In a desperate attempt to not feel like a complete loser by drinking alone at a bar in Rome, I decided to employ a fantastically awesome story about how I was Vanessa Simone, an American author writing a book about love, sex and dating around the world and yes, sweetie, it is so nice to meet you, too. And, yes, I did come up with that book idea to, ahem, hopefully grab someone to conduct my experiments with for, you know, research. RESEARCH.

However, that plan backfired, because no one wanted to sleep with me. All anyone wanted to do was tell me about THEIR crazy love and sex stories THAT HAD ALREADY HAPPENED. Fucking egomaniacs.

While at a bar, I met this group of American students who pulled me into their group faster than things that get pulled in fast (a tide?) and when I told them about the “book” they were all, “OH MY GOD, THIS ONE TIME…” and they proceeded to tell me some of the craziest shit I had heard in a long while even including my own crazy shit, which was, admittedly, pretty damn crazy.

At one point, they were all, “Oh, you need to meet our friend; she’s basically bi and she’d really have some great stories to tell!” So, being the diligent author that I am, I pulled out my Moleskine, scribbled a note that just said, “bi” (seriously) and then when she gave me her fake name (Trixie) (seriously), I pretended to take notes about her escapades. Which, I’m sorry, if you go to Rome and you bring home a different AMERICAN GUY every weekend after drinking far too much alcohol, then you’re not going to be a part of my fake fucking fuck fuck book. THAT’S NOT EVEN INTERESTING NOR DOES IT HAVE ANYTHING TO DO WITH THE FAKE SUBJECT OF MY FAKE BOOK. Who the hell goes to study abroad in ITALY and then sleeps with stupid twenty-something AMERICAN MEN IN ROME?

Not I.

Anyways.

So, then these Americans want me to hang out with them all the time, but I always flake on them, except then I see them out sometimes and they’re all, “Vanessa! Hi!” and I kind of forget that’s my name so I don’t turn around right away. But, I decided one night to go out with them again and this crazy Australian chick wanted me to be her BFF, so I obliged her and we went to this Irish pub. I told all the people about my book and I expected all the men to want to sleep with me, because I was so sexually awesome and open. And an author! With a real life book advance! Ok, a fake real life book advance! So what! Come on!

But, no. The only thing that happened on that particular night was I started talking to this guy who then told me how he had crazy sex on a bridge in Florence with the love of his life just a couple weeks ago. And, I’m all, “Why are you telling me this?”

“Because you needed research.” Subtext: I’m a whore and I want to be in your book.

“No, I said I wanted to EXPERIENCE RESEARCH, not hear about your sex stories. So, I’m going to go talk to someone else who doesn’t have the love of his life.” And, I started walking towards a group of seemingly single men.

But then he yelled at me and hurriedly spit out, “Wait! When I was 16, I slept with my 27 year old babysitter and ruined her marriage!”

And with that, I turned around slowly, opened up my Moleskine, took the pen cap off with my mouth, spit it on the ground and said, “Ok, so. Start from the beginning…”

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So, there’s this guy I made out with a bunch the second week I moved to San Francisco. And, I have no idea if he reads this blog or if he knows my last name or if he’s going to find this and feel like I’m sort of a bad person for writing about him, but I’m about to start asking men I meet to sign a release form, in which I say, “NO SIGN, NO KISS.” Not that I even need a release form, but I do feel like that’s sort of polite to say, “Hi, this is probably not going to work out between us, but would you mind so terribly if I turned this relationship into blogging material because, if not, I’m feeling like this is somewhat a waste of time because, oh, did you know I’m a blogger? Yes, Google me. I’ll wait.”

Now, back to this guy. I met him at a club and we made out for a really long time, so long that the next day I woke up with what Nicole refers to as my “cannonball hickey” and a tongue that was so sore, I felt like I had taken it to the gym and put it through some horrific thing like fucking spin class. I woke up in the morning and I was all, “Uh, excuse me, but how do you stretch your tongue? Is there some sort of TONGUE YOGA BECAUSE WHAT THE HELL HAPPENED LAST NIGHT?” And, then I realized that I had made out with this guy literally FOR HOURS and then basically told him exactly how to ask me out for the next day and told him that if he didn’t text me by 10am, I wouldn’t go out with him.

