Lying Isn’t My Strong Suit

Okay, so obviously my announcement that I was retiring as a blogger was a completely ridiculous April Fool’s Day prank that many people saw straight through. I’ve never been good at April Fool’s Day trickery, but I did confuse a few people by shutting down my blog for a day. I have always been a supporter of mischievous antics, so I couldn’t let it pass without my own pranking attempt. Even if they always end up less effective than trying to microwave boil your Easter eggs.

Y’all are too smart, so I had to take it a step further than just a FB update.

A few people seemed to take the bait when I disabled my public blog.

Jules, Jules, Jules… you should know better.

I’ll tell y’all this much, I was duped far more times than I did the duping this April 1st, but it was an interesting day nonetheless.

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Sleepless in Louisiana

I will be out of the blog arena this week for reasons which I can not disclose. Yet. So in my absence, welcome back the one, the only, Mr. Hook….

Secrets, secrets are no fun — no, actually they are.

TEN THINGS YOU DIDN’T KNOW ABOUT BECCA.

5 Healthy Alternatives to The Wall Slide

Believe it or not, I get a little blue from time to time. Surprise! I am human.

Whether the problem be as small as forgetting my lunch at home or as big as struggling to change my career, sometimes it feels good to just sulk for a minute. Just a minute. One. Small. Minute. We need to let ourselves fully feel some of these emotions in order to conquer them.

There is this cliché scene in movies where a character gets overwhelmed and you see them lean up against a door or wall and slide down until they are sitting there on the floor. Dejected. With a sigh and maybe even a face palm. We have all been there. I probably get there at least once a week. No really, I actually perform this dramatic sequence. The wall slide. It actually makes me feel better. But there are other weird ways in which I console myself when I am feeling frustrated, sad, lonely, or beset. Here are five of them that you may recognize as well.

Ariel gets it.

1. Driving just to drive.

Here’s the scenario. I leave an awful day at work. I arrive home and go through the routine: Check mail. Climb stairs. Go run. Feed Jack. Clean up all of the messes Jack made while I was away. Shower. Eat. Get antsy. Feel lonely. Grab keys. Music. Drive. It may not be economical, but it is certainly meditative.

2. Sitting in the shower.

Luckily for me, I have a tiny triangular bench/seat in my shower, so I don’t have to go full on pathetic by squatting or sitting on the drain. You know you have done it. After a stressful day when the water is really hot, you just want that moment where you don’t have to think or do anything or move a muscle (or stand apparently). So you sit. In the shower. Like a kid sitting under a sprinkler but with much less innocence and way more exhaustion. Occasionally beer is involved, as you learned last week.

3. Staring at the ceiling.

Seriously, try it. Lay down diagonally across your bed. Add a medium-speed fan for an even more trance like experience. At this point, you contemplate life and sigh… a lot.

4. Cleaning everything.

This one is for the more aggressive expulsion of bottled up emotions. There is nothing like blaring some Tech N9ne while you scrub the absolute shit out of your base boards, toilet, shower that you sit in, and/or your kitchen. The plus here is that you get to be over-the-top in the non-destructive way. There is nothing like waking up with your eyes swollen from cry-cleaning to the smell of lemon pledge and ammonia.

5. Writing a post about your feelings.

See this post.

Thanks to everyone who gave feedback on Wednesday about the  blogger meet-up. We will be posting an update in the up coming weeks. I really think we can pull this off. If we don’t, I am going to have to find a lot of walls to slide down.

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Blogger Meet Up 2013

I am sure y’all remember that huge (imaginary) New Year’s meet up most of us partook in, even if you “don’t remember”. Although it was almost two months ago, I think it is safe to say its memory is still more enchanting than anyone could have fathomed.

No one remembers this?!

Now, imagine if that had been real life. The sensation you just felt was the process of your mind exploding.  But bare with me here.

Lately, I have noticed that a lot of mystical and cosmic encounters have been occurring among WordPress bloggers. While we were all getting classy-trashy at our party, Tracy spent New Year’s Eve with none other than Le Clown and his troops IRL. Vyvacious got to meet Sweet Mother and the fearless Jillian Levi last month. The same Jillian Levi who got to meet up with Calahan after that. I am still not over that one. Hell, even La La announced at one point that she received some free travel miles and took to Facebook to get suggestions on a destination.

What does this all mean, and why do I feel so left out? Besides the fact that I am totally left out. (I wear my tweets on my sleeve)

I began stewing. After that, I began high jacking Facebook comment threads with jealous rants. Then, I decided to stop pouting and do something about it.

