I rarely if ever reference other peoples' writing here, as I find my own overwhelmingly sufficient; but in the interest of redeeming your spirits from yesterday's buzzkillington of a post, here's something that should definitely do it:
http://www.slate.com/id/2198373/
So on point.
Good day,
girl.
Wednesday, August 27, 2008
Tuesday, August 26, 2008
On Tears...A Very Unfunny and Slightly Pathetic Memoir
May I speak to you for a moment? F said, and I trailed him as he snaked through the trading floor into a maze of conference rooms, holding the door open for me as I entered the one he deemed suitable of his tyranny.
“So,” he leaned back, settling in. “How are things going?”
This question, it should be noted, is never as innocuous as it appears. To have heard it is to know that one is really being held to one of two options: to laud one’s own achievements in advance of a shitton more cash, or to acknowledge one’s utter inability to justify the insuficient amount thus received. As a matter of principle, I’ve always opted for number one.
“Really well, thanks,” I replied.
“Uh-huh. Actually…I hear you’re sort of out of focus. What do you think about that?” he went on. I think you have nothing better to do and that you could possibly use a better haircut.
“Well, I’d certainly beg to differ,” I replied.
He didn’t skip a beat. “Well, I think it may be true, not to mention,” he leaned in, this being his tactic- to lean in conspiratorially as he dealt his blow, “I think others would agree with me as well.” He let this word, others hang for a moment so that I could absorb the intended effect. It was of no matter whether the others consisted of his half-retarded analyst or of the board of directors themselves. It was assumed presumptuous of me to ask.
“You didn’t come golfing with us yesterday,” he added, as if this were the real offense.
“Well,” I ventured, cracking a smile, “I don’t particularly enjoy golf.” He couldn’t conceive of why this would be true. His eyes probed mine; and just like that I was seething. His accusations appeared benign enough, they always did, but I knew what he was saying. Perhaps I wasn’t cut out for all of it.
“Well listen, I just want to bring this to your attention because there are a million analysts like you. Smart…you really wowed us in the beginning, you know. But, we need someone who wants to be a part of this team. You get what I mean?” he said, and just like that I was in a cloud of rage. I stared into his cold dead eyes, willing myself not to cry. You lousy fucking prick, I repeated to myself on a reel, all of this because you can’t get laid. This didn’t help per usual, and the waterworks betrayed me. He sneered at me with mock pity, and excused himself from the room.
By then it was of course too late; I’d have to cross the floor minutes later, my face the hue of raw ham. Of course I didn’t admit it then, but in retrospect, that moment was the culmination of a million frustrations. I hated that fucking city. I hated working for such a prick. I hated sleeping alone in that oversized suite that just begged for another being. I hated that I’d eaten everything room service had to offer- in my bathrobe no less! and hadn't enjoyed any of it. I hated that hotels in general, which used to hold such an allure to me as a child, now recalled working late nights and drinking alone.
It struck me as utterly decadent and idiotic that they ironed my underwear, which I regarded as a pitiful consolation prize for my not being in New York.
But most of all, I hated F. I hated that the first day I arrived at the hotel he noted “Wow, boarding school girl like you, I’d have expected nicer bags.” I hated him for being the type of guy who gives a fuck about someone’s luggage, or that at any rate would be so crass as to mention this to a girl.
Everything that came after simply gave me reason to spite him more.
In the end, as pitifully corny a conclusion to a rather typical story this is, he did me a favor- making my decision to leave crisply and wholly justifiable. One day I returned to the hotel, packed my belongings and – leaving him my remote access chip with the concierge (no note) I left. My driver Steve, who I now realize was my only friend during the time I’d stayed there, gave me a gift. It was a Starbucks gift card for $30, one that I felt immediately guilty for accepting but so touched about that I was left with no other option.
And it was then that I cried tears of joy.
“So,” he leaned back, settling in. “How are things going?”
This question, it should be noted, is never as innocuous as it appears. To have heard it is to know that one is really being held to one of two options: to laud one’s own achievements in advance of a shitton more cash, or to acknowledge one’s utter inability to justify the insuficient amount thus received. As a matter of principle, I’ve always opted for number one.
“Really well, thanks,” I replied.
“Uh-huh. Actually…I hear you’re sort of out of focus. What do you think about that?” he went on. I think you have nothing better to do and that you could possibly use a better haircut.
“Well, I’d certainly beg to differ,” I replied.
He didn’t skip a beat. “Well, I think it may be true, not to mention,” he leaned in, this being his tactic- to lean in conspiratorially as he dealt his blow, “I think others would agree with me as well.” He let this word, others hang for a moment so that I could absorb the intended effect. It was of no matter whether the others consisted of his half-retarded analyst or of the board of directors themselves. It was assumed presumptuous of me to ask.
“You didn’t come golfing with us yesterday,” he added, as if this were the real offense.