So, of course, he texted by 10am. And asked me to have dinner with him that night and so started the back and forth making of the date and canceling of the date for almost TWO WEEKS until I finally just texted him and said, “Shit’s not meant to be, bro. Let’s move on.” Like, no I don’t want to go to dinner. And, yes, I was drunk. And, no, I KNOW, that’s not an excuse, but COULD I JUST USE IT AS AN EXCUSE THIS ONE TIME? Why does everyone else get to use the, “Oops, I was drunk” excuse SO MUCH BUT I NEVER GET TO?

What?

God, since when did I get so goddamn whiney? Someone punch me in the face and then give me a shot of whiskey, because I’m not myself.

But anyways.

Basically, what happened was he kept asking me out and I finally just laid down the law. But, now, something interesting has developed. He’ll call me at 2:30am randomly. Okay, so he’s done this twice, but twice is enough for it to be A THING HE DOES. Because, he called me the other night when I had gone to sleep at 10pm on a Friday night because I’m cool like that and I woke up thinking, “The hell? REALLY? 2:30am? You actually fucking fuck fuck think I’m going to answer a BOOTY CALL WHEN I WOULDN’T EVEN LET YOU TAKE ME TO DINNER?” Bro. Just, no. No.

However, it did lead me to give myself a nice backhanded compliment because I need to grab those wherever I can. How good of a kisser am I that a) my tongue was sore and b) dude still wants to hook up with me after all of this rejection? I mean, damn girl, that’s some pretty impressive tongue action if that’s what’s making him hold on so hard.

So, for that, I gave myself a nice pat on the back, vowed to myself I would never have another drunk make out again, and that I’ll stop drinking alltoge…

Hahahahahhahaha.

Yeah, right. THAT’S a good joke.

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So, the power of the Universe sometimes gives me hives. I’ll be skipping along, feeling quite smug with myself about how I just harness my inner Law of Attraction, think positive thoughts, and BAM! things happen along swimmingly. Considering I put in significant effort to, ya know, be all positive and change my beliefs so I actually attract good things into my life, I feel like the Universe and I have a pretty damn good relationship.

But, that Universe is a fickle, fickle bitch. Because, since I know how powerful it is when I’m thinking positively, I go through absolute freak-out, anxiety-inducing moments when I start swirling around in negativity. I start legitimately panicking, because I’m all, “UNIVERSE DON’T BELIEVE ANYTHING I’M THINKING. I’M IN A BAD PLACE. I HAD WAY TOO MUCH VODKA LAST NIGHT AND NOW I’M ALL THROWING MYSELF A PITY PARTY SO JUST STOP LISTENING. I’M TALKING NONSENSE. NONSENSE, I TELL YOU.”

Which, speaking of the Universe and weird New Age-y things, there was this one time I was in New York City for my 21st birthday and this bitch psychic tried take advantage of me, but I KNEW BETTER. Kind of. A little. Ok, not at all.

So, I was walking around Manhattan and this woman stopped me on Madison Avenue and asked if I wanted to speak to her, because she was a psychic. I was feeling particularly vulnerable and frustrated, so I said yes. She did a quick read on me, said the most general shit ever, and somehow convinced me that my chakra was off-balance and could I go home, take a shower, and wash myself with this soap? Being impressionable (and really fucking gullible), I said yes, went back to my friend’s apartment and washed myself with the chakra-balancing-soap (?) and returned to the psychic the next day.

The psychic asked if I had used the soap, fed me some other bullshit about how I need to do x and y and now we need to do the serious balancing of my chakras or energy or WHATEVER. At this point, she leaves to go talk to her mother, who is also a psychic, because OF COURSE THIS SHIT’S GENETIC, YO. My psychic comes back and tells me she needs me to go to the grocery store to grab a few things for our chakra balancing. She tells me to go to the store and buy paper towels and a dozen eggs.

Um.

Ok?

So, keep in mind, I’m still young and a little desperate to BALANCE OUT MY CHAKRAS, so I step outside and look for a store that sells these items, but since it’s NEW YORK CITY and not the suburbs, I can’t find a goddamn Safeway or Vons or Whole Foods anywhere. So, I’m going into liquor stores asking for paper towels and eggs and all of a sudden, I stop short. I stand there and I have a heart to heart with myself in the middle of Manhattan and I think, “You’re now officially old enough to buy all the alcohol you ever need and what is the state of your life right now?”

