Tag Archives: everything is the worst

are you SERIOUS

July 25, 2012 By in Me Tags: , , , , , 19 Comments

So, it’s just one of those days I guess. Or weeks. Or years. Like, you finally think things are looking up. You pay off all your credit card debt, you get a new company car, your job doesn’t suck . . . sure, your entire department was eliminated from that website you used to write for, so there’s a couple extra hundred bucks a paycheck you don’t have anymore. But hey! You don’t have credit card payments anymore, and sure you don’t actually own a car, but obvious plus side! You don’t have to make car payments on a car you don’t own!  Like I said, things are looking up. And yeah, not having a roommate anymore is going to be a little more expensive, but remember the plus side? No car payments! No credit card debt!

And then, AND THEN.

Okay, I’m being dramatic, but seriously, SERIOUSLY. The universe is being a complete asshole to me this week. First I had to have this thing carved off my leg and biopsied (it’s probably nothing . . . probably) and now I have stitches in my leg and it hurts a lot and I’m being a huge baby about it. So I’ve got this new financial situation going on that I haven’t quite figured out, and I’m moving this weekend, and I’m gravely wounded . . . and then today happened. Again, it’s not that bad so don’t freak out or anything, but it FEELS that bad. Maybe that makes me an asshole, because so many people in this country and not in this country have it so much worse off than I do, and if so, THEN I AM AN ASSHOLE. But I actually felt like writing this out, which meant I felt like writing*, which meant I actually had something to say, which would be an improvement over the last month and a half of my life. So I’m going with it.

*Not feeling like writing is a side effect of something that has happened to me, but I’m not entirely sure which thing that was.

So I was all excited because I was picking up the keys to my new apartment today, but when I actually got there, the situation, as they say, deteriorated.** Due to a lot of boring but anxiety-causing details that I’m not going to go into, I basically have to double pay August’s rent on my new apartment, which was something I very much wanted to avoid. On top of that, once I got into the actual apartment, it smelled like smoke, and the configuration of the bathroom means that I am either going to have to put the litter-box on my bathroom counter, or in an extra closet in my bedroom. Either option is not going to be pleasant. So I was distracted, and aggravated, and I forgot to take a gate key with me on my way out. There was a large rock propping up the gate, and I went out of my way to kick the rock and close the gate. Approximately one second after I committed these actions, I realized that I was now effectively locked out of my apartment. That last part is my favorite part of this story, by the way.

**I may or may not have picked this phrase up into my vocabulary due to re-watching five seasons of Stargate SG-1*** in less than a week and a half. I never said I made good decisions all the time.

***Remember what I said above about not feeling like writing? What I meant was that I don’t feel like writing anything that isn’t Stargate SG-1 fanfiction, which is all my brain wants to do now. I say to that: Brain, you do what makes you happy, but the consequence of this is that I spent eight hours last Saturday writing something that I will show nobody and that will not help me further my writing career IN THE SLIGHTEST.

This is the state of mind I was in when I backed my two week old car into a pole and it went CRUNCH.

Now, I acknowledge this was 99% my fault, but I would also like to lodge a complaint with the universe and whatever fuckwit decided it was a good idea to put a tiny little pole in my blind spot. I mean, who puts a pole near the passenger side back door? It should be in the middle or up front so people can see it. This is how things would be in a logical universe. And did I mention before about how it’s not even technically my car? And about how my boss’s face went white when I told him what happened, and how I honest to God thought he was going to have a stress-induced aneurysm while standing in front of me because I, his idiot employee, sideswiped her brand new car INTO A MOTHERFUCKING POLE? DID I MENTION THAT PART YET.

To sum up: 1) I have stitches in my leg and it’s going to escalate and I’m probably going to die tomorrow from who knows what, maybe some flesh eating bacteria or gangrene; 2) I am moving this week, which means dishing out lots of money, and packing; 3) I HAVE TO PACK UP ALL MY THINGS AND MOVE THEM AND THEN UNPACK THEM AGAIN; 4) I am locked out of my new apartment; 5) Smoke and litter box in the closet; 6) I smashed up my two week old car that isn’t even mine and now I have to pay even more things and I hate everybody.

It’s like that wise philosopher Rachel Karen Green once said of life, the universe, whatever: ”I mean, isn’t that just kick-you-in-the-crotch spit on your neck fantastic?”

Yes, Rachel, YES IT IS.

Sometimes I shouldn’t say words.

