"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!

Bad timing

It has come to my attention that I have a low, perhaps almost non-existent, tolerance for loitering in respect to group projects. It’s painful enough to be forced to interact with people, but to waste my time with trivial small talk and verbose tangents?! That’s where I shut it DOWN. Don’t ramble on about shiz I don’t need to know. We’re not friends. We’re not even acquaintances. We’re simply group members, nothing more. Once this project is done, I will pretend I don’t know you. If we cross in passing, I will whip out my cell phone and check my email. Yeah, that’s how I roll. Suck it! So, why prolong a meeting for an hour when it could have been done in 20 minutes? You’re not investing your time into a future friendship. Efficiency is how I do. Get at it!

Rant ovahhhhhh!

Struck gold

Owing to the old woman within, I have yet to fully understand this Twitter phenomenon. Don’t get me wrong, self-indulgence and vanity are two of my favorite qualities. But the reason behind this narcissistic trend does not concern me. What troubles me—deeply, in fact—are the conversations between two Twitterers (Tweeters? Twatters? Twats? …Eh). I can’t decipher the curious, albeit inane, conversations between these egotistical, infamous freak-shows. Think about it, the only thing that separates these conceited fame hoes from professional circus freaks is a questionable white powdered line. But I digress… I don’t understand Twitter!! Just look at this tweet/twat/twit from the always humble and gracious Diddy, aka Puff Daddy, aka Sean Combs:

"RT @UncleRUSH: We are here for a short time, the ones who smile the most are the winners, be happy and smile alot"

Wise words, Diddy. But what the heck does RT mean?? Is Diddy passing some knowledge on to Uncle Rush or is it the other way around?? Ugh! Technology these days… But, thanks to a few gems Twitter is tolerable, perhaps even entertaining. John Mayer flaunts his witty humor with comments like,

"It's Fashion Week in NYC. Where are all the Talbot's models hanging out?"

I can’t hate on that! Perhaps because I grew up rockin the Talbots look, hmmmm. Best yet, Jessica Simpson showcases her brilliance with this harrowing tale about her dog:

"My heart is broken because a coyote took my precious Daisy right in front of our eyes. HORROR!"

A coyote?! What in the hell kind of Looney Tunes shiz is that? She even posted a reward, in which no doubt (!) the Roadrunner will be interested. Greedy betch!