And that’s when it hit me.

Like a huge massive ton of bricks.

BITCH WAS USING ME TO BUY HER STUPID, DUMB, FAKE PSYCHIC GROCERY LIST. BALANCING MY CHAKRAS?! MORE LIKE BUYING TOMORROW’S BREAKFAST.

Whore.

Wait, what was the point of this blog post?

I’m sorry. What’s happening? I blacked out a little.

The other night, I went to this networking event that was open bar and apparently, I had forgotten all business etiquette. Or that there is something called “business casual” that exists, because I just wanted to look hot. I’m dressed in this short skirt from H&M, a pair of cute black tights, suede boots that go over my knee, and a low cut top. TO A NETWORKING EVENT. Remember that scene in Bridget Jones where she shows up to a normal party wearing a bunny costume and you’re all, “Girl, come ON!” Yeah. Uh. That was me.

I was the Bridget and everyone else were the partygoers wondering if I was the hired stripper. Compounded upon my outfit was the fact that I didn’t have a legitimate name tag because I was added to the list late. So, here I am wearing this unbelievably inappropriate outfit holding a full vodka/cranberry without any business cards to hand out and on top of it, my name is handwritten on my tag and I’m sure a lot of people were wondering if I just, sort of, wandered in off the street because I heard OPEN BAR.

Which isn’t to say that’s not entirely the truth. BUT THAT’S NOT TERRIBLY IMPORTANT IS IT?

But, then, THEN. The next night I go out with friends and the first bar we go to, I see two women from the networking event. Which would have been awesome, because they were really cool, but the whole scene was significantly less awesome, because, oh, I WAS WEARING THE EXACT SAME OUTFIT AS THE NIGHT BEFORE. YES. THE HOOKER OUTFIT. And, not even kind of the same outfit. The actual, exact one save for an underwear change, but they couldn’t see that, so being the awesome person I am, I said, “Oh my god! Good to see you again. I’m so embarrassed because I’m wearing the same outfit as last night. Ha! Ha! But don’t worry I changed my underwear!”

At this point, how do I even have friends? Honestly?

And, why does anyone let me out in public? Especially after, between the three of us girls (Nicole, Jessica, and me), we shared four bottles of wine while listening to Girl Talk and discussing the state of men in America and how they need to step it the fuck up. But, god, that’s a whole other post entirely.

And, of course, the guy I thought was so cute had a girlfriend, because that’s just a Jamie thing to do. And, god, I’m being terribly self-deprecating. But, don’t worry, the night gets better. Because, I grabbed a town car home and I’m basically convinced that this was not a taxi service at all, but was really this dude’s actual normal town car that he takes out on the weekend to get some extra cash by driving girls in short skirts back to their apartments at 2 a.m. You know why I think this? Because when I got in the car, I look at the passenger seat and some woman is sitting there stroking her pet Chihuahua like it was Mr. Bigglesworth.

And, then I say, “Oh wow! What a cute dog!” I pet it, it licks my hand a bit and I sit back discussing how cute the dog is with this couple while they drive me home. Then, I get home safely, tell the cute Chihuahua family bye and thanks and then eat the best pizza ever from Trader Joe’s, go to sleep and wake up in the morning wondering if I dreamt up a town car with a Chihuahua and a hot guy with a girlfriend and my wearing the exact same outfit two nights in a row.

Because, THIS CANNOT BE MY ACTUAL LIFE.

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So, my mom has this thing. This thing where she doesn’t ever want me to swear on this blog and sometimes she’ll send me emails telling me to maybe, you know, tone it down a bit and go back to being PG-13. But, I don’t know of this “time” in my “past” where I was “PG-13″ except maybe when I was a toddler, but even then, I’m pretty sure I was swearing as a kid, but I just didn’t know what the right words were. So, when I was saying, “Want doll. Goo goo. Ga ga,” what I really meant was, “Gimme that fucking doll now.” I was a hard baby. Clearly.

