I love the haters even more than their feigned hate

I love how some of my hate comments say I bitch too much.
Of COURSE I bitch too much.
That's the point of blogging.
To blog is to bitch.
Look it up in the freakin' dictionary.

How am I supposed to write?

Today I had such a wonderful day at work! I met this customer who is sure to be my new favorite. I sold twice my goal for the day. And even though I worked ten hours I still left smiling! I love my job! I'm such a blessed girl!! Then I went over to my beau's house and came three times while making love. He's so good to me. He even made me an absinthe cocktail before bed. My life is so wonderfully happy right now sometimes I see stars even while I'm sleeping.

Oh Yeah.
That makes for GREAT entertaining writing.
After everyone's done cleaning their own vomit off their keyboards maybe they'll block my trite Pollyanna drivel from ever dazzling their computer screens again.

I didn't even wanna read that.
And it's the fucking truth.

NOBODY WANTS TO READ HOW AWESOME MY LIFE IS.
People wanna read things that make them laugh.
Things that make them feel a little less depressed about the fucked up lives they lead.
They wanna feel less alone, less bizarre, less pathetic and needy, less oh my god I'm the only asshole that thinks such horrible things I'm a terrible person I should have no friends.

If super loving, politically correct, soothing dialogue was really where it's at why is the TV sitcom dead?
Are people clicking on Youtube videos with heartfelt genuine messages or are they clicking on the ones of silly people doing stupid things?

That blog I wrote that pissed so many people off got more than four times as many hits as any of my average blogs do.
That's stupidly awesome.
I write for myself, for my best friends, for the asshole whose probably gonna remain in love with me for the rest of his life.
It continues to baffle me the way that complete strangers care to waste their time reading anything on here.

The other night my friend asked me if I'd seen all the comments that had been written and I didn't even know they were there.
And what a kick I got over the rantings of others.
I'm sure the intent was to insult me, to silence me, to make me think good and hard about all I'd done.
But I couldn't stop laughing.

Dick McNasty?
How can I not respect the critique from such a user name.
I hope he's moaning my name while he jerks off because I KNOW gay men secretly wish they could do me.
I own Chanel, for fuck's sake.

I felt like I was playing the role of one of those kids in high school movies, quiet, awkwardly shy kids, the ones who wished they were running with the popular crowd but knew a place would never be saved for her at the cafeteria table.
And then one night an impossibility occurred.
And she rushed out her front door in the morning to find her house had been toilet papered by the cool kids.
And rather than feeling humiliated, rather than hanging her head in shame at being so clearly picked on, an overwhelming, stupid grin appeared on her face.
They picked ME, she thought with glee.
They see me. They CARE. I fucking matter.

And of all the idiots in all the city, in all the world to obsess over, they picked MY less than self?

Well now, that's impression.
One I'VE made.
Whether you like it or not.
I'm . In. Your. Brain.

And I thought I had to take my top off to get that ingrained in any guys head.
Nope.
I just had to open my mouth.

My seductive, crimson clad, smiling mouth.
And nothing. And no one. Will silence me.

Enjoy the show.

One part saccharin, One part bitch

One of my favorite people at work is being let go.
Her sales haven't been high enough and the department hours have been running scarce so my ray of loving sunshine is sadly no more.
She is also, beyond a shadow of a doubt, the nicest person that works in my department.
I'm certain that if I created a survey and all the lipstick peddling ladies were to compose a list of the women they thought would get fired or the women they wished would get fired my friend would not be on anyone's list.
She is quite possibly the sweetest person I've ever met.

She also secretly has a naughty girl bad ass bitchy side full of all kinds of secrets that only a few select people, including myself, knows about.

Which is one of the many reasons I adore her.

She is one part saccharin and one part bitch.
Only her bitch part wasn't great enough to keep her balanced in the wonderful world of commission.
It's a dame take dame kinda world out there and if you don't have the kind of hunger and greed to drive your success, others will trample over you to get it themselves.
If, by contrast, the bitch part out weighs the saccharin part then enemies are formed, spies planted, whisperings trickle from ear to ear until you're back in some tiny office being told you're disliked by the entire department and as a result your livelihood is at stake.

Being a woman, working with women, in any arena, even merely socially networking with women, is a personality dance more intricate and exhausting than the ones performed with our lovers.
We have SO many people to try and please.
And rarely, if ever, do we even allow ourselves to be on that list.

Realizing the nicest girl at work could get fired got me thinking about how difficult it is to survive anything these days.
You have to be kind enough to have friends, to be liked by the people you're forced to interact with everyday.
But you also have to be strong enough to stand up for yourself and not end up getting pushed around by more dominant, alpha personalities.
All while standing up straight, looking lady like and still daring to disagree with injustice.
So long as it's done in hushed tones.
Naturally.

