Does anyone read this blog? Based on the number of comments his posts generate, he has a huge fan base, but I hadn’t heard of him until the other day. I poked around his site and was left exhausted and confused. For some reason I feel like the people who genuinely liked my blog would never in a million years read this guy’s blog. (He does yoga, says nice things about people, and poses more rhetorical questions than Carrie Bradshaw.) That said, he is cute and I’m intrigued.

Addendum: Oh gosh. I just found an entry in which he says he never has a bad day and doesn’t drink alcohol. *slowly backs out of the room* But bless his heart, I like him and his shameless, shirtless pandering.

Addendum Addendum: I posted this as a comment, these are my final words on the subject: “OK, I’ve thought of this more, and it increasingly seems that he’s borrowed a page (quite deftly) from L. Ron Hubbard by using “up with people” psycho-babble to sell a product to the weak and impressionable. Don’t get it twisted, I give him a lot of credit. But I’m too grounded in reality (for better or for worse) to drink the Kool-Aid.” Also, if anyone says, “Don’t like it? Don’t read it,” I will ban you for life. I’ve been in this game for far too long to keep my opinions to myself!

Sorry, everyone – but this blogger is not real. “Asher, 21, Ireland, hot, gay.” OK! But, like I said, this is almost certainly another fake blog penned by some 40-year-old weirdo with a computer. It’s happened before, again and again and again.

[via The Awl]

This makes me sad, mostly for myself. Mostly.

I went to a house party this weekend, too – although if anyone there was doing drugs I was too stupid to notice. I’m naive, I’ll admit it. Despite being jaded about so many things, I still err on the side of assuming the best in people. Lord knows there are many instances in which I could have saved myself considerable time and heartache by assuming the worst.

Ironically, the people at this party surely must have thought I was on drugs myself because I wouldn’t shut up, I just kept talking and talking and talking, when there was a lull in conversation I’d jump right in with a bizarre non sequitur, I’d make jokes that weren’t funny, I’d poke fun at people I’d just met, I’d go so far as to MOCK someone TO HIS FACE if it meant I’d keep people from seeing just how nervous and uncomfortable I really was. Everything’s a hilarious joke to me, yay! Wait, where are you going? Why does everyone think I’m annoying and weird??! COME BACK, I’M NORMAL, I SWEAR.

Usually these exchanges go a little something like this:

Me: <random observation that has nothing to do with anything but in my mind serves as an icebreaker>
Victim: <hesitant reply>
Me: <insanely insulting barb that amuses no one but myself>

Here are some real-life examples from the weekend:

Me: Boy, it sure is dark outside here in this hot tub.
Victim: Yeah, it is.
Me: I can hardly see your face, THANK GOD!

Me: So I hear it’s your birthday today.
Victim: Well, my birthday was actually in May, I’ve just been busy and we’re finally getting around to celebrating it.
Me: Seriously? <looks at watch> You know it’s June 12, right?

I shouldn’t be allowed out of the house.

Oh look, there I am, sobbing uncontrollably in my used domestic car. Why, I’m probably on my way to work!

Ha ha, just kidding, that’s not me. It’s the choir teacher with no penis from “Glee.” When I saw this scene last night, I burst out laughing. How many times would you bet I’ve cried alone while driving a car? If you guessed ONCE, then you are WRONG! The correct answer is twice. Once, in high school, while playing No Doubt’s “Simple Kind Of Life” and coming to terms with the fact that I got a B- on the English Regents exam despite getting a 5 on the AP English exam. And another time, during the summer break after freshman year of college, when Avril Lavigne’s “Complicated” came on the radio, a song that reminded me of my boyfriend at the time who I was far too good for!  The only reason there aren’t more examples is because I no longer drive a car.

I’m trying to think of the last time I had a really big cry, in or out of a car. The problem with crying yourself to sleep every night is you typically don’t remember doing it come morning.

Oh god, major dilemma. It’s 10:30 p.m. on a Saturday, and my upstairs neighbor just messaged me on Facebook, asking what I’m doing. Actually, he literally asked, “What are you doing?” – and anyone not born yesterday would recognize that as a booty call. But it’s totally not like that, we’re friends, we live in the same building, we’ve been trying to hang out more, whatever. So I reply, truthfully, “Something lame, whyyy?” And I really was doing something lame. I was lamely laying in bed with my boyfriend’s dog, lamely messing around on my iPhone, while lamely waiting for the Lunesta to kick in. FUCK, the Lunesta! I had JUST swallowed a Lunesta pill, which meant I had 15 minutes before the room would start to spin. And my neighbor was asking me to come upstairs and drink with him and his friends. Fuckity fuck.