However, being the sweet daughter that I am, I told my mom that, well, things are going to change ’round the blog and that I was going to be swearing just a wee bit more. I warned her. I prepped her. I told her that I would be using the eff word at times and could she not email me please and tell me to not use this word? And she kind of told me there’s no reason to use it and yes, I totally agree, but it’s fucking fun to say and write. And, people tend to do a ton of things that aren’t technically necessary, so could I just have my swearing? I’m not passed out in a gutter somewhere with coke still on my nose spooning with a homeless man. At least, not this weekend.

And, what’s funny is that I’m with my dad and I’m telling him the story about how mom doesn’t like me swearing on my blog. I’m all, “What the fuck is up with that?” And he doesn’t know and he’s swearing and I’m thinking that I should be passing all my main life decisions by my dad instead of my mom because at least he’ll shoot me straight by throwing down the eff bomb every once in a while. I’m not sure if I trust people who can’t swear. Or who don’t swear. It’s unbecoming of them. And I like people who are becoming of themselves. Ya know?

No, you don’t know.

You know why?

Because what I just said doesn’t make any damn sense. So, unless you’re on some sort of acid that makes otherwise incomprehensible things all of a sudden, well, comprehensible, then, actually, can I get some of that?

Wait, mom, EAR MUFFS!

Damn it.

So, what’s the best part about this story is that we’re in my room (my mom, myself, and my younger brother) talking about the state of my blog. And my mom goes, “Why don’t you just use fruits instead of the eff word?”

“Um, because that’s weird, mom.”

“How about instead of f-u-c-k, you can say, ‘Oh, RIPE TOMATOES!’” WTF? WHO WOULD EVER SAY THAT!?

“What?”

“Think of fruit. You can say ‘fruit’ – like, FUDGE. FUDGE ICE CREAM!”

“THAT’S NOT EVEN A FRUIT!”

“You can even throw in a clam or two. Maybe some shrimp. Oh. CLAMIT! And instead of ’shit’, say ‘SHRIMP!’ Just make a salad. A seafood salad swear word.”

At this point, I sort of lost it. I lost all ability to even function as a normal human being and I knew I had really gone off the deep end when I was starting to think that “clamit” wasn’t the worst idea.

So, now my blog is going to read like this, “Clamit, this banana day is a piece of pear.” There, mom, ARE YOU HAPPY NOW? I SOUND LIKE BIG BIRD’S FUCKING FUCK FUCK ANGER MANAGEMENT CLASS.

Clamit. Clamit. Clamit.

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If you’re anything like me, you know that life can be extremely funny. And, if you’re even more like me, you know that the only way one can even FUNCTION in this world is to think basically everything is a riot. And a joke. Otherwise, you might want to start killing kittens and nobody likes a kitten killer. However, there are some things that are just not funny while they are happening and it’s only when you think about them in retrospect do they become quite hilarious. Or, maybe you cry. I don’t know. I’m not you.

Awkward segue into list.

1. When it starts raining, but you have a dress on and you are using a shitty umbrella from H&M

No disrespect to my peeps over at H&M, because, god knows, I’m obsessed with everything they ever make. But, come on, make an umbrella that can withstand some wind. I’m not using this black and white polka dot umbrella because, oh dear, it’s drizzling a little and I don’t want to mess up my perm. The perm I don’t have but, in theory, I could have. DON’T JUDGE MY FUTURE PERM.

So, I’m walking back from SF Weekly headquarters one day and what was once a sunny day turns into an actual, legitimate storm. I’m running across the street in this, admittedly, kind of short dress and I’m only wearing black tights with it and a light jacket, because, oh, IT WAS SUNNY? So, I’m crossing this massive street with all these cars waiting on the light to change and for me to cross and, of course, I start battling with this umbrella that is INVERTING ITSELF while my stupid dress keeps fighting to fly up over my head. And, I know, this sounds like it might actually be Marilyn-Monroe-sexy, but it was more of Jamie-Varon-not-graceful-AT-ALL. And, I’m soaked and freezing and hungry and THIS GODDAMN UMBRELLA HAS ONE JOB: TO STOP RAIN. And, ah, and, then, ugh, and then, I HAD TO TAKE THE BUS. Like, ask me what I hate so much I could die? The bus. Being freezing cold on a bus after being caught in a traumatizing monsoon? ACTUAL HELL.

