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?
This Saturday I forced myself to attend my friend’s Halloween party. I had been looking forward to going all week, however when the day presented itself, I felt less than motivated to get dressed up and trot around a party. Plus, the temperature conveniently dropped to a breathtaking forty something at night over the weekend. That’s almost subzero. That’s like dry-ice cold. I know science.
Had it not been for the heating powers of Jim Beam, I surely would have gone into shock or hypothermia or developed frost bite or something equally as dramatic and over exaggerated.
While hiding in the bathroom to regain feeling in my legs, I stumbled across this purely decorative had towel hanging out of the towel closet like it was drunk. Silly decorative hand towel, you don’t go there. I have not a single picture of me and my friends dressed up at the party, but I sure can deliver a picture of some inanimate and insignificant object. It’s not even a Halloween towel for shit’s sake!
At least I could find some use for my unrelated party photo. It’s for you people who are dealing with Sandy and her wrath right now. Don’t forget the pros of the colossal hurricane coming to a shore near you. You (and your bum) will look petite and attractive next to that thing. Not that you weren’t already.
- Music to ride out Hurricane Sandy (wtvr.com)
- Are You in the Path of Hurricane Sandy? (minorleagueball.com)
- Hurricane Sandy Cocktail Suggestions (tmrzoo.com)
I am one of those people who tries to multitask everything. I’d rather be multitasking than single-tasking any day. It’s practically a condition. For example, I’ll start off answering a phone call while sitting on my couch, and within a few minutes my neck hurts and I’ve muted myself, because I am holding the phone with my shoulder while eating a sandwich and mopping my floors. This condition can get extremely stressful. The worst is if I do not complete all of the tasks I am juggling, I feel even more stressed. This results in me being even less productive, and eventually I just end up lying on the floor somewhere staring at a ceiling fan. Wait, wasn’t this post supposed to have something to do with New Orleans?
I am blaming my lack of writing lately on my sideshow-gone-bad. Between getting back in to the swing of work, planning a trip to New Orleans (there it is), and arranging a baby shower, writing has fallen off the task wagon. I knew I should have put a seat belt on that one, or at very least, a helmet.
Helping to plan a baby shower while simultaneously planning a four night stay on Bourbon St. has been… interesting. It was quite like juggling two pink scarfs and a handle of Jim Beam. Trying to establish a rhythm using objects of such completely different dimensions is tricky. I felt doomed to drop the
ball scarf somewhere along the line (do you really think I would let whiskey take the fall?). Ultimately, I managed to keep my act together long enough to avoid any flying tomatoes. Read the rest of this entry
Is it just me, or is Tuesday the most uneventful day of the week? Check it out.
- Monday may very well be the black sheep of the weekday family, but at least it is known for something. At least you can fill the hours of your day with incessant bitching.
- Wednesday is kind of like the just-popular-enough step brother of Thursday. It also is often referred to by using the word hump. The only time this is a bad thing is when you are driving over a misnamed speed
humpbump going way too fast.
- Thursday is just close enough to Friday to put some pep back in your step. It is also my favorite weekday (dubbed thirsty Thursday), because by then yours truly becomes parched, and the only remedy is Jim Beam.
- Friday = Parties, paychecks, and pandemonium. I don’t think elaboration is necessary.
- Saturday is Mecca. Saturday is that distant cousin who ran off from the weekday family to live a Summer in Paris sipping Cafe au Lait by day and squandering Absinthe by night. It is the day to sleep in, do whatever you want, and then entertain the enchanting notions of the unpredictable course Saturday night could take you.
- Finally, there is Sunday Funday. Even the most chill day of the week gets an inviting name. Host of family barbecues, abundant naps, football, catching up on housework, and maybe even a little front porch swing action, Sunday is akin to Wednesday but with slightly better genes.
What happened to Tuesday? Read the rest of this entry
Growing up in Shreveport, LA crawfish were not eaten so often as the deeper southern areas of Louisiana. Apparently Shreveport qualifies as a Texan city by most Cajuns, being that it is so close to the border. I have come to automatically expect being called out as a “Yankee” as soon as I mention my hometown anywhere south of Alexandria.
Anyway, I never liked crawfish growing up. This is sort of blasphemy, but it wasn’t a case of faulty taste buds. I may be a Yankee but my taste buds most certainly are not. No, the problem was that I was a lazy and picky eater (at least when it came to seafood). Not only was I never able to master the practice of peeling the mud bugs, but I was also annoyingly finicky about deveining. Okay, I admit I am still annoyingly finicky about the vein. Devein ALL the things!
When I moved to Lafayette, I soon became a part of many gatherings revolving around this delicacy. Read the rest of this entry