I remember once going on a trip with a bunch of women I didn't know.
Around these here parts I'm known for having a pretty strong personality.
Shocking, I know, considering the waves of hate being delicately driven towards my temples, as of late.
But around these supra alpha girls I seemed about as meek as a doped up bunny.

It's incredible how different things can seem when you change your perspective.

I glanced at my card case the other day and specifically thought, I wish I knew someone I could give this to.
I was planning on purchasing a new one and realized along with my many dated dresses and friendships, I'd out grown it.
But for the life of me I couldn't think of anyone who might like it.
Tonight, over champagne cocktails, I whipped out the very card case to pay for my indulgence and my dear friend cooed in awe over its sparkly magnificence.
I knew instantly who should have it and handed it over immediately.
Her shock and appreciation was only merely rivaled by our waitress when I notified her she'd forgotten to charge us for our dessert.
"Thank you for being so honest," the waitress replied, updating our bill to the correct amount.

Contrary to my notoriety I actually am one part saccharin too.
But only a few, select people are privy to such a startling reality.

I don't have to explain my art to you

Well.
I've done it again.

After months without writing, without a word to share with the world, I come back full force with one of my bitch fueled rants aiming to entertain and mock the uptight prisses of Facebook Portlandia.
Unsurprisingly I piss off hundreds of people.
Well, not so much hundreds as fives, of tens of people.

I'm a pretty big deal.
I got deleted by at least THREE people.

How awesome is that??

The best part is that they read my blog.
I don't know why but that always feels like a giant compliment from people that dislike me.
You have to genuinely give a damn to take the time to read my grammatically incoherent, politically incorrect, self worshiping chatter, ES-PE-CI-ALLY if we're not even friends.

I don't take the time to look at the Facebook pages of the folks I love and adore let alone the assholes I don't even remember friending.

So my Facebook wall became the chat room debate for Team Resa Fucking Rocks or Team Fuck Resa's Rocks.
My Double D's have often been a source of contention.

But I decided things had gotten a little out of hand after one girl commented, her panties in a twist as though I personally insulted her to her face and she must be lying about going to the same high school as me since I'VE. NEVER. HEARD. OF. HER. and after another girl I've known since elementary school wrote a comment so long instead of taking up approx. 2 inches of space, like most Facebook comments do, it was at least 8 inches long and that is just always too damn long when anyone is trying to fuck you.

Ahuh.


So I pondered my overwhelming propensity for ruffling people's feathers and wondered why any of them cared in the first place.
We're not 16 anymore.
Things people say about us shouldn't be SOOOO IMPORTANT.
It's not like these are co workers or friends I see on the weekends.
All of them are people I haven't seen in YEARS and their anger was so violently passionate you'd think we were ex lovers.

Break my heart and then read what I have to say about you.
That'll keep me bitching for months.


And I realized something.

The reason these people cared so much, the reason they all got on their huffy bikes and took their crayons elsewhere to practice their lower case letters is because we knew each other in high school.
We knew each other when everyone was tortured and horribly insecure and scarred from not getting asked to prom or getting cast in the school musical.
The digs from old fellow classmates run deeper than some frigid witch you've known a year because she knows nothing of the flat chested pimply faced flute playing virgin you were your entire high school career.
People that know your past, however superficially, are threatening.


Which is why my big, uncensored mouth seemed so terribly vicious when anyone who is actually in my life knows my mercilessly honest, insulting and vulgar writing personality is tongue and cheek and meant to entertain and induce laughter, not to be taken in earnest.
Imagine the sincerity of Chelsea Lately and that's about me when I'm writing.


I'm hilarious and anyone that doesn't like me is a fucktard.
That pretty much sums up my life philosophy.


But the greatest part of this whole experience is being reminded that what I say MOVES people.
I instill such a strong reaction that people either love me or hate me.
No beige vanilla bullshit here.
Probably explains why I never remain friends with my exes.
Because if you're not madly, passionately in love with me you're running for the hills.
And gossiping about me on your own Facebook page.

Maybe I'm even closer to that New York Times Best Seller than I thought.

I don't "love you" cuz that's too fucking serious

Whenever I hear other people's love stories they always possess some characteristic I can't relate to.
 "Oh I knew immediately. From the first moment I saw him I knew I was going to marry him."
And they expect everyone to subscribe to their same philosophy.

Well color me clueless but......how the hell did you know anything before you really knew anything?