I e-mailed Jen demanding that we organize a blogger meet up for 2013. I’m imagining something out of You’ve Got Mail, only you don’t have to make out with anyone at the end if you don’t want. You also won’t go out of business (if you have one). You will, however, have to know how to spell fox. That’s the secret password to get into the meet up.

Jen then pooped her pants in agreement. Thank god I had some baby wipes handy. We obviously make a great team, so we decided to join forces to make this blorgy happen. We would like to work on getting a census of where everyone is located, come up with a centralized venue that would be ideal for most of the bloggers interested, and of course pick some date(s).

BUT FIRST, we need to find out if this is something in which bloggers out there would actually participate. Are you pooing your pants in excitement like Jen, or would you rather remain loving your blog friends from afar? Much like that really rank smelling, yet extremely sweet and helpful cousin of yours. Maybe you don’t give a shit either way, but please humor us.

If you wouldn’t mind, please take a second and let us know by answering the poll questions below in a comment. Actually, you better do it or else I am going to high jack the comment section of your blog and continuously post Harlem Shake video links until the spam filter catches me. Or something.

To meet or not to meet? That is the question.

1. Would you be interested in attending a blogger meetup?

2. What is the closest metropolitan area to you?

3. If you are down, what other place(s) would you like to have a meetup?

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All Work and No Play Makes 25toFly a Dull Blog

Um.  Hi?  Excuse me.  Sorry to bother you.  Just wanted to introduce myself.  I’m Becca’s Blog.  That’s right, the one responsible for all of the shenanigans and emotiporn that she told you about on Wednesday. It’s me.

Recently, she was talking to this guy.  Not sure of his name or which one, but she was talking to this guy about her blog.  More like listening to this guy complaining about how much time she spends on her blog, and then he said something like, “Becca, it’s like your blog is taking on a life of its own.  It’s not a child.  It’s just a stupid page where you write stuff.  It’s not like it’s important or anything, is it?  What?  Facebook isn’t enough for you?”

You should have seen her face when he said that.  She was like, OMG and quickly like slammed down her laptop.  Fucking hurt, man.  So I could tell she was really pissed that someone might have figure out that – yeeaahh – her blog – me – has a life – my life – of its own – MY own – for a long time now.  And I’m getting kind of sick of everyone thinking of her as this fabulous blogger when really it is all me.  The blog with a life of its own.

Here is an accurate depiction of what I would look like if I were human. I, Becca’s blog, would be a dude. See penis envy quote below.

I mean, you should see her lately.  Mailing it in.  Just sits on the sofa, skanky long johns, one hand holding a cigarette, and you do NOT want to know where the other hand is.  And what’s with the long johns?  Some form of penis envy?  Then she’s doing shots of Jim Beam, flicking ashes on Jack, and watching numbers roll up on WordPress while I’m doing all of the damn work.  “Life of its own.”  You heard the dude.  Well, you didn’t.  I did.  She did too, but she won’t admit it. I’m tired of this shit.  Her getting all the credit.  Enough.  My turn.  For lots of things.

So I thought about it this morning while watching her waking up.  Attempting to wake up.  Drool on the wood floor where she passed out last night.  Luckily, she passed out while the laptop was still open so I could see it all.  “The Artist Artificially Known as Firecrotch” is trying to figure out two things.  First, “Am I under water?”  and second, “ Shouldn’t there be bourbon in this water?”  I’m telling you, there’s something touching about watching a 20-something woman, still toasted from last night, wearing only a backwards Mickey Mouse t-shirt, and looking at herself in the mirror trying to think. At least she’s pretty.

So she finally yanks herself off of the floor.  She just kept walking around like she was trying to remember where her keys were.  Between sips of Diet Coke, she kept looking around like something was on the tip of her tongue but she couldn’t quite place it.  Then she leaves about fifteen minutes late, never even puts the TV on, and I don’t get my morning dose of Soledad O’Brien on CNN.  I’m into Latino chicks.  They got attitude, especially Soledad.  She needs a few burgers, but she’s got potential.  You know who really needs a basket of burgers is Erin Burnett.  I could pick a lock with her legs.  She’s pretty, but at certain angles she looks like Steve Carell in a wig.  No lie.

Erin comes on about 11 at night, right when Becca’s staring at me blankly while doing shots straight out of the bottle. I guess maybe that’s a swig, not a shot?  I need to get out more.

