. The skirt has just enough stretch to accommodate even the most gluttonous meal, and just enough fashion to make it wearable for all occasions. Hung over breakfast at Eat Well? No problem. Dinner with the friends at El Coyote? Sure. Drinks at Belmont? Still works. Impromptu drunken sleepover with some guy? Covered.

Sadly, the jesus skirt is no longer sold at my normal go to retailers, or any retailer in the whole wide world for that matter. Even a pleading call to the designer’s showroom proved useless. But eBay – my dear, sweet, hero eBay, has saved the day. I just purchased my third jesus skirt via an expertly executed auction snipe and I am happy as a peach. Because we all know that peaches are damn happy.

* I would like to note, that while I love this skirt dearly, probably more than I will my own children – it’s craftsmanship is shit. I have had to sew (and trust me, Diet Coke does not sew for just anything) numerous times to keep these suckers intact. To the unnamed designer: you should flog yourself for having the audacity to charge such exorbitant prices for an item of clothing that was likely constructed by Indonesian monkey’s.

Desiring to crawl back into my denial/utopia bubble.

Roomie replied to my email (calling it passive aggressive, by the way). Most of what she said, I disagree with. I won’t say as much though, because frankly, I am tired. I can’t take any more conflict for the duration of 2007 and at least the first quarter of 2008. December, all seven days of it, have been horrid. Damn you, December. Damn you to hell.

An intuitive told me today (yes, this ACTUALLY happened) that she senses a great deal of mental activity…but no action. And you know, I think she is right. So this weekend, I am going to put in my bestest faith effort to drag my cute little butt off of my exceedingly comfortable and comforting couch and get out there and do some stuff. Thanks, intuitive called sunshine.

End Note:

Chocolate really is just amazing. Better than duct tape and the wheel even. Better than portable music devices. But not better than platform heels. God bless platform heels.

“I’ll take a quiet life
A handshake of carbon monoxide
No alarms and no surprises”

loving, living, driving (badly), laughing, growing, losing, crying, smiling, winning, learning, watching tv, calorie counting and thriving. in LA.


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