Ugh, we get it. You’re happily engaged and you want to spread your love seed all over Facebook. We get it.
Ugh, I understand. I understand that I am a moody person sometimes and it’s annoying. I understand.
Ugh, I am over it. I am over people who I don’t want in my life and I resort to calling them ogres. I really am over it.
But then I read a post about Jessica Redfield. I read it right here on WordPress and decided to reblog it. I am alive and I am bitching about it.
something to consider,
When did I become pretty? I have no idea. I don’t even feel like I know the chick in my profile picture on this establishment. It’s not as if I have emerged from some tiny ugly duckling into a beautiful swan, but what does it mean to feel completely disconnected from you own face? I mean, it’s there all the damn time. I see it everyday and yet, I don’t feel like it’s mine.
My face should be square. I can talk to anyone, I can make anyone feel somewhat comfortable, but in relationships that actually count, I can be the most awkward person alive. Maybe you don’t believe me, but I swear it’s true. So I then wonder, do our faces have anything to do with our personalities? Do I look like how I really am? Do people see my face and think, “Hey, there’s a neat kid,” or do they think something entirely different?
I wonder if there’s something wrong with me. Sometimes I think that I spend so much time thinking about things that I think I’ve actually said them, but then I haven’t said them at all and so people feel neglected or ignored. What’s that shit about? I’m even a little embarrassed to be telling you this, dear reader. I don’t want you to think I’m a square, but I do have an inherent need to be truthful with you. It’s a certain weird type of mind-guilt that I experience. Maybe I was Jewish in a past life.
At any rate, this letter to you is very disconnected, but I am trying to establish it all and figure out what it is I’m thinking. Perhaps that is the first step in rounding off my edges and becoming more circular.
yours for now,
I don’t understand girls. Having been one my entire life, I still don’t get it. It is an age-old rant to discuss the pitfalls and would-be annoyances of the female race and it doesn’t make it any more viable if it comes from a female, but I just can’t help it. Also, since I have just “refreshed” with a new fancy energy drink from Starbucks, I find that I now have a lot to say. And don’t consider me pretentious for sipping an overpriced beverage, consider me pretentious for bitching about my own sex.
You can’t spell bitching without bitch and there a lot of bitches out there. Ladies are dreamers. Notorious for not giving up, consider our inner girl scouts for our can-do attitudes, girls just can’t let it go. Girls especially can’t let guys go. I believe that every female, and I can only speak for females because I am not a man, has experienced a person that they believe to be their one true love. Now, that one true love can date someone, but the girl will believe in her heart of hearts that she will be the one at the very end. That shit ain’t true, ladies.
What I am saying is do your fellow female a solid and lay off the instigating. Or just ask yourself, WWJD? I’ll tell you what he’d do – Jesus would put his big girl panties on and grow the fuck up.
yours in female comrade-ship,
I would like to expand your mind. I would like to type a strew of things worth retweeting, but Twitter is for losers and squares. I would like to make you seriously reconsider your grammar practices. I would like to come here and be as openly pretentious as need be and I would like for you to feel welcome enough to snootily sip a snide remark right along with me. But I really don’t want to make you feel bad. In fact, I am a relatively pleasant human being. So, if you, unfortunately, happen to be on Twitter, it’s going to be okay. I, however, prefer to not have a limited word count.
I started a blog long ago, back when the Beijing Olympics were about to begin. Let’s take a moment to pause and reflect on those opening ceremonies. I was never more proud to be a hypothetical Asian. In present-day, pre-London-Calling Olympic Games of 2012, I must inform you, with deep sorrow, that my Google account is terribly fucked. Also, I dibble-dabble in using offensive words from time to time.
Therefore, damn you BlogSpot. Damn you to hell.
Instead of wallowing in what could have been a deep, dark, pensive, sepia-toned depression, I gathered my words and made a new blog. I realize that you may have no clue who I am and all of this has been a pointless introduction.
Thank you (in advance) for reading,