The Gayest Anti-Gay Protest Idea Ever.

June is just around the corner, and you know what that means! Gay Days at Disney parks. It’s the one time all the homos get to join together and celebrate their homo-iness with the characters and storylines that probably put them in the closet to begin with. Okay, so maybe some little boys see the handsome Prince Charming, with his beautiful smile and chiseled body, and think “I want to be like him.” But, there are a handful of other little boys that just want to be with him.

However, some people aren’t as excited about the Gays flocking to their Mecca. Here’s what the Florida Family Association (FFA) had to say:

How would you feel if you entered the Magic Kingdom anticipating a normal day of fun with your family only to witness thousands of same-sex couples holding hands, hugging, kissing and wearing tee-shirts that promoted their lifestyle? One Gay Day patron’s comments best describes their goal ‘We need to be seen in the heart of America’s playground.’ It appears from the behavior of Gay Day patrons that they were more intent on being seen rather than seeing Disney World. Just like activists’ attempts to gain access to youthful minds through LGBT characters in video games they also want to impact a captured audience of tens of thousands of children during the first Saturday of Summer Break.”

Okay, first of all FFA, if you don’t want your kids to see gay people, DON’T TAKE THEM TO DISNEY WORLD!!! It doesn’t matter if it’s Gay Days or not, we’re attracted to anything Disney like bees to the hive, like moths to a flame. At least on Gay Days the homosexuals are clearly marked, so you can make sure your kids don’t start talking to one of them and accidentally “catch the gay” or “become open-minded.”  In fact, if you really want to confuse your children and set them back several decades by nurturing them into embarrassingly small-minded hate-raving bigots, I’d say the best time to go to Disney World is during Gay Days. You will be able to simultaneously allow your little ones to fag it up on rides with spontaneous animatronic musical numbers (some rides have multiple!) while also pointing out all the red-shirted abominations who’ll soon be suffering eternal damnation. Well shoot, you’ll be surrounded by so many flamers you might actually feel like you’re already there with them!

The saddest thing about this whole protest is that the Florida Family Association has only been able to raise $4100 in support. Let’s say that each participating family gave a $20 donation, that’s only 205 families. There are more dead meth addicts getting eaten by alligators at the bottom of the Everglades than there are people willing to donate to this stupid cause. This seems strange, since you’d think there’d be a lot of old conservatives willing to throw a dime at any organization with the world “Family” in the title. Well FFA, it’s probably because you want to blow the money on the GAYEST PROTEST IDEA EVER. (Now, at this point I’m using the term “gay” in the 8th grade sense. As in “stupid,” or “lame,” or “what the fuck is wrong with you, seriously?” I’m allowed to say this, because I am gay. Like how black people reclaimed the N word. That doesn’t mean you get to say it too, Straight White Person.) 

The Florida Family Association wants to fly a plane with a banner warning people who are headed towards the park to stay away during Gay Days. If this doesn’t seem like the dumbest thing ever to you, let’s put it into context:

You’re a white trash conservative parent with a few missing teeth and a freezer full of Hot Pockets. You’ve just sold the last of your methamphetamines to your illiterate neighbor, and you’ve worked hard and shot enough squirrels to get you through dinner for the next couple days, which means you have a free day! With the extra cash from the drug sales, you decide to take your kids to Disney World. You’re youngest, Gus, collects all the High School Musical happy meal toys, and your oldest, Bubba, is 27 but ate way to many paint chips as a child from gnawing on the walls of your trailer home (probably, in all honesty, to try and find a way out), and unfortunately the severe lead poisoning gave him the mental capacity of a four year old, which is just below the high school graduation requirement. So now you’re stuck with him.

You and your spouse round up the chillun and toss them in the back of your 1984 Dodge Caravan (the one with the fancy exterior wood paneling), siphon off a few extra gallons of gas from your neighbor’s tractor mower, and you’re off to the Happiest Place on Earth! Gus can hardly sit still. It’s while he’s singing all the Disney show tunes and trying to teach Bubba the choreographed dance moves — even though all Bubba can seem to do on command is drool and not not defecate — that you see it. A plane overhead, with a banner exclaiming:

“Warning: Fags! Gay Day at Disney 6/2/12.”

