Dear John Mayer,
I know it was a great day when some label scout found you sitting on the grass in "the quad" and gave you a big check to record the songs you made up to impress sorority girls when you ran out of roofies that time and no one would fuck you cause your face looks like a swollen horse testicle. But you're rich now, and for some inexplicable reason women fuck you. Please stop writing songs.
Dear John Mayer,
My BF and I had a discussion last night when he was all "I wish you played video games WITH me" after I was all "you're an asshole stop playing video games and hang out with me."I asked about the women in this particular game. He was like well, if you want to play a girl you can play a scantily clad one or this other one with a latex translucent bodysuit on. It's a battle game of some sort, set in space. So the assumption we're working off of here is that if you're a woman in a space battle you are either too stupid to know that you should probably protect vulnerable sensitive items like your tits and vagina from space weapons and or you're too slutty to care that one of your triple-E sized tits might get blown off or impede your ability to run if you leave them flapping in the wind. Why would I want to do that? Let's be honest here. I'm a woman. Everything I look at (TV, magazines, the internet, physically modified rich people on Newbury Street) tells me that I should at least try to look like a shiny naked fucktoy. So uh, why would I intentionally engage in looking like or surrounding myself with virtual shiny naked fucktoys for hours at a time? Isn't the whole video game thing about "escapism"? Maybe I should also play a game about cleaning the toilet, or sitting in rush hour traffic with period cramps. Since apparently I'm a big fan of games in the "shit I tolerate in real life" genre. Right, game making dudes? The video game industry can go fuck themselves until they invent something that smart women actually want to partake in. If its a space game, give me a cool fucking SPACE SUIT and don't have "sheer thong" as an option. If its a battle, give me some fucking PANTS and don't insult me with a bikini comprised of twelve soda can tabs. And at least make some sense - even in a world where dragons existed and gnomes rode around in spaceships, a woman with tits 5 times the size of her head and waist the size of her wrist would not be able to walk, let alone engage in a slow motion Baywatch run with a machine gun in each hand.
Every time I sneeze at work, someone says "bless you." I sneeze like 56 times a day despite taking an antihistamine for some reason, so it gets pretty annoying - especially when I do one of those rapid-fire multi-sneezes and I get a "bless you ... bless you ... BLESS you!"
Let me just say this: I'm an agnostic. I believe in something, but it's not Jesus or Allah or anyone with the power or the right to bless my bony ass every time my body goes haywire. I don't think a sneeze means demons are flying out my nostrils, and even if they were I wouldn't need a blessing, I'd need a camera so I could sell the blurry image of booger Satan to the Enquirer for a million dollars so I can stop having to come here every fucking day.
Regardless, being that I'm the subject of so much holy charity from my coworkers I feel obligated to return the phrase whenever one of them sneezes. Sometimes I sit silent and I can feel the heat of their judgement, so I say it the next time to redeem myself. I hate it so much that I've started to stifle my own sneezes by pinching the bridge of my nose. If Satan is in there, he's probably really psyched and pretty close to ruling my every move. I take no responsibility for what I post from here on out, especially if it's written in backwards Latin or whatever language church shit gets written in.
Before I discovered the glory of their cotton-modal blend t-shirts thanks to a random Christmas gift from my sister a few years back, I would never have set foot in an Abercrombie. It's like a gas chamber of eye-stinging cologne with dim lights and the relentless leg-hump of bad house music. I'm amazed at the number of straight men who manage to shop there without sensing the overwhelming gay club vibe and running out clutching their white baseball hats while praying for the reassurance of their next boob-induced boner.Anyway, I can smile and tolerate the strained "fuck me" look that their "store models" give me because it's store policy, despite how much they remind me of the child sex slaves I saw on Dateline. I feel no shame making a beeline for the heap of clearance items in the back of the store, where they sell their $30 t-shirts for the $6 they're worth, though I can sense the disgust of the full-price shoppers who notice. What really pisses me off is the aftermath of making a purchase at this joint Your first punishment is being forced to walk out of the store carrying the disembodied torso of the 18-year-old twink whose peek-a-pube Craigslist photo they enlarged in place of a logo on their bag. Then you get home and have to wash whatever you bought 3x before you can wear it without raising suspicion that you fucked the entire cast of Jersey Shore in the men's deodorant aisle of CVS. But when all is said and done, this is a great shirt I have on, isn't it? I got it for $6 at Abercrombie. You should go.
I had a moment in Target the other day when I found a sweater I liked, and a pair of sweatpants I liked, and I bought the pants with the reasoning that I would wear them more often. When I got home I thought about the old me who bought a hot mini dress every Friday night to go to the club and dance in and get my picture taken and show off to everyone and I cried a little bit about suddenly being uncool. Shortly after, I realized what has happened to me is really more enlightenment - the value I place on everything has shifted. I used to know that "THINGS can't make you happy" because, like, Uncle Jesse said it on Full House and every other douche in 10,000 other shows and movies and books said it all the time forever, but now I feel like I seriously KNOW it. Everything I pick up and think "I want this" my next thought is "Why do I want this? What will it add to my life? How will I use it?" after which point I end up putting most things back down.
This "enlightenment" has brought on other problems, however. When you go to get dressed and you look at your closet thinking "What should I wear?" and that question is now followed by "Who am I?" and "What does 'me' wear?" it takes a really fucking long time to get dressed.
The point I'm getting at is, you should give me pot for Christmas.