Big Date

This Sunday is Valentine’s Day, or as I like to call it, just another day. To celebrate this sham (!!) of a holiday, I will happily be taking myself out to a nice dinner and a show. No expenses spared!

The theory of tolerance: the teenager edition

A few weeks ago, I returned to Boston to finish my last semester at college. At the airport, a young freshman, faultlessly mesmerized by my sage and charm, formed an impetuous bond to me. A bond comprised of a most irritating adhesive.

Despite snide retorts and plenty of attitude, I couldn’t kick the boy scout (... Figuratively speaking, of course...). So I resolved on the fact that I could save money and share a cab with him back to campus. Hey, that IRA isn’t going to build itself! Amiright?? Ay ohhhh!

But I digress.

In the cab, the conversation was as contrived as the boy-child was vapid. What’s worse, within the Ambien prescribed conversation, he tried to shame me for not recognizing the name of a football player. ~BLASPHEMY!~ … Please! Allow me verbalize the palpable side-eye judgment I threw his way...

Teenager, with candid disdain: “How do you NOT know who that is? Where have you been?? I can’t bel—”

Me, always with perspicacity and eloquence: “Where have I been?! Where have YOU been?! What about 1988, 1989, and 1990… Oh that’s right, you weren’t alive!! Respect your elders, fool!”

Damn kids these days.

"Cruising" sans T-Pain

Crumpled in bed watching back-to-back episodes of Spongebob, I feel obligated to make something of this day (considering I’ve allowed the past few to rest idly in between my self-made imprints upon my bed). Perhaps this lackadaisical nature—though consistent with my general lifestyle, feels a bit amplified at present—is due to the effects of that dang cruise! Let me explain…

The cruise was outrageously corny (which no doubt I will elaborate on later) and filled with 6,000 people. The two things I hate most: misdirected campiness and people. That being said… The cruise was all you can eat!!! Words cannot do justice to the experience; the prepaid buffet for every meal was simply phenomenal. Needless to say, I ate my feelings.

Now I’d like to expand on the level of cheesy entertainment forced upon me while trapped on the boat. At the height of it all was the performance by a Frankie Valli & the Four Seasons tribute band. Yes, such a thing exists. Four middle-aged nerds dressed in tuxedos over purple shirts with two buttons undone to convince the audience they had a debonair swagger. But I’m no fool! In front of a bedazzled purple curtain, they danced like choreographed crackheads. They bounced, shook and wiggled all with a maniac smile that glistened from their own self-obsession. In between the contrived renditions, the group tried to entertain with awkward anecdotes of which the relevancy was lost on me. One member in an overworked jovial tone spoke about his frustrations with the dating scene. How difficult it was for him to find the “right woman” … Eesh, based on all the glitter and purple, I can solve that problem!

One dance after another, including a flippant—and therefore all the more horrifying—provocative dance for a memaw, weakened my constitution as I sought solace in the imminent end. Finally the group, after completing their seemingly endless set list, stood at the front of the stage bowing, clapping (for themselves…) and waving. As the applause died a slow and painful death, the group continued to stand on stage with their eager positions and toothy smiles. They were awaiting an encore!! The nerve! Once an uncomfortable silence swept the theater, some idiot in the back squeaked, “Encore?” To no one’s surprise—or delight—the tribute band snatched back their microphones and regained the bounce in their step… It was a poor man’s Vegas show.

I’m sorry but I’m just too classy for that shiz.

Shorts and sandals of the nefarious sort

Tomorrow morning I will embark on a new and unexpected adventure: a family-friendly cruise. I will spend a week on a Disney crackpot vessel that encourages—nay, thrives off of the cheesy, corny lifestyles of Americans. I would describe myself to a complete stranger and without the need of this contextual support as the antithesis of a cruise. Yes, I’m pale and cynical for a reason! That being said, it will be nice to spend some time with my family as we all burn together and seek shade under an artificial palm tree. Ah, family bonding. If I survive this, I can survive anything!

It's the thought that counts

To prove to you all that I’m no Scrooge, I would like to say, quite politically incorrect and therefore all the more trendy, Merry Christmas, fools!

No apologies, only acceptance

Ok sooo bitterness is definitely the worst feeling evahhhh! Clearly, even after a year, I still can’t accept the incompetence of the unsuitable, unprofessionalllllllll French education system. Ugh, there I go again! There’s a strong likelihood that I’m going to be one of those cynical, old women with a wacky style and a flare for the peculiar.

I mean this in the most offensive way possible...

May this day forever go down in history as my last day of French, the language of hypocritical, mediocre FOOLS whose breath reeks of allllllll the shiz they push past their jagged, unhygienic teeth and thin, nicotine-splintered lips. Yes, I said it! And I’d say it in French, too! But I don’t feel like translating… So eff that!