“Well,” I ventured, cracking a smile, “I don’t particularly enjoy golf.” He couldn’t conceive of why this would be true. His eyes probed mine; and just like that I was seething. His accusations appeared benign enough, they always did, but I knew what he was saying. Perhaps I wasn’t cut out for all of it.
“Well listen, I just want to bring this to your attention because there are a million analysts like you. Smart…you really wowed us in the beginning, you know. But, we need someone who wants to be a part of this team. You get what I mean?” he said, and just like that I was in a cloud of rage. I stared into his cold dead eyes, willing myself not to cry. You lousy fucking prick, I repeated to myself on a reel, all of this because you can’t get laid. This didn’t help per usual, and the waterworks betrayed me. He sneered at me with mock pity, and excused himself from the room.
By then it was of course too late; I’d have to cross the floor minutes later, my face the hue of raw ham. Of course I didn’t admit it then, but in retrospect, that moment was the culmination of a million frustrations. I hated that fucking city. I hated working for such a prick. I hated sleeping alone in that oversized suite that just begged for another being. I hated that I’d eaten everything room service had to offer- in my bathrobe no less! and hadn't enjoyed any of it. I hated that hotels in general, which used to hold such an allure to me as a child, now recalled working late nights and drinking alone.
It struck me as utterly decadent and idiotic that they ironed my underwear, which I regarded as a pitiful consolation prize for my not being in New York.
But most of all, I hated F. I hated that the first day I arrived at the hotel he noted “Wow, boarding school girl like you, I’d have expected nicer bags.” I hated him for being the type of guy who gives a fuck about someone’s luggage, or that at any rate would be so crass as to mention this to a girl.
Everything that came after simply gave me reason to spite him more.
In the end, as pitifully corny a conclusion to a rather typical story this is, he did me a favor- making my decision to leave crisply and wholly justifiable. One day I returned to the hotel, packed my belongings and – leaving him my remote access chip with the concierge (no note) I left. My driver Steve, who I now realize was my only friend during the time I’d stayed there, gave me a gift. It was a Starbucks gift card for $30, one that I felt immediately guilty for accepting but so touched about that I was left with no other option.
And it was then that I cried tears of joy.
Friday, August 22, 2008
Right.
Girl: So what's the show like? Have any of you guys seen this before?
Guy: Well...let's put it this way, do you mind porn?
Girl: No, not at all. Why, is the show really lewd or something?
Guy: Not particularly. We just wanted to get that question out of the way.
Guy: Well...let's put it this way, do you mind porn?
Girl: No, not at all. Why, is the show really lewd or something?
Guy: Not particularly. We just wanted to get that question out of the way.
Wednesday, August 20, 2008
Gmail, You're an Asshole
Gmail, I’m pretty upset with you. It started this morning- mid g-chat with numerous random characters, you logged me off. In a few cases, I’d barely eeked out a greeting before you so rudely snatched me offline. It was like I dropped a bomb and ran. In other cases, friends were still “typing” (I know this because you tell me when they are typing, you clever little fuck), which is even more asinine, because now they’re thinking I’m all, “Listen, I know that you’re responding to my “I’m so bored” comment, but on second thought, my boredom is still preferable to hearing out what you actually have to fucking say. So go to hell.” Gmail, that’s not the kind of message I like to send to the various coworkers, random internet personalities, and the odd actual ‘friend’ that comprises my g-chat buddy list. I don’t know how you were raised, but when I learned how to conduct myself on the interwebs, that would not have been okay.
Then it got worse. You started getting distant, erroring out when I’d try to respond to an email. Then, in a fit of regret, you’d send out duplicates of some of my emails to make me look like a psycho stalker. I can’t deal with how you’re like totally normal one second and then you turn around and act like this, sometimes I feel like I’m not with an email server, I’m with a child.
I mean, you know me I’m usually chill as fuck, so don’t interpret this as me being crazy or anything. But you’re being an asshole.
It’s true! Don’t deny it. Ever since I started voicing my concerns this morning you just totally shut down on me. Now my log-in doesn’t even work anymore- did you change my log-in without telling me? Is this how it’s going to be? You could have at least given me the chance to get some shit out of my inbox first.
Scratch that, you are such a fucking asshole.
You’re not even synching with my blackberry anymore! Remember how you used to synch so well with it at first? Baby, that’s part of the reason why I started loving you. I don’t know that I ever stopped. Don’t you sort of feel the same way? Come here and I’ll remind you.
Fine, you know what, I’m not going to try anymore. You clearly don’t realize how much you’re going to miss all my pointless g-chat convos and emails detailing lascivious exploits that YOU WILL NO LONGER BE A PART OF. My outlook was always more reliable anyway, it pains me to admit my mom was right.
Just do us both a favor, okay?
Forget you ever knew my password.
Then it got worse. You started getting distant, erroring out when I’d try to respond to an email. Then, in a fit of regret, you’d send out duplicates of some of my emails to make me look like a psycho stalker. I can’t deal with how you’re like totally normal one second and then you turn around and act like this, sometimes I feel like I’m not with an email server, I’m with a child.