A rush of horror washes over both you and your spouse. The Homosexual Agenda is at it again! You turn the van around smack-dab in the middle of the highway. “Sorry, kids. Looks like we’re heading home.” Gus freaks out. “BUT DADDY!!” He screams, with his adorable manly lisp. “I wanted to sthee Fantasthmic! And go on The Little Mermaid Ride and sthing with Ariel!!” He’s so furious he’s flaming, and Bubba is so upset that he’s drooling and shitting himself even more than usual. Seriously, how many squirrels does that kid eat? But it’s not your fault. The gays ruin everything. Even the gayest– uh, Happiest Place on Earth.

Are you fucking kidding me? You’re gonna waste the measly $4100 you managed to raise for the dumbest cause imaginable so you can fly around an airplane with a banner warning potential patrons that there will be gay people at Disney World? God Damn, Florida. Between Trayvon and this, you’re really starting to sound like a stupid, backwards place.

(Here’s a link to the inspiring article.)

Hello, World.

Alright, let’s dust off the blogwebs. That was terrible, I apologize.

Yes, it’s been along time. No, I did not die. I wasn’t even that busy… in my defense, since my last post I did start drinking so much Starbucks that I became a gold card member while also simultaneously adopting a vegan diet, which means I now spend most of my spare time pooping. Unfortunately, for the die-hard followers – drunks, gays, and, oddly enough, Mormons – my laptop does not work unless it is plugged into the wall, and the only outlet in my bathroom is the indefinite home of a Glade air freshener (see above: excessive poopage.)

I'll NEVER GIVE IN TO THE COPORATIOooooooh pretty!

So, okay. What’s happened since Thailand?

• I got a boyfriend! Technically that happened before Thailand but it was still pretty fresh and I didn’t want to jinx it. While this does mean for the time being there will be no more scandalous blog posts regarding late-nite voyages for potential Butters in the “Sea of Gay” that is West Hollywood, it may comfort you to know that most of that bullshit was made up anyway. I hope that helps you cope.
• The BevMo 5 Cent Wine Sale. A growing boy needs to hydrate.
• I visited my friends in San Francisco. Between Annika’s failed attempts to “hump and dump” (AKA a one-night stand, but you leave before the person wakes up) and driving my car down a one-way street and onto a sidewalk right into a police station, I’d say it was a pretty successful trip. We also decided that the only thing less considerate than a hump and dump is a “hump and dump and dump,” which is basically the same thing as a traditional hump/dump scenario, except after the initial hump you quickly participate in the National Vegan Pastime before fleeing the scene.
• I bought a television. I thought I could live without one, but now that I have one I realize I was just being an asshole. TV was meant for your living room. That’s why Americans call it the Living Room. Because you sit there and watch other people living on your TV. Patriotism.
•  I finally switched over to Facebook Timeline. Ever since I’ve noticed that I take pictures based on if they’d make a good cover photo or not.  I do this more often than I care to admit.
• I’ve seen Joseph Gordon Levitt at my gym. Three times. He struggles on the dip machine. But I don’t follow him or anything. (He’s improving.)

So, there it is. My freaking awesome life in a nutshell. I’m surprised I haven’t made more updates, because clearly I have so many worthy things to talk about.

Did I mention I poop a lot? I can’t stress this enough.

Thailand: In Summary.

25 days later already, and here I am back in sunny Southern California. It seems like I blinked and my trip to Thailand was over. How does time go by so quickly?! What’s next? I blink and my kids are all grown up?! But they were such precious children! I’m afraid of blinking.

I thought I would update this while in Phuket, but the combination of beach, drink, touristing (not to be confused with touring), and being a lazy asshole prevented me from coming anywhere near my blog for a month. I thought about it, I promise. I came this close to posting a story about how I lost my underpants in the Andaman Sea while skinny dipping in the middle of the night, but then decided my time would be better spent excavating sand out of places that, unbeknownst to me, are part of the human anatomy.

I’m gonna miss those underpants. They’re black and white checkered trunks from H&M. So, if you’re ever strolling along the Pacific coastline in the near to distant future and happen upon some washed up skivvies matching that description, please stay far, far away from them. Hey, fair warning.