2. Sending something that was meant to be a Direct Message as a public tweet

Especially when you use the words “SEXTING” and “CLIENT” in the same sentence. Because, then for the next two weeks you reprimand yourself for dirty DMing because it’s like you WANT to send a public message out to your Twitter followers detailing the who and what of what you’d do if who and what was in your apartment. That’s living on a very awkward edge between Really Stupid and Even Stupider Than That. And, so, for two weeks I’m sitting there sending these questionable messages and absolutely sending myself into an irrational panic every single damn time I press send. Which, in retrospect, is absolutely hysterical, but at the time was both really hot, really stressful and absolutely unnecessary because I kept the DMing panic going because I WAS TOO LAZY TO EMAIL. I’m. I’m, uh. I’m special.

3. When you’re at a gay bar, have had far too much to drink and you’re having an intense conversation with someone for thirty minutes where you are doing some weird back and forth intense rubbing of each other’s sides that I’d have to show you in person, otherwise it sounds awkward. And, then, you think it’s a dude, but your roommate tells you three days later that you were talking to some woman really intensely and all of a sudden, you go, “Wait, you mean that GUY I WAS TALKING TO?” And she says, “No, that was a chick!”

WAS IT!?

Oh god.

OH. DEAR. GOD.

IT WAS.

Shit. I need my happy place.

When it comes to love and dating and all that “fun” stuff, there are two people actually calling the shots: the person I want to be and the person I, at the end of the day, am.  And, I’m beginning to think that, at some point, one of them is going to have to die the hell off, because I’m sick of trying to satisfy both parts of myself, especially when the person I actually am is the person that is getting what they want. Funny way that Universe works, huh?

So, the person I want to be is this: A really cool and open woman who enjoys casual dating with the hope that one of them will actually stick and turn into a long-term relationship. This woman is also guarded to a point, but is willing to give people a chance. This woman doesn’t overthink or talk herself out of otherwise great situations and she is definitely a hopeless romantic. This woman also always smells really nice and wears a lot of dresses and always has enough money to buy pretty things that make her feel pretty. THIS WOMAN SOUNDS AWESOME.

And, now, for the person I actually am: This woman is still holding out for the time when someone just comes crashing into her life and demands she fall in love with them. She can’t overthink it or be guarded or be any of those crazy things she actually is, because this person will just smash into her and leave her no choice but to be silly, stupidly in love. No time taken away from actually living the life she wants because of the complication and messy of dating. This woman also does smell really nice and wears a lot of pretty dresses, but unfortunately, does not have enough money to buy pretty things all the time. THIS WOMAN IS STILL AWESOME BUT NEEDS SOME WORK.

I just. I don’t know. I just don’t KNOW. Some days I feel extremely hopeful about embracing the messy and the chaos of love. Other days I’m forlorn about how crushes can actively come so quickly and actively dissipate even quicker. And, then, other days I’ll decide that what I really want is for a Situational Boyfriend to come in and give me orgasms and put up that goddamn heavy mirror onto my wall that is still sitting at the foot of my bed on the floor. AFTER A MONTH OF MOVING INTO MY APARTMENT. My blog archive (and more importantly) my life reads like a very specific how-to guide on how to be fickle. Or really, really indecisive. Or not knowing what the fuck I ACTUALLY WANT.

And, I suppose I don’t really need to know. Hence the someone smashing into my life and demanding I love them. Because at least then, I don’t get the choice. Because, unfortunately, faced with the choice of whether to fall in love or not, I usually pick the “not” mainly because it seems to just, I don’t know, get in the goddamn way of everything else I’d like to be doing. Like having exotic flings in foreign places, even though I can’t even go through with doing THAT either, so really, I’m back to what I commonly refer to as “Square One: In Which Jamie Faces Yet Another Round of Indecision Regarding Her Love Life” and could someone hot and amazing and awesome and really, really funny please just come into my life in a great, big grandiose way and demand I stop my anti-committal, fearful love life shenanigans and, I don’t know, just sort of have sex with me all the time and be happily in love?

Could someone just do that? Because, I’m starting to think that this person I want to be is not the person I am or ever will be. And, at some point, I need to come to terms with that. And, what better time to do that then rightfuckingnow?