So, I do what any rational person would do and head into the bathroom to force myself to vomit. That blue fucking pill was going to come back up whether it liked it or not! Sure, I’d be interrupting its little Lunesta destiny, but I didn’t care! I practically fisted my own throat, all in vein, only to cough up some remnants of my bedtime casein shake. And because I’m as rational as the next guy, I even considered for a moment heading up there, just to play things by ear. You know, strolling in, introducing myself, pouring myself a cocktail, and casually informing the host that I could collapse at any moment due to the lethal side effects of alcohol and prescription sleeping pills. And then I’d call bass guitar on Rock Band.

Miraculously, I opted for bed. You see, even prior to the Lunesta, I had been feeling faint due to this wacky new diet I’m on where I’m supposed to ingest fewer calories than I burn. Not really sure how it’s going so far, but I nearly fell over a few times this evening from temporary loss of orientation, so I guess that’s good!

Because I’m an idiot, I spent the last two weekends gallivanting around the state of Florida, primarily the areas of Orlando, West Palm Beach and Jupiter. The first weekend entailed a Disney vacation with Matt. The second weekend, a “relaxing” stay (It actually did turn out to be pretty relaxing!) with my parents and my sister. These two trips were supposed to be combined, which is where the “I’m an idiot” factor comes into play. I booked the Disney vacation on the wrong fucking weekend, so long story, I had to spend hundreds of dollars on last-minute flights, car rentals, etc., all because I’m an r-word who doesn’t listen, never calls and can’t communicate with others (according to my mother). Anyway, I’m back in D.C. and I’m totally poor!

During the most recent of my Florida sojourns – which consisted largely of eating, drinking, visiting a turtle hospital, and peering at multi-million dollar condos from the interior of a Ford Windstar minivan – I had a lot of time to reflect on things. Am I happy with where I am in life? Not really! I mean, I am very lucky to have a great boyfriend and great friends and a great family and a great dog and a great apartment and great hair – but… everything else (And what else is there, really?) is a disaster. And so, I’ve given myself 25 days to get my life in order, because in 25 days I turn 27.

Basically, I need to determine two things: Do I need to go back to school, and if so, what do I want to study? And what do I do with this blog? I want to return to writing, but part of me wants to start over in a totally anonymous way. So, dear blog friends, please solve all of my problems, thanks!

I should really get back into this thing.

Check out this post by DC Cised. It sort of reminds me of my own writing from back in the day.

Not that I ever really cared for pumpkin, but after watching tonight’s episode of “Hoarders” – which featured an elderly woman named Jill who couldn’t stand to part with the seeds of an entirely unsalvageable rotting pumpkin carcass that had made a home for itself on her living room floor – I’m not sure enough time will pass before Thanksgiving for me to enjoy a slice of pumpkin pie ever again.

Interestingly, Jill and I have completely opposite problems. Whereas she holds on to eggs for over a year and insists that it wouldn’t kill her to eat them (or serve them to her son), I throw them out the second the clock strikes “sell by date.” I also dump any remaining milk five days after I’ve opened the carton – although I know for a fact that this is what you’re supposed to do.

Sigh. What would it take for me to become a full-blow hoarder? Of course, who am I kidding – my boyfriend would never even let me hoard episodes of “Hoarders” on the DVR, let alone bags of coagulated cabbage in the hallway. (Hint from Heloise: Cabbage is very “forgiving” as it rots from the outside, according to Jill!)

Matt and I go “shopping” today and of course I manage to find the one deep V-neck T-shirt located in the entire men’s department of Bloomingdale’s. Heather grey with a screen-printed rainbow on it. And it was on sale for only $15 – imagine that! I buy it with only the faintest intention of ever actually wearing it.

Walking past Abercrombie, the topic of the prosthetic arm lawsuit comes up and I say to Matt, “Would Abercrombie hire me?”

“Probably,” he says.

PROBABLY?

“I mean, yeah, I’m sure they would.”

Um.

“They probably wouldn’t hire you because you’re just so BIG.”

Ding ding. Now we’re talking.

On an unrelated note, I have isolated spots of cystic acne all over my face. This is what happens when you stress out about stupid shit that won’t even matter in six months.

I have a hard enough time seeing my friends in eye-rollingly meager whisps of Lycra at the pool, so you can imagine my discomfort when stumbling upon photos of my friends doing sexy times on the Internet.

This very thing happened to me the other day when about 300 people e-mailed me links to a porn blog that featured still frames of a mutual “friend” (To be honest, I barely know this person, he showed up to my boyfriend’s birthday party one year and was perfectly nice, I’ve probably interacted with him three times since then.) pounding out the veal with his considerably less attractive “co-star.”

As with any disaster – be it one involving cars, acts of nature, or, in this case, an individual – it was impossible to look away, so I scanned through the images, experiencing a tingling sensation that was entirely unfamiliar, given the situation. No, it wasn’t arousal; it was faint admiration.

Indeed, how empowering it must