I mean, you know me I’m usually chill as fuck, so don’t interpret this as me being crazy or anything. But you’re being an asshole.
It’s true! Don’t deny it. Ever since I started voicing my concerns this morning you just totally shut down on me. Now my log-in doesn’t even work anymore- did you change my log-in without telling me? Is this how it’s going to be? You could have at least given me the chance to get some shit out of my inbox first.
Scratch that, you are such a fucking asshole.
You’re not even synching with my blackberry anymore! Remember how you used to synch so well with it at first? Baby, that’s part of the reason why I started loving you. I don’t know that I ever stopped. Don’t you sort of feel the same way? Come here and I’ll remind you.
Fine, you know what, I’m not going to try anymore. You clearly don’t realize how much you’re going to miss all my pointless g-chat convos and emails detailing lascivious exploits that YOU WILL NO LONGER BE A PART OF. My outlook was always more reliable anyway, it pains me to admit my mom was right.
Just do us both a favor, okay?
Forget you ever knew my password.
Monday, August 18, 2008
Things I am Thankful For
1) My mother's dinners
2) Riding my old bike through my old neighborhood and waving to women in sunhats gardening and men hoisting golf clubs onto carts
3) The fact that lists are a pretty chuch stand-in when I cant be assed to write a proper blog post
4) This:
God bless Amurrica!
2) Riding my old bike through my old neighborhood and waving to women in sunhats gardening and men hoisting golf clubs onto carts
3) The fact that lists are a pretty chuch stand-in when I cant be assed to write a proper blog post
4) This:
God bless Amurrica!
Tuesday, August 5, 2008
10 things you don’t know about women
1. Cupcake, Babe, Kid…We’re (presumably) not dating a 66 year old sugar daddy so we’d (again, presumably) rather not be affectionately referred to like a 33 year old Escort.
2. We know how to smoke a cigar. Reminding us not to inhale is like telling a kid with braces to stay away from corn on the cob.
3. It sort of creeps us out when the i-pod docked conveniently on your bedside table is pre-tuned to your Let’s Get It On Mix.
4. It creeps us out even more when your Let’s Get it On play list begins with Soljia Boy’s “Superman”.
5. We don’t buy the “I’m socially liberal but fiscally conservative” argument- in the end we know you’re Republican. And that's fine, just don’t bring it up over dinner…or come to think of it, anywhere.
6. Be totally charming to our friends, but be sure to say something questionable (really, it can be anything) which they can refer to, only after we break up, as proof that you were “actually, like, kind of a prick”.
7. If you need inspiration, look no further than number 5.
8. We don’t know who taught you to follow up negative observations with “Yeahhh, but you know you like it.” If we liked ‘it’, we’d be dragging you by your collar into the broom closet, not staring into our vodka sodas mumbling about how you’re being an ass.
9. Girls like to be thanked for random things, nothing serious, just the usual “Thanks for letting me pick you up and take you to a dinner that it took 8 weeks to get a reservation for, after which I took you out for copious drinks, after which I walked you all the way home and you gave me a half assed kiss because all you really wanted to do was go up stairs, take off your heels, and dive head first into bed. The fact that you sat up straight and kept breathing throughout, well that means the world to me.”
10. We go to the bathroom together because we're doing coke.
Ok, I stole 10 from Sara Silverman, and it’s not really true. Except for half of the time, when it is.*
*Present company excluded.
2. We know how to smoke a cigar. Reminding us not to inhale is like telling a kid with braces to stay away from corn on the cob.
3. It sort of creeps us out when the i-pod docked conveniently on your bedside table is pre-tuned to your Let’s Get It On Mix.
4. It creeps us out even more when your Let’s Get it On play list begins with Soljia Boy’s “Superman”.
5. We don’t buy the “I’m socially liberal but fiscally conservative” argument- in the end we know you’re Republican. And that's fine, just don’t bring it up over dinner…or come to think of it, anywhere.
6. Be totally charming to our friends, but be sure to say something questionable (really, it can be anything) which they can refer to, only after we break up, as proof that you were “actually, like, kind of a prick”.
7. If you need inspiration, look no further than number 5.
8. We don’t know who taught you to follow up negative observations with “Yeahhh, but you know you like it.” If we liked ‘it’, we’d be dragging you by your collar into the broom closet, not staring into our vodka sodas mumbling about how you’re being an ass.
9. Girls like to be thanked for random things, nothing serious, just the usual “Thanks for letting me pick you up and take you to a dinner that it took 8 weeks to get a reservation for, after which I took you out for copious drinks, after which I walked you all the way home and you gave me a half assed kiss because all you really wanted to do was go up stairs, take off your heels, and dive head first into bed. The fact that you sat up straight and kept breathing throughout, well that means the world to me.”
10. We go to the bathroom together because we're doing coke.
Ok, I stole 10 from Sara Silverman, and it’s not really true. Except for half of the time, when it is.*
*Present company excluded.
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