Annnnnnd, deep breath.

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Ok, so, here’s the deal. If you’re reading this in an RSS reader, come over to the site. There are a few changes to the blog, including a new color scheme, some crazy ass footer, and a tagline that makes me so happy I want to make out with it. Twice.

Also, big news over here at the Varon household. Nicole Antoinette, my codependent life partner slash roommate, and I have joined our creative genius to work together making Shatterboxx Media even better than it already is. To celebrate, I gave her blog, my blog, and the company website full-on makeovers.

And, because we’re feeling particularly giddy over our new digs, we’ve decided to give one of YOU lucky people a tricked out blog design. The only catch is that you’ll need to be operating on WordPress and be self-hosted. (Let us know if you have any questions.) Besides that, you can enter as many times as your little heart can allow it.

We will announce the very, very lucky winner on February 15. Good luck!

So, here’s how you can win (each is one entry and you can enter as many times as you want):

• Follow @shatterboxx on Twitter
• Tweet about the contest then come back here and leave a comment on this post with a link to your tweet(s). Sample tweet: Win a gorgeous custom blog designed by @shatterboxx ladies @jamievaron & @nicoleisbetter. Contest details here: http://bit.ly/9jaRmO
• Blog about the contest then, again, come back here and leave a comment on this post with a link to your post
• Sign up for the Shatterboxx Media monthly email newsletter below

So, there are very few things in life that make me want to strangle puppies in the way that incompetent customer service does. First was Comcast. They suck at customer service. I know this. You know this. THEY KNOW THIS.

Which means you nor I nor them should be surprised that they created an online user name for me that’s associated with my account without even telling me they did this. Apparently, they like to be inundated with irate SMART people who think simple things they get wrong could easily be done RIGHT. So, some person gets on the phone and they were all, “Ok, we already set up a user name for you, it’s Jamie009988.” And, so I went in and tried to login but OBVIOUSLY they spelled it “Jaime” instead of “Jamie” because, I mean, WHY WOULD THEY SPELL MY NAME CORRECTLY? Clearly, this is asking way too much of a company that spends more time with their fingers up their ass tweeting all day than actually giving a shit about if their customers want to blow their brains out after calling for tech support.

ANYWAYS.

So, I finally get into my account and the guy’s all, “So, now we need to make you a secondary username and then just make that one the primary one.” Um, ok. Fine? So, it’s easy to just click “Add Secondary User” and I’m all, Ok, Comcast, NOT BAD SO FAR. But then the guy is all, “Ok, so now you need to go into a chat room in order to make this username the primary one.” And I said, “Ok.” But then my brain caught up.

“I have to do WHAT?!”

“You need to go into a chat room.” I mean, bro, I know I’m hot and people have told me I do have a bit of a good phone sex voice, but I’m not about to CYBER IT UP WITH YOU RIGHT NOW. Or, wait, EVER.

“Um, ok? Why isn’t there an easy way right here to make this the primary username?”

“I’m not sure, ma’am, but you’ll need to open up a new browser window and login to a chat room now.”

And, at this point, I kind of well, completely LOST MY MIND. Because, then we went into a chat room and apparently what I was supposed to do was wait for a representative to come into the chat room, tell this person that I need to make a username my primary one, and then report back to my phone representative. I’m the middleman between the most INEFFICIENT CUSTOMER SERVICE EVER EVER EVER.

So I said to him, “Ok, so you’re telling me I need to be on the phone with YOU while I wait for another person to chat with me online? This is the most ridiculous thing ever. Aren’t I just wasting everyone’s time because I should be able to just change this within my control panel.”

But, common sense and smartness are just too much to ask for. Because I waited for a chat representative to assist me while I heard the rep on the phone breathing. FOR OVER THREE MINUTES. And, while, yeah, you’re thinking that’s not a long time, but I assure you, IT IS. It feels like a damn lifetime when all you want to do is strangle the person closest to you and while that person is usually Nicole, that wouldn’t be good. So, finally, I was just all, “Ok, can I just use that other username to access my account?”

