That that that. I want to use the word “that” in almost every sentence I formulate but it turns out… that that is not necessary.
I want to be buried with a tombstone that just says “that girl.”
I hate grammar and you know what else I hate?
Christmas sweaters. I think they’re fucking stupid and it makes me so angry that I can’t outwardly express it and end up internalizing it to a point of extreme physical aggression that I only exhibit when cleaning my kitchen counters.
That shit is spot free.
Anyhow…(still working on the transition phrases but hey! Look how well “anyhow” flows here)
I am aware it has been awhile since my last post and I have a lot of really good reasons for this.
A dog ate my blog post, not my own dog because I don’t have one, but someone’s dog. Perhaps the fucking annoying one that keeps barking downstairs ensuring me that “love thy neighbor” will always be a real fucking bitch. Literally.
I have also been really really sick. Cough. Cough. Sneeze. Sneeze. I always cough and sneeze in pairs.
To add to all of these really fine excuses, I mean reasons, why I have not posted in awhile I just got a new Rick Springfield 45 vinyl and have been pretty occupado singing Jessie’s Girl in nothing but socks, a white button-up and sunglasses.
Jessie is a friend. Yeah I know he’s been a good friend of mine. But lately something’s changed it’s hard to define. Jessie’s got himself a girl and I wanna make her mine.
Cause she’s watching him with those eyes. And she’s lovin’ him with that body I just know it!
Sorry I was not done quite yet.
The 45 setting on my record player is a little fucked up so imagine that same thing but slower.
Jjjjjeeessssiiiiieeee iiiisssss aaaa fffrrriiieeennnddd.
Slow Rick Springfield kinda sets the mood ya know?
It has been so long since my last post I have no real idea where to start, stop, continue or find my missing in action take home final.
I am not applying for any master’s programs. Some combination of financial struggle, fear of rejection and my own laziness contributed to this final decision. No big or small envelopes coming through the post office for this little lady.
I did, however, decide to apply for some summer internships. I have had two interviews thus far and so few words to describe them with.
I hate wearing dark, business casual tights, trying to convince people I am better than I actually am and Christmas sweaters…I hate those too.
Speaking of things I hate…too many tabs being pulled up on my laptop. Who is the fucker that opened up all of these internet tabs? Facebook. Netflix. Your email. Christ.
No master’s program, applied for internships…what else is new?
Oh, my library crush. Do you remember way back when I mentioned being on the elevator with an attractive guy fresh from the hallway with the vending machines? See post: It’s All A Matter of Perspective Really .
That. My friends. Is my library crush.
While I have been determined to ask him to ask me for my number, he is suddenly nowhere to be found!
Fuck that. Ya know?
He should probably get his act together and get his ass to the library because finals are coming up!
That way I can imagine myself approaching him like five more times before I admit to myself I never actually planned on doing it in the first place, then I can lie to my coworkers saying “I’m over it,” and tell them I thought he was more attractive than he actually is.
I have been imagining us in the elevator together.
Me: Do you wanna make out?
Library Crush: (slight pause in surprise) No.
Me: Me neither.
I feel like by the time he has rejected me, at least one of us will have reached our elevator destination.
Is there an 80’s song called Elevator Love? I feel like there should be.
So, last night I went to two Christmas parties.
Christmas party one was a work party held at the most beautiful house with the most beautiful Christmas decorations I have ever seen.
It had high ceilings and a Christmas tree that looked like it belonged in a department store. I kept awkwardly asking my coworker if I could come over and read a book in her living room, but fuck, it looked like a fucking Christmas cottage.
I imagine myself in her living room sipping on hot chocolate non-sans marshmallows reading a really distasteful novel near the window…staring…no gazing out at the streets thinking about my French lover who is separated from me due to family troubles and a denied visa and who is no doubt listening to Jessie’s Girl and thinking of me and only me.
Christmas party two was with the school newspaper, which apparently is dominated by male sports writers who are young, shy and cannot envision French lovers, Christmas cottages or how in the world Jessie ended up with the girl that he did.
I must really be feeling the 80’s these days because I bought leg warmers while I was supposed to be Christmas shopping for everyone else. I know it’s really selfish but it’s like fuck, you fuckers are so difficult to shop for but me. I know exactly what I want.
I often times think instead of gifts everyone should exchange money in proportion to one’s financial situation, but in my case would unfortunately result in a lot of one-way exchanges.
On the plus side, I can go to sleep at night knowing that no one will ever marry me for my money. A legitimate concern for some.
There are lots of advantages to being poor like when you go out to dinner with your friends and you try to pay, then they all give you that look like…I’ll get this one Savannah. We know you need that money.
One time I went to the bar and did not bring any form of money whatsoever. I swear every guy in the bar casually asked me why I was drinking water and I was all coy about it.
Oh you know, just trying to stay hydrated.
I’m still hungover from last night.
I’m trying to cut back.
Fuck. You caught me. I’m broke.
I left the bar wasted as fuck.
I am going to write a book called “The Perks of Being Poor”.
I don’t actually want to fucking write a book. I hate books. Not really, but I don’t want to fucking write one.
You tell people you’re a writer and they automatically assume you want to write a book.
I’m always like…No I actually just want to write lists, grocery lists, to-do lists, a list that will fucking explain to you I don’t fucking want to write a book!
Sometimes I want to write a book.
Weight. Off. My. Chest.
Anyways, my new nickname for my roommate Connor is dodecahedron. I keep telling him he needs more sides for all the side chicks he’s got. Roommates got game ya know?
I actually think I may need less sides. Like a 1/2 side for my lack of game.
Ole dodecahedron has a new nickname for me as well. Lasagna.
We went to eat at an Italian restaurant and kept telling the server to wait and come back for our orders because we couldn’t decide. Twenty minutes later I ordered lasagna and dodecahedron could not stop laughing.
Me: Why the fuck are you laughing right now?
Dodecahedron: You waited all that time and then ordered lasagna.
Me: You know what Connor?! I love lasagna! I AM lasagna! Every time I ask anyone what Italian dish they think I am, it’s lasagna EVERY TIME!
Dodecahedron: Why, because you have so many layers?
Dodecahedron’s got jokes.
(If you are new to my blog and want to know more about Dodecahedron See Post: That’s My Roommate)
I am now on season six of Gilmore Girls and about 98.2% more emotionally invested than I was before.
Good cop/ bad cop is a real thing.
I have added a verse to my song “Why Do I Put Things In Such Weird Places,” that goes something like…Why do I lose my cell phone at such inconvenient times?
I have waited my whole life to become a one hit wonder.
I like T’Swift’s song Blank Space. I can’t help it. I’ll be humming casually in my car and then suddenly realize it’s to the tune of that song and then belt out the rest loudly. It’s so fucking catchy but also makes me mad.
The whole song is about money which kind of targets a sensitive topic for me because I sort of imagine asking T’Swift to spot me a twenty at the bar and her being all like…Bitch no.
I actually think the song is about dating and not money, but because I am concerned about money am projecting that onto the song like one of the Rorschach ink blot tests.
New Money. Suit and Tie. I can read you like a magazine.
Did she just say money? God all she fucking thinks about is money!
I actually do have a disdain for Taylor Swift, not only because Time deemed her “American’s most important musician,” but also because she pulled her music off Spotify because people were not paying for it.
If you value your music, you would think you would want to share it with the world, primarily with people like me who cannot afford it but still want to engage in singing about unhealthy relationships that share similar features with yours ya know?
But at the end of the day, someone might marry her for her money.
So there’s THAT.