Besides losing my beloved drawers, the trip was an overall success! I only got one sunburn, which is quite impressive considering I’m a red-headed ginger freak of nature. And I got that sunburn on Maya Beach in the Phi Phi islands (humorously pronounced Pee Pee) because I passed out face-first in the sand after an hour-long boat ride in which I was battling a mild stomach bug and focusing all of my attention on not barfing and shitting my pants at the same time on a speedboat with two dozen strangers out in the middle of the ocean. I succeeded, but such high levels of sharp mental concentration really wiped me out. (I’d compare it to taking the SATs or seeing a midget in real life and using every ounce of restraint you have to not go up and pet it.) However, considering Maya Beach is where they shot the film The Beach and is one of the most beautiful places I’ve ever been, I thought of my sunburn as a souvenir, and was sad to see it peel away.

I also didn’t want to have any food taboos while I was visiting abroad, so I dropped my strict vegetarian elitism and lived off the food of the common folk for a month. And although this may have contributed to my stomach ailments, it was totally worth it, because it allowed me to enjoy such exotic Asian delicacies as BBQ skewers and cheeseburgers with fries. I was even brave enough to try a Chicken McNugget, which all the local Australian tourists raved about while drunk at three in the morning. They ordered them as a Happy Meal that came with a Thai “Lady-Boy” and was served in a bucket, which could be used to catch your McVomit after you finished your meal.

Between petting tigers, elephant trekking, zip-lining, canoeing, gorging, skinny-dipping, snorkeling, sunbathing, clubbing, crocodile shows, witnessing spontaneous street-side transvestite performances, and being groped by masseuses trying to lure me into their dingy massage parlors for the $6 special, I’d say Thailand was quite the experience. However, I wouldn’t say it was life-changing, but rather, more life-affirming. I was right in prohibiting chicken McNugs from my diet. Those things are disgusting. You can taste the death.

Phuket!

Hello all, and happy new year! It’s been a while. What can I say, I’ve been busy being unemployed and sleeping a lot and also taking cat naps. Life really catches up with you sometimes.

Anyway, enough with the past! Let’s talk about the present:

Flying Prestige Class. Even though I look like it's no big deal in the photo... well, I mean, the photo exists.

Celeste and I got a random free upgrade from economy class to Prestige Class. Prestige fliers take up the entire upperdeck of the aircraft, so not only did we feel better and more privileged than those poor sad saps in economy, but we were literally above them. It was an in-flight caste system, and needless to say it was just the ego boost I needed before living in a foreign country for 25 days. Not to mention it was a great way to start a vacation. I don’t know how I’m going to survive the 13 hour flight back to LA without another random free upgrade, which may in fact be the final persuader for me to stay in Thailand for the rest of my life. If only applying for visas wasn’t such a pain in the ass.

Celeste enjoying one of our plane's three cocktail lounges.

You know in movies when they make first class flying seem so super cool that it’s almost fake? Like, they have open lounges with flight attendants acting as mixologists making fancy-ass drinks that would normally cost $15 in a trendy LA bar? Well kids, it’s real. And it’s stupid cool. I appreciate that my alcohol addiction can flourish on transpacific flights.

Suck on that, California coastline!

And so, after over 24 hours of traveling, we finally arrived in Phuket. And let me tell you, it was worth every single free drink on that free first class upgrade! Phuket is a bustling city of tourists and Thai people capitalizing off of it, and the hybrid of cultures is exhilarating (albeit a little overwhelming at first).

That water in the picture is Patong Beach, and it’s perfect in every measure. Not too wavy, with a slow descent which allows me to still be able to touch bottom outside of the kiddy swim area, and don’t even get me started on the temperature. It’s perfect: warm, but still refreshing. A golden shower from Jesus Christ himself couldn’t compete.

24 more days in paradise. I can’t wait to see what this place has got in store for me. Bring it on, Phuket! I’m ready for you. I packed emergency toilet paper.

Sleepy in Seattle

As I woke up shirtless but still in my boots on my friend’s futon, with her snoring open-mouthed into my ear like an asshole, several thoughts occurred to me as I looked around the room:

1. Where am I?
2. Where did my shirt go?
3. My breath tastes like some small critter curled up and died in my mouth overnight. If this is the case, I must have swallowed the poor little bastard… does this mean I’m not a vegetarian anymore? If it does, then I could really use an egg McMuffin. If it does not, then dammit.

