I’ve released my caged confusion on the meaning and purpose of my personality before, but weirdos- I just don’t understand.
Scene. I’m walking up from the subway and I hear the jingle of a cup, a sound I’ve been primed to ignore. But then I hear the man say, “I’m really hungry, everyone. Please help me get food, I’m so hungry.”
Okay, well I’m grabbing my bfast right up above his bouncing change cup- mayhap I’ll grab him something?
I stand in front of the chinese bakery shelf trying to figure out what a hobo would eat. If he hasn’t eaten in awhile you don’t want to shock is stomach and you don’t want anything too weird- i’ve seen a homeless man throw away food I’ve personally given him and I try soothe myself by saying, just because he’s homeless doesn’t mean he lost his tastebuds as well. So there I am, taking up 5 minutes of my life trying to find the perfect pastry for a starving man. I decide on a simple soft sweet bread and go to ring up purchases- adding on a small iced coffee (for myself).
I proceed to tell the cashier I want a small iced coffee 3 times, THREE TIMES. I used the words: Small, Iced, Coffee.
She finally nods and asks, “Cream and sugar?”
And then I watch as she proceeds to pour me a small hot coffee. Small. HOT. Coffee. This has happened before. Numerous times. And normally I say something but I, the person who had a trivial pursuit moment of the best homeless man pastry purchase, feels bad that the hot coffee poured would be dumped. I’m not going to waste food while en route to feed a homeless man. But I am pissed, I might be an angel but dammit- I wanted iced coffee.
So, I harness my emotions and focus on the task at hand. I get his pastry out, walk outside and towards his perch to…..find that he had disappeared completely. Gone. Totally gone. I search the streets with my eyes and listen for his jangling cup but nay- he has left me alone with a pastry I don’t want, a hot coffee I don’t want, and a heart that feels slightly tricked.
What. The. Front door. WHY!
I take the first real moment of my day and try to do something nice for someone to not only get fucked out of the treat ERIKA wanted but also having spent money on an item meant for someone who has no money and STILL doesn’t get to eat.
Is this life? Or is this MY life? Should I not think of others and do for others because the universe likes to fuck with me on a seemingly personal basis?
Homeless man- if you’re out there somewhere and reading this post over the shoulders of those who bought a subscription to my blog (which equals nobody) please know, I tried. I tried.
It’s really awful, weirdos. I don’t know what to do or say but my friends? They’re ruining my damn life.
How? Well, isn’t it obvious?
THEY’RE TRICKING ME INTO THINKING I’M A CELEBRITY!
Imagine what that’s like checking your bank account?
“Obvi we’re going, Miley Cyrus. And drinks are on me, beeyotch!”
“Yeah, thayuts grayt! Weer gettun our guuuurl aaahn! *belch*“
Excited and wearing our best Ed Hardy, I mean, Gucci- I check my bank account to boost my ego and awesomeness bc I’m going out with Miley Cyrus and it’s gonna be “grayt”. My remaining balance is shown, my stomach drops into my knees. I feign a headache and go home to cry myself to sleep.
Okay, okay- so I’m probs not going to ever meet up with Miley Cyrus- that’s completely fictional as I wouldn’t be caught dead next to her and obvi the pap’s will be mad crazy over getting my pic with her. But imagine if this DID happen.
It would be all my friends faults.
It all started with birthday invitations. I’ve got wicked talented friends and for two years now they’ve helped with designing my invites. No big deal, right?
But then you add on having Maki design my blog. More invites. “Oh, you need awesome black and white prints for your birthday party?” BAM! There they were.
She even brought me salt and EVOO from Spain- like a wise man to baby Jesus. THIS IS HOW INTENSE IT’S GETTING!
And then- the ledge in which I fall to my achey breaky heart depths. My friend, Xtina, had become my personal trainer. Personal trainer. Sure, she’s using me to better become the most kick ass personal trainer to people who actually pay but that’s besides the point. We train and then we go to brunch where we enjoy cocktails in the sun. And then we hang with super models posing for Sport Illustrated….this activity may or may not have been a TV show we watched after brunch.
This all has to stop. I am but a mere mortal, unable to keep up the facade of someone so awesome and worthy of all this girly gratis. I have nothing to shower upon them but a vague promise to thank them in the book I haven’t published yet or “pretend” hire them as future positions in my entourage (posse). Do you know how long Curtis has been waiting to be my personal driver in which we get caught up in an action adventure set up where we must transport some girl somewhere important for reasons I can’t remember because I haven’t seen that movie in years?
Friends, I appreciate all you’ve done for me- but for the love of all that is sane and holy, STOP!
And by stop, I mean- keep going because it’s AWESOME!
Kim- thanks for jamming my biscuit this morning. #CelebLife
Am I becoming more of a pompous prude or was that woman just horrifyingly disgusting?
For the sake of my awesomeness, I’m gonna blame the shitty mess on the train this morning.
What. The. Front door.
I’m standing on the train, already slightly peeved that this blonde shark came out of nowhere and stole the seat I was mid-step to get. And then, out of the way with my back against the train butt door, another blonde demon comes from the train’s depths and backs up all on my shit. Wet hair, wearing a lot of brown, and trying to text ferociously while simultaneously drinking a bottle of flavored aspartame; that image alone is shitty mess ready.
At this point my lip is only slightly curled and Band of Skulls was helping to harness my aggression towards her- until she, too, stole a seat I was about to shimmy into. Lip curled further.
She then started placing things in between her and a small old lady who shared the two-seater. The old lady got off and I thought, no fucking way I’m sitting next to this heathen. I’d rather stand, fuck you very much.
And it got worse.
At some point my peripherals caught the image of her sliding down the seat, spreading her legs and taking her pant zipper between two agressive fingers and yanking up. Like a fucking man. Nay, like a fucking beast who was just taught to dress himself.
She then rips open a wrapped sandwich with her jowls (okay, maybe that’s an exaggerating but she may as well have) and begins to eat that fucking sandwich like she hadn’t been fed in years.
Lip to my nose at this point. I’m trying so hard to ignore it, I really am.
She’s masticating, chugging her “Aspartame Vitamin water”, spreading her legs to scrape the bread bits from her crotch while trying to continue her ravenous texting to some poor being.
At this point, my lip is so high and my eyebrows are following suit that I’m sure I resemble a certain Lannister:
The nightmare ended as I sprinted from the M train at W4 and puked in trashcan.
Okay, maybe I didn’t puke but I did say a little prayer for anyone she comes in contact with today.
I was just wondering…were you raised in a barn full of man beasts?