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.
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?