Oh, Seattle. What a bewitching, bizarre, and exciting city. A city where anything goes. Where you can find culinary delights that will surprise and intrigue your taste buds. Where espresso has been perfected to rival the finest European qualities. Where a night at a romantic and mysterious back-alley wine bar, with a view of the beautiful and absolutely unique Seattle skyline, is nothing short of breathtaking and flawless.

Unfortunately, we started our night at Azteca.

After the gut bomb that was my cheese enchilada, refried beans, mexican rice, and endless chips and salsa, my friends and I hit the town! Off to Capitol Hill!

But first, we made a pit stop at my friend’s house so we could fill our throw-away water bottles with profuse amounts of alcohol and take them on the bus. With the gift of foresight, we downed some activated charcoal pills to lessen our next-day hangovers, and then we were finally off to hit the town!

After a forty-five minute bus ride and a bottle of vodka-juice later, my tummy was not very happy with me. Apparently dousing a plate of beans, cheese, and hot sauce with excessive amounts of alcohol isn’t the best idea. I should have known this, since I just read the chapter in Chelsea Handler’s book A Horizontal Life in which she ate Mexican food on the weekend and ended up nearly shitting her panties at a cocktail party. Her lesson: never eat Mexican food on the weekend! And here I was, sitting on a rickety public transit bus on a Saturday night, with the bumps and grooves of the weather-worn Seattle streets churning my Azteca enchilada around like a cement mixer in an earthquake.

Speaking of Azteca: how offensive is that place? It’s borderline racist in its attempt to be all things stereotypically Mexican. There were more sequins in this establishment than have been lost in Cher’s bajingo, and even though it’s fricken Seattle there were no white waiters. However, there were no Mexican ones either, just Filipinos and dark Native Americans, or any other race that could pass as south-of-the-border if you put them in a sombrero and gave them a maraca.

On the plus side, ingesting such crappy Ameri-Mex helped us develop a new word to describe our gaseous states: sha-burping. This is when you burp so forcefully that you end up sharting yourself. It is almost always cheese-and-frijoles induced. Thank God none of us actually sha-burped that night, although admittedly sometimes I may have been close. Once again, my praise goes out to activated charcoal. Seriously folks, look into it.

The night got classier with each imbibition. The deal of the night at the bar we ended up at was a mason jar shot of Jim Beam and a Hamm’s. Whoever brews this disgusting beer deserves to drown in a well full of it. To express my disapproval, I had three of them, and bitched excessively about each one.

As our crowd dwindled, it ended up just being me and my friend whose futon I would be sleeping on. We wound up at Purr, Seattle’s closest thing to a West Hollywood gay bar that I’ve witnessed. It was fun and full of freaks, which is always entertaining. I was particularly captivated by a giant African American man wearing a Diana Ross-esque afro wig who was grinding to Rihanna’s We Found Love with a short white dude whose shirt was tucked into his underpants. I have never seen something so uncool look so. damn. cool.

Alas, after a raucous night, we finally fell asleep. And during that wonderful six hours of REM, a critter died in my face.

I love Seattle.

Deep Thoughts in a Coffee Shop

Yesterday I found myself listening to Florence + the Machine and reading Chelsea Handler on my Kindle in a shabby chic coffee shop, with my MacBook open on the table in case a blog inspiration popped into my head and my sexy white iPhone 4 right next to it so I could refresh the Grindr app every time I digitally turned a Kindle page, in case a cute gay showed up. (My plan was to laugh really loudly at my book if there happened to be a cute gay within a 50 foot radius so perhaps he’d come up and ask me what was so damn funny. Then I’d share the joke, he’d laugh, and we’d live a long and happy life together.) My soy chai latte was making me warm, so I stood up to take my Urban Outfitters blazer off and accidentally caught a glimpse of my Toms, and that’s when it hit me.

• Since when did I become such a dirty freaking hipster?