December 17, 2010 By in Me Tags: , , , , 13 Comments

Yesterday, at the end of a full day of panic attack while attempting to write my Last Paper Ever, Alison came home and expressed dismay that I hadn’t finished yet.

“I was really looking forward to coming home and everything being happy here,” she said, as I pressed my face into the wall and moaned loudly in totally non-forced agony.

“Why can’t I write my p-a-a-a-a-per?” I said, banging my face against the refrigerator, having just slid my prostrate body over to it.

Her response to this was kind of awesome. And look, I’ll be the first to admit that even though I’m awesome — which it says right there in my blog header, so you know it’s true — I have my flaws. A lot of these flaws are only apparent if you live with me, because I take great care to hide them from the rest of the world. For example, I’m fucking annoying about being clean. If you leave your shit out for too long, I will clean it for you. If you don’t do your dishes, I will do them for you. I have been told by every person I’ve ever lived with that this makes people feel guilty. I try to tell them that I can’t help it, I just NEED to clean things, but making them feel guilty makes me feel guilty. It’s a whole cycle of guilt. Also, I’m super bad at calling people back on the telephone machine, I pilfer cookies, and I hit my snooze button for two hours sometimes in the morning, which wakes up everyone but me. Also, I use the word ‘also’ too much.

But back to the question that I moaned into the refrigerator.

“Why can’t I write my p-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-per?” I said again, with more A’s, my cheek squealing against the black whatever-it-is-refrigerators-are-made-of.

“Because you hate it,” she said, while stealing some of our other roommate’s pizza, “And you are REALLY bad at doing things you hate.”

And that’s true. I didn’t realize this was something most people don’t have a problem with. I’d never really thought about it before, but there are actually people in the world who deal with their shit and don’t end up with their faces planted on refrigerators, or having to wake up at four in the morning — current Mountain time — to finish a paper that should have been due by five in the afternoon the day before, just because they couldn’t pull their shit together enough to write ten more pages.

“Goodbye,” I said to Alison, “I’m going to kill myself now.”

“No, you’re not,” she said. “Just write words. Words that you think.”

“I can’t,” I said. “It’s too hard. I’m going to fail.”

“You would rather kill yourself than fail?”

“Yes.”

Don’t touch the logic. It’s impeachable.

Here are some things I would rather be doing than writing this paper: sleeping, eating cookies, working at Barnes & Noble, watching Fringe and being mad that Olivia dyed her hair blonde again, having my teeth cleaned at the dentist, having a cavity filled at the dentist, having all my teeth pulled out at the dentist and replaced by wooden dentures like George Washington had, thinking about Muppets, drinking coffee, paying overdue bills, wrestling a rabid tiger, attending a Justin Bieber concert, smacking bitches, and writing this blog post. Somebody save me.

You’re welcome for the song in your head.

everything is the worst

December 1, 2010 By in Me Tags: , , , , , , , , , , 18 Comments

For about the past year, my roommate Alison and I have had this thing we say. We pop it out at random, and it’s good for all occasions. We don’t know where it came from; it just sort of happened. Speaking it out loud makes us feel momentarily at peace with the universe, as if being in total agreement that there is nothing good in the world takes away the blame. It’s not our fault. Everything is just the worst.

Alison also happens to be my life partner; that is, until she moves in some day with her boyfriend and leaves me all alone and pathetic, or until I leave her to move to Seattle or California, or to become some sort of cloistered nun in what would ultimately be a futile gesture of rebellion against the system that imprisons me: rage against the machine, ghost in the machine, a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, whatever. Anyway, we’re at this stage in our lives where we pretty much wallow in our own misery and reinforce each other’s general senses of being absolutely good for nothing, in what we like to call “society.” Both of us majored in Creative Writing in college, which is where we met (that should tell you something right there), and we like to think of ourselves as gentle flowers sitting in the sun, or like sensitive little antennas on a roof, because basically we pick up a lot of feelings and we feel a lot of feelings, but we are completely useless at anything else worth doing. Both of us are stuck on life-paths (for the moment) that make us very unhappy. She works a dead-end food service job that doesn’t appreciate her and basically makes her feel subhuman, and I’m at the other end of the spectrum, attempting to fit in with people who spend their days cultivating their large brains. She serves coffee to ungrateful shitheads and I spend my days alone, studying for exams and grading papers and writing papers and reading so many words, never fully paying attention to any of it, and generally feeling inferior as a result. Neither one of us is good with money, we’re up to our ears in debt, and neither one of us has any fucking clue what to do about it.

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