After spending a solid hour of my morning registering for a million food places/stores so I could fully take advantage of birthday discounts, I knew it was time to get moving…
which would have been a lot easier had I not decided to go running yesterday for the first time in over a month.
I am one of those strange people who likes to shock my body into shape. Catchy right?
I spend several weeks at a time eating junk food and watching Netflix until one day BAM! I decide to start training Hunger Games style.
Bejing. Tokyo. London. Who cares?! In my mind, I’m like a fucking Olympic athlete.
It’s all really epic with lots of Eye of the Tiger blaring from my headphones and super short running strides until I have to call my roommate asking if we have any ibuprofen around…or IV morphine because let’s face it, I may need something stronger after going from Rocky II-IV to what now resembles a really under-cooked noodle.
Along with feeling pasta-like, I have been extremely frustrated with our mailman these days. We live on a street with a lot of other businesses, so often times he will not leave my roommate and I our packages at the door. Which is fine.
Except when it’s not.
I ordered this great push-up bra that’s supposed to make your mountains high, valleys low and rivers wide enough to get through the day. I was trying to explain to my roommate Connor that he should have just shoved the bra-filled package in the mailbox. Except for…I said it more like this,
“Connor, my rack would definitely fit inside our mailbox!”
This charming statement was almost as awkward as trying to write the date after New Year’s. My voice always tends to “carry” when I am saying something inappropriate.
Needless to say, my miracle bra was returned to sender and ain’t no mountains gonna be high enough for my birthday next week. What’s a girl to do?
Despite my girlish desires to shock my body into shape and raise my mountains, lately I had been feeling quite…I’m not sure how to say this…guyish?
I found myself ignoring text messages, bailing on plans and saying things like, “Ya man.”
What does that even mean?
While on the phone with my roommate Connor I was all like…
“Connor I could be a guy I’m so vague,”
While he tried to defend himself saying guys were not vague, I began formulating what could have been a ten minute long metaphorical comparison between men and fog.
My Metaphor In a Nutshell: Fog is cool and mysterious but at the same time confusing and dangerous.
Looking back, I am not sure if even I could have dragged that on for ten minutes. It’s pretty self-explanatory.
Anyhow, I think the recent absence of my roommate has driven me to extreme measures of playing both his role and mine.
Me: Ooh what am I gonna wear tonight?
Me Being Connor: Who cares what I wear? Bitches always be prowlin’.
Me: I wonder if anyone will ask me to hang out this weekend.
Me Being Connor: I’m gonna do me all weekend…Thas right! Ya heard?
Me: Man…this fucker hasn’t even texted me back. God. Fuck.
Me Being Connor: Yo hussy (Connor’s latest nickname for me), where my phone be?!
Unfortunately an acting career is not in my future and I still don’t know what the fuck I’m going to wear tonight.
Despite my newly acquired skill of deciding where to eat, the only decision I can make about my weekend and next week’s birthday is champagne. Because yes. Champagne is a decision.
Ever since New Year’s all I can think about is champagne. Champagne in the morning. Champagne at night. Champagne in bed. Champagne in the shower. I want to be buried in a guitar case filled with it! And not even the expensive kind.
Regardless of plans, I hope the “It’s my birthday I can cry if I want to” rule still applies because if I’m getting that drunk tears are definitely going to be shed…
and texts sent.
You fuckers have been dangerously quiet lately…I gotta say…
I don’t like it! Leave a comment!