I mean, for Christ’s sake, I was wearing a V-neck! How did this happen? When did it happen? Did my jeans shrink in the dryer to a size that might fit a large toddler, or did I purchase them like this because I was choosing aesthetically pleasing clothing over comfort and maneuverability? Some pairs I own are so tight that I have to peel them down my legs like a second skin when I take them off, much like the way the tin lid peels off a can of sardines. The only reason I haven’t ripped a pair yet is because I only buy quality brands like Levi’s and Diesel and oh-my-god-I’m-such-a-fucking-hipster.

I could feel the waves of nausea come over me. I instantly grabbed my phone and tweeted about my addiction to all things trending before recounting all my other hipster purchases/tendencies:

• I bought a Crate & Barrel couch. Off Craigslist.
• I make daily trips to Trader Joe’s rather than shopping in bulk like a normal overweight American.
• I own the Italian Language Rosetta Stone but I can’t speak Italian.
• I’m a vegetarian. Leaning towards Vegan.
• But I still enjoy leather.

All these hypocrisies were making me hyperventilate. I paused Florence + The Machine — by the way, her new album is just… so good. She was amazing live. I saw her at the Greek Amphitheater in Griffith Park, surrounded by a bunch of cute lesbian couples. We all sang along, but we wouldn’t dance because as fun as that would have been it wouldn’t have looked cool and OHMYGODHIPSTER!!!!!

I refreshed Grindr to see if there were any gays within my vicinity that I could confide in, but the only one nearby was the barista behind the counter, and ever since he played handsie with me when I passed him my credit card I had made a conscious effort not to look in his direction.

The Grindr app only made me feel worse. Was I even gay? Or did I just come out because it was the trendy thing to do?!

I sat back down, took off my fake glasses that are super cute but hurt my ears, took a few deep breaths, and calmed myself. After a nice warm gulp of my soy chai latte, which was now a perfect drinking temperature, a couple new thoughts helped me regain my composure:

• Calm down. Vaginas are scary. You really are gay.
• You weren’t drinking at the Florence concert because you went right after work and beer was too expensive at the venue. So of course you weren’t dancing. You would have humiliated yourself.
• Why doesn’t this coffee shop have coconut milk creamer? Soy is so been-there-done-that.

I chugged my coffee, packed up my electronics, and finished the vegan bran muffin that I was too embarrassed and self-conscious about to mention earlier in this post. Then I got in my new, earth-friendly and totally adorable Toyota Yaris that my parents are helping me pay for because I’m unemployed, and drove off, knowing that it’s okay to be a little hipster. As long as you’re not full blown hipster. Seriously, the day I start smoking American Spirits and drinking Pabst Blue Ribbon, please god, run me over several times with the sea-foam green Vespa that I’ll surely be driving.

10 Mundane and Unpoetic Daily Thoughts and Occurences, in Haiku Form.

#1
I brush my teeth, soft.
Scrub, scrub, scrub, spit. Blood. AGAIN?
Fuckin’ weak ass gums.

#2
Mexican kids scream.
Is this a Quinceañera?
Ugh, I hate Target.

#3A
Err-thing ’bout Adele’s
album “21″ is great.
Like, slit my wrists good.

#3B
Except for that one…
The cover… “Lovesong” I think…
Yeah. That one’s meh. Skip.

#4
Is this a haiku
or is it just a sentence
that happens to work?

#5
I really hate it
when the salt shaker is there
but, where’s the pepper?

#6
If I’m gone too long
With my date at the table
He’ll know that I pooped.

#7
Been down this dark road,
Scary, winding, dangerous.
Cahuenga needs lights.

#8
Ah, sweet Hollywood.
The land of artists, dreamers!
Shhh… not now, crack whore.

#9
Nothing kills the mood
Of a really great first date
Like tooting too loud.

#10
Quality over
Quantity? Really? Not when
it comes to nachos.

Obsergaytions.

We’ve all heard that being “gay” doesn’t change who a person is. Yes, in one sense this is true. But in actuality, the inverse is happening. Being closeted changes people. They’re hiding from their true selves, and once they come out they can blossom into the fabulous gay flower they were always meant to be. Here are some differences I’ve notice since I came out.