My current love story is far less epic romance and far more pragmatic simplicity.

The other day he sent me a cute cat picture, relating to a joke we experienced the other night together, on a day that was horrafable and the moment I opened the text I thought, I love you.

Sometimes love stories don't involve poetry under the stars and I've decided that's actually fine by me.
Being some guys goddess is a lot of freakin' expectation and I'm really not up to standing on that pedestal in five inch stilettos just so he can look to me to guide him through his walkabout crisis.

My latest blog, which was the first time I felt genuinely compelled to write in months, caused such a controversy that people I didn't even know were my Facebook friends were commenting on it.

I. Love. Ruffling. People's. Feathers.

Who knew I was so damn important?

"Did you read my blog?" I asked my lover.
"No," he casually replied.
"Do you want to?" I asked expectantly.
"Naw," he answered.

And while my ego thought it should be offended, my heart was relieved and moved.

The last several assholes I "fell" for (meaning I was "emotionally manipulated by") were ob-se-ssed with my writing.
In fact, BOTH of them used it as a way to keep tabs on me, to follow my thoughts when they couldn't see me day to day and the fact that both of these men were married while doing so is really beside the perverse point.

My writing stirs something in people.
I'm no fucking genius.
But I piss people off and I inspire people and rarely is it some grey, noncommittal reaction that I instill.
You either love me or you hate me and the fact I leave nothing out and am entirely uncensored either intrigues you or disgusts you.

My blog nearly got me fired, nearly landed me a lead in a movie, allowed my lost love to keep tabs on me and became so overwhelming I stopped knowing what to write.

So is it really so surprising that when my current heartthrob casually showed little to no interest in something that friends and enemies have turned crimson over I almost instantaneously fell in love?

This kid is not like every other asshole looking to me to save him.
He's just some random guy who happens to be an overwhelmingly amazing fit for my overwhelmingly intense personality.

I'm not perfect in his eyes.

And it is so nice to be loved by someone who doesn't delude himself into believing I'm anything more than a passionate, crazy woman.
Even if he lacks the cojones to say it.

I'm sorry I'm not as ugly as you

Sometimes you need people in your life to suck so you're reminded of all that you aren't.
And to remind you that Facebook is a giant whore.

Cut to me.

I've become THAT girl.
You know who I mean.
The girl who gets in a new relationship and spends all her time with her new man.
I work. I sleep. I learn what the hell a bechamel is while my lover cooks dinner.
I've become one of those women I used to mock.
GET A LIFE! SPEND SOME TIME APART! BE YOUR OWN PERSON!
But I don't wanna.
He's just SO DREAMY.

So fine.
It's only been a few months.
I'm entitled to a little over indulgence.
After all, when was the last time I was in a serious relationship?
Wait.
Don't answer that.

So there I am, alone in my fabulous new apartment, the whole evening free and
I literally have no idea what to do with myself.
Seriously.
I have a cocktail.
I have dinner.
I have another cocktail.
I have dessert.
I watch some favorite episodes of Will & Grace and contemplate unpacking the clothes I've yet to touch the seven weeks they've sat in my room.
But vodka informs me my energy is too busy keeping me from falling over.

So I notice the stack of untouched magazines sitting by my piano and pick up a copy of Vogue.
Since my whirlwind romance (and by whirlwind I mean after several months of casual dating we realized we actually kinda really liked each other) I hadn't invested quality time with my girlfriends Glamour, Elle, Lucky or Vogue.
And flipping through the glossy pages my eyes stopped in shock.
There was a picture of several Hollywood actresses in black evening gowns, gorgeous, intricate designs, the kinds of dresses I'd kill to wear.
Only riddle me this: None of the women had breasts.
We're talking NO curves. Of any kind.
The dresses hung stick straight off their emaciated bodies and in place of boobs were bony collar bones.
I know Hollywood has always had skinny mania but when did Cate Blanchet start looking like she stepped out of a concentration camp?
I found the image profoundly disturbing so like any self respecting american I published a photo of it on Facebook.
Along with my oh so humble opinion that it was no longer the roaring 20's and it's sexier when women's chests are bigger than their dates.
Ba dun dun.
*jazz hands*

I'm fucking hilarious.
Apparently I'm also fucking offensive.

Suddenly, because voyeurism is SO in right now, my Facebook wall becomes the platform for some self righteous feminist agenda from two bitches that AREN'T EVEN MY FRIENDS!
We weren't even friends in high school.
Gee.
I wonder why.
Cough.
Cough.

I've said it before and I'll say it again, I just can't be friends with ugly people.
I think their hideousness is contagious.