Anyway, I realize you don’t really know exactly what’s happening, so I should try to clear this up.  To be fair, I admit that Becca has been a fabulous writer/blogger.  Key words:  has been.  But her poor little brain is getting overtaxed.  I’ve seen smoke seeping out of her ears.  She spends so much time on me that she really is lacking an actual life.  I’m all about helping.  MY version of helping.  And I’m going to ease her burden a bit by taking on more of these blogging duties myself.  Most mornings she doesn’t really remember the night before, so she’ll probably just think she wrote these posts anyway.

I’m also going to attempt to inject a little fun into her boring-ass existence.  Goes to work.  Goes to the bar.  Talks to the old guy at the bar.  Searches her closet for something to wear on her head.  Pictures of her cat.  Jim Beam.  More Jim Beam.  So consider this a bit of a French Revolution.  Not French.  What’s the word for the French influence in the New Orleans area?  Not Cajun.  Dammit, I know there’s a word for it.  I suck.

Oh shit.  Jack’s giving me a signal.  I think she’s home.  I better get back before she notices anything.  Soooo – quick summary.  Now that I’ve figure out how to remove myself from the computer and take a little more control of things, I’m just going to light a fire under this girl’s round ass and have a little fun.

I mean, what’s the worst that could happen?

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A Girl and Her Rapper

In yesterday’s post, I revealed a secret about my disdain for sharing my music preferences with other drivers on the road, specifically at red lights. In the comments, there were a few others who expressed secrets involving music. Jillian was educating people at the same red lights, Amber was performing accidental serenades, and TBM revealed his faux music career. Sam also sings T-swift better than me, but that’s okay because much more people show interest in hearing me spit some Eminem.

Me and Slim go way back.

If I was a boy. Or a real ginger.

I vividly remember the period in my life when I was first introduced to the exquisitely crude lyrics of one of my favorite rappers. I can still smell my old 5th grade classroom and hear the sounds of me cracking pencils out of frustration over those logic puzzles. Isabella, Amy, Tony, and Michael can figure out their own damn class schedules or which gifts they gave to whom for Valentine’s Day. Shit.  But this isn’t about them. This is about my favorite rapper, Mr. Marshall Mathers himself. You will be okay with this once you understand our history.

When Eminem came out with My Name Is, I remember being scared and delighted all at the same time. Scared, because I knew if I got caught singing the lyrics, “I don’t give a fuck, god sent me to piss the world off” at the impressionable age of ten, I would surely be put in jail and condemned to hell. My delight came from Eminem being my first true taste of secret rebellion. It was a simple infatuation that I couldn’t fully understand. It wouldn’t be long, however, before I was able to start understanding and appreciating the verses I was performing for the hair ribbons and stuffed animals in my closet.

Picture This…

Why is there so much badassery going on in the WordPress crib right now? Is everyone not aware that December is supposed to be the Friday of the months of the year? It is supposed to be the free pass month for all things lazy, self-indulgent, and greedy. Y’all are messing that up for me (at least the lazy part), but you know what? It is worth it. Because I love you. There I said it.

Speaking of all things badass, there is yet another event happening that I couldn’t not participate in. Julie and Byronic Man, I am talking to you. I am after your sheets. If those reading this don’t know what I am talking about, that’s a shame, but I’ll forgive you if you visit one of their pages and educate yourself. So generous.

You see, just last night Jack decided to practice his own self indigent behavior. The little fellow wore himself out making confetti of my softest-sheets-ever and didn’t hesitate when he got to the pillow cases. To top it off, like a cherry on top of a resentment sundae, he puked right in the middle of the shredded pile and then pranced off to destroy the rest of my favorite things.

I may not sleep under my sheets, but they are still an integral component of the optimal sleep environment. So, come to think of it, I am not being greedy at all. I need those sheets. Plus, who wouldn’t want to sleep on top of one of Julie’s adorable chipmonks or the hottest guy on WordPress Byronic Man?

As the rules state, I have harnessed every ounce of holiday cheer to bring you the 25toFly Christmas Card. Here it is:

A special greeting for you at my family’s expense.

Do you know what it is like to have your photo taken at every worst possible moment? Have you ever experienced the trauma of being blinded by the flash in the middle of your mascara “O” face (you know you do this ladies)? It’s impressive, really. The man you all want to have a beer with so badly can even manage to take a bad picture of himself. You may still like my Dad more than you like me, but if you keep hanging out with him for too long, you can kiss your photogenic-ness goodbye.

Dad has been capturing our sweet little distorted mug shots since the 90’s!

As if this post didn’t including enough of y’alls favorite things (my dad, contests, sexy people) I am going to leave this (rough version) here for you to ponder. The placement of mistletoe is in no way suggestive of anything other than the pure Christmas spirit.

Just kidding. It’s sexual innuendo.

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