1. If I’m having a really good hair day, I’ll actually make plans with people (sometimes people I would never normally willingly hang out with), simply to get out of the house so everyone can witness my gloriously sculpted locks. While in the closet I didn’t even own a brush, and my scrappy, disheveled ‘do looked like something a cat would have hacked up after going to town a little too furiously in its nether regions. And let me tell you, the cat-pube hairball look doesn’t flatter anyone. So now, when my hair does look good, I make it a point to go out and fish for compliments. So if you start to notice that I only call you at random times and every time we hang out my hair seems to look amazing, don’t think anything of it. Just compliment me, god dammit. Or I’ll call somebody else.
   

   I'm imitating the face the cat makes before it adds another furball to my tangled weave.

2. I sweat more than the average male. I noticed this while I was in the closet as well, but for some reason thought that coming out would help solve the problem. Unfortunately it may have only agitated it and made it worse. Because now I actually have to go on nervous, awkward, super-sweaty first dates. Before such occasions I will actually rub antiperspirant all over my body as if it were a bar of soap. However, this process is surprisingly labor-intensive and in the end just makes me sweat even more. What I’m trying to say is that I don’t wear white T-shirts more than once.
3. I listen to Lady Gaga now, and liken her to a gay rite of passage, much like a Jewish boy’s bar mitzvah or the moment when a blind person finally realizes that those mysterious messages from God that he gets when he’s cold are actually just goose bumps.
4. I fold my clothes. And I wash ‘em, too. (Not in that order.) As much as I hate cleaning and folding laundry, it must be done rather frequently because of my aforementioned over-productive sweat glands and because a wrinkly garment can completely ruin what is otherwise a fucking knockout outfit.

A Personal Revelation.

I have been thinking about this for awhile, and I think it’s finally time I decide to just bite the bullet and say it out loud. I’m going to do something that might not make much sense to a lot of people, but god dammit this is my life and I get to do with it what I please. It might seem crazy, it might seem like a waste of time, but it’s been on my mind for awhile now and it’s about time I act on it. So here goes:

I’m going to make an all-Rihanna iPod playlist.

Here me out.

I get it. I understand the naysayers. Why Rihanna? Who would want to spend a good hour or two listening to generic pop music when there are so many great, more interesting artists out there? Well, honestly, I have no answer to this and the more I try to respond the more I realize making my Ri-Ri playlist might make a little re-re. But I’m still going to do it! Her songs have all the classic components of a great  iPod playlist:

• The Who-is-this-girl? song. Rihanna invented words with her first single, “Pon de Replay.” It takes some balls to throw new words at the radio world and potentially sound like an illiterate hack. What the hell is pon? After some research, it is apparently a Barbados expression that means “Upon.” I love my abbreves, so this makes me like the song even more. The American translation of the song title would be something like “Play That Song Again,” which admittedly isn’t quite as catchy as the original title.
• The Catchy-Dance-Song-w/ Samples-from-Catchier-Dancier-Songs song. Rihanna + Michael Jackon’s Wanna Be Startin’ Something = awesomeness that almost lives up to the MJ original. Well, not really. But it’ll do. “Please Don’t Stop the Music” begs its way onto the playlist. I promise I won’t stop it, Rihanna. Okay? Calm down.
• The Guilty-Pleasure-Song-You-Always-Have-To-Make-Up-An-Excuse-For-So-Your-Friends-Won’t-Judge-You song. Rihanna has a few of these awful delights, but nothing takes the cake over “Unfaithful,” where she compares herself to a killer because she’s cheating on her boyfriend. Some standout lines are: “I might as well take a gun and put it to his head” and “I don’t wanna take away his life. I don’t wanna be… A murderer.” Wait, you think your boyfriend is going to die because you’re a slut? Wow. How humble of you. This is one of those great songs that, if it comes on the radio, you crank up as loud as you can and belt out the lyrics by heart. Then you make up some story about how it was the last song you and your friend listened to before she died in a fatal jet-skiing accident in order to wipe away the judgmental faces the rest of the people in the car are giving you.
• The Song-You-Have-To-Put-On-The-Playlist-to-Make-it-Complete-But-Skip-Every-Time song. “Take a bow.” I’d rather take a pass. Besides, the Glee cover is better.
• The David-Guetta-Featured song. You know you’re big when you get to work with D-Guetts. He featured Rihanna on the infectiously catchy “Who’s That Chick,” which unfortunately flew under the radar but is still one of his best songs (all thanks to Ri-Ri, of course).
• The Holy-Shit-Put-That-On-Repeat-I-Could-Power-Dance-To-That-Song-All-Night-It’s-Like-Sex-To-My-Ears song. “We Found Love” is by far my fave Rihanna song, and it’ll probably be on my playlist at least half a dozen times. The music video is also incredible.
• The That’s-Rihanna?-That’s-Actually-A-Decent-Song song. If you have any doubts regarding her talent, listen to “Rehab.” There’s some actual pain going on here. Put this song on first, to avoid it coming on mid-way through the playlist and causing a buzz kill. Nothing kills a great party like someone achingly admitting their drug/alcohol addiction.
• The Sex song. “S&M.” ‘Nuff said.
• The Damn-That-Girl-Doesn’t-Stop-With-The-Hits songs. “Disturbia,” “SOS,” “Only Girl (in the world),” “What’s My Name,” “Take A Bow,” “Cheers (Drink To That),” “Rude Boy,” “Hard,” “Umbrella,” not to mention all the songs she’s featured on, like Eminem’s “Love The Way You Lie” and Kanye West’s “All Of The Lights.”