I'm sorry that my lack of pc courtesy is so terribly offensive to you but WHY ARE YOU EVEN COMMENTING ON MY WALL IN THE FIRST PLACE??
We're only "friends" because we used to avoid talking to each other in social studies class fourteen years ago and Facebook leads us to believe this connects us in some significant networking way.
Alas, it does not.
It merely allows assholes the ability to be raging pin heads while hiding behind their work laptops typing away judgement towards my propensity for being judgmental.

I have an opinion.
I'm sorry it differs from yours.
But blowing up my page with your verbal vomit is so lametastic.

Care to come to my place of business and say it to my face?

On second thought.
Please don't.
I really don't care to see your face.
I don't even look at the pictures on your Facebook page.

But I'm certain you looooooved reading this.

KISSES ALL AROUND!!!
xoxo

I think we're just friends

"Your hair looks really red."

I thought about dying it dark again.
It was nearly black a year ago.
But I decided the red was me.
Not a lot still is anymore.

I don't write.
I've sat down and tried dozens of times but nothing ever comes to fruition.
It's like the thoughts are there but the words aren't.
It feels like I'm not a writer anymore and that makes me really sad.

A lot of things aren't anymore.
I performed in a staged reading of a musical and throughout the process realized performing is no longer my passion.
I felt indifferent during rehearsals and realized evenings spent at the theatre were no longer how I wanted my evenings to be spent.

I actually am not really sure how I want to spend my evenings.
I guess that's just something I am trying to figure out.
Maybe that's why I haven't been writing.
Writing was always something I knew.
I guess there's not a whole lot I do know.

I know that relationships are complicated.
Someone told me they don't have to be and the ones that are merely need to end.
I think if my relationships weren't complicated they'd be beige and I'd be bored.
Or maybe I'd just be single and complication free.

It's strange feeling yourself in the middle of a storm.
It's like, you can see the patch of blue sky in the distance but it doesn't change the impact of the rain penetrating your skin.
Eventually the rain subsides but you no longer see the rainbow.
Only grey.
Somewhere within you something stirs and a puddle of water forms in your eyes.
With eyes closed and one long, slow inhale, it evaporates.
You sigh with relief.
Moons fade to suns and everything is as it were.

A woman's obsession with an Egg Mcmuffin

I woke up this morning with a petite hangover.
A petite hangover is like a regular hangover except you don't feel like throwing up you just feel like greasy food.
For the first time since I frequently consumed happy meals, I craved Mcdonald's.
Shame thy name is Reese.

I haven't been to a Mcdonald's in so long that I actually had to search on Google for the one nearest me, something that made me feel a little less ashamed of my greasy guilty pleasure.
For whatever reason I wanted eggs and I wanted hashbrowns and I didn't want to have to sit down and tip.
I wanted my food and I wanted to go back to bed.

The ridiculous part of my drunken comedy was that it took me forever to get to the damn McD's.
See, the one nearest my house is on a corner where you can only enter it from one street.
So there is a giant sign that says "turn left at light" only apparently they mean your "other" left, or your Canadian left, because when I did "turn left at light" I ended up on a side that didn't have an entrance.
Whoever designed this confounded golden arches did not have hungover patrons in mind.

I turned around in a nearby shopping outlet thinking it would connect and I could enter from that side.
Alas, the parking lot ended and I had to make a giant circle to get back on the road to head back to the stupid Mcdonald's.

At this point I wanted to claim defeat and admit that my desire for an egg mcmuffin certainly was not equal to the amount of effort I was having to exert.
But my stubborn pride refused to give up.
I would figure out how to enter that damn parking lot and I would get my damn hashbrowns.
Dammit.

So I made a different left at the light (depending on what part of the intersection you're facing I guess this could be considered the proper left) and think I'm finally heading in the right direction considering the Mcdonald's is directly on my left but NO! I can't enter from that side of the road either!

What the deuce!
What kind of bloody fast food restaurant have you had your break today bullshit is this??
No, I haven't had my freakin' break! I can't even get to this awful place!

So I turn around YET AGAIN and am now going the other direction on the same stupid road and OH MY GOD I make a right turn and finally enter the drive thru.
I really wanted to tell the person taking my order that his employers are giant fucktards who constructed a restaurant at the most infuriating intersection in probably the entirety of the world but I realize it is a moot point because I will never be going here again.

I get my egg mcmuffin and hashbrowns and am pleased to report that in my petite hungover stage the greasy goodness is exactly what I craved.
I crawl back into bed and vow to never go to Mcdonald's ever again.
Assholes.

Some obsessions are not worth repeating.