And he said yes. And I thought WHY DIDN’T YOU GIVE ME THAT OPTION IN THE FIRST PLACE OH MY GOD I’M GOING TO OFF MYSELF. So, now I’m using some stupid login for Comcast where my name isn’t even spelled correctly because apparently you need the IQ of a dingbat in order to do anything customer service related for any of the companies I called today. I BLAME COMCAST FOR EVERYTHING WRONG.

Then, I proceeded to be even more masochistic and called Discover card, Wells Fargo, and finally, to top this whole clusterfuck of a day off, I called David’s Bridal. And they were all, “Please tell us which of these locations is closest to you: Colma, Pinole, blah blah.” And I go, “COLMA.”

“We’re sorry, please tell us which of these locations is closest to you: Colm…”

“COLMA!”

“We’re sorry, please tell us whi…”

“OMG KILL ME COLMA!!!!!”

“We’re sorry…”

And, then I gave up. Not just on customer service reps, but on life. And, I prayed to god that he would please, PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE make people smarter. Like, just in general. Or, grant me the serenity to NOT COMPLETELY LOSE IT BECAUSE SOMETIMES. SOME. TIMES. I JUST CAN’T HANDLE IT.

Someone hold me.

It’s so dark.

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So, yeah. Yeahhh. I watched the first episode of Jersey Shore today. And before you get all, OH MY GOD WHY DID YOU DO THAT?! on me, it was mainly because I’d been hearing about it so much that I figured I needed to, at the very least, be somewhat “in the know” about this show. And, well, since I can’t get those 20 minutes (that’s how long I lasted) of my life back, I decided I’d write about it.

First off, all the men on the show kept saying how they are such typical Italians. UH. WHAT. YOU. ARE. DELUSIONAL. Lemme tell you a little secret here, Vinny or Snookie or whatever the hell their names are: ITALIAN MEN ARE NOT EVEN CLOSE TO WHAT YOU ARE CALLING “GUIDOS.” They are hot and awesome and interesting and wear leather jackets that make them these seductive bad boys, but they would never have a tanning ROOM IN THEIR HOUSE. Like, ever. Like, they’d rather die than be so obsessed with tanning that they actually had to install a room in order to preserve their bronzed body. Also. ALSO. Vinny-poo, have you ever BEEN to Italy? You know, that country you’re supposedly “from” and those people you are supposedly so much “like”? I mean, you haven’t. Because if you had, you wouldn’t even come back alive, let’s be real about this.

Second off, I’m kind of jealous of these Jersey Shore people. Which, I get, is totally contrary to my previous rant and you’re probably all, THE HELL? Did this girl do a bunch of drugs before she wrote this post? Well, considering I just wrote “pot” instead of “post” you would be correct in assuming I’m totally high and have actually forgotten about my previous paragraph, but, ALAS, I AM NOT HIGH. I just kind of, you know, wonder what it would be like to be so, well, kind of dumb. Kind of like, this is all there is and looking hot and dancing to house music and fist pumping is actually what just, simply, makes me happy.

I mean, is ignorance bliss? Nobody reading this knows, because you’re all smart. And hot. Yeah. And awesome. Yeah. I mean, only hot, smart, awesome people read my blog, so, yay. But, sometimes I think, WHAT WOULD LIFE BE LIKE TO WANT SO LITTLE? To actually truly believe that the Jersey Shore is the best place on the whole spectrum of places to be. To just be all, tra! la! la! ooh! tanning! hair gel! cleavage! six packs! so happy! To just not care if I become a published author or if my web design business succeeds or if I find the absolute, heart-stopping love of my life or if I exceed the impossible expectations I have for myself. To just be a little less smarter than I am. A little less head-on-my-shoulders-ish. A little more Jersey Shore and a little less potential-living-up-to.

I know. This is stupid. And not even worth writing about or thinking about, because, unless I get some weird brain switch, it’s a moot point. Because, I do care about writing a book and building a successful business and finding the most amazing love of all the lives I may or may not have already lived or will live. It’s just. Sometimes. Ya know? Sometimes. Shit. I wonder. I wonder what life would be like if I were a little less me and a little more Snookie. Minus the punch in the face. And, well, minus the everything she is.

Shit.

I’m so stuck with myself. Might as well embrace the hot and the awesome and the smart and just, well, fucking get on with it already, right?

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