I’m probably still missing a few songs. There are just so many! Oh, man. This is turning out to be quite the great workout playlist that I’ll probably never work out to and only ever drink excessively to.

Unenjoyment.

Well, folks. Recently my freaking awesome life has taken a turn for the not so freaking awesome.

In an attempt put a positive spin on this, I’m not going to say that I am unemployed, and instead I am going to say that I am now the proud owner of a UI Claim (unemployment insurance — wait, dammit I said it anyway.)

Things aren’t too terrible yet. And it’s not like I didn’t know this was coming. Working in TV production, you always know that the job is gonna end. Every show goes on hiatus between seasons. Even Tina Fey takes a break. And she’s a workaholic. I don’t know where I’m going with this but now I get to tag Tina Fey in this blog post and hopefully get some more foot traffic.

Today’s been my first full day of what my boss (well, ex-boss) likes to call “unenjoyment,” and I think I’ve made some good headway in finding a new job. So far today:

• I bought groceries. I have not done this since moving into my new apartment because my job fed me. It was a pretty fun experience, and my fridge has never been so full. I was so impressed I almost took a photo of it and posted it on this blog, but then I was like, meh. Nobody needs to see my carton of liquid egg-whites and 12-pack of Diet Coke (which, after 4 hours of being home from the store, is now a 10-pack. This is a habit I’m going to have to kick soon.)
• I took a nap on my couch. I’m delighted by the fact that, now that I don’t work 12-16 hours a day, I can sleep on other pieces of furniture that are not my bed. Mid-day couch naps are great, but how about a late-evening wassily chair snooze? I have two of these chairs, and I’m excited to find out which one is more excruciatingly uncomfortable to sleep in.
• I put a good 50 page dent into the book I’m currently reading, Eat, Pray, Love. While I am enjoying her travels and prose immensely, I started to feel overloaded with estrogen and had to put it down. As soon as it crossed my mind that I might more enjoy the book on a garden bench with a nice glass of Chardonnay, I decided I better give it a rest before I actually turn into a 35-year old divorcée, because ugh, I really don’t want to get a mammogram. How uncomfortable do those sound? (She has not yet mentioned mammograms in her book, it’s just my biggest 35-year-old divorcée fear.)

Okay, maybe not as productive as the day could have been. I could have browsed the internet for jobs. I could have polished up my cover letter or sent out my resumé to people I know. But you know what? I didn’t. Because I was hung over. So I consumed various forms of potatoes (fries, chips, tots, a little vodka to take the edge off) and catnapped all day.

I can search for jobs tomorrow. Unemployment ain’t going anywhere. In the meantime I’m gonna pour myself a glass of Charles Shaw chard and read some more Eat, Pray, Love. I’m still in the Italy section of her travels, and I find it fascinating how different manifestations of carbohydrates eventually lead her to talk about her ex-husband. Maybe this chick should lay off the bread and go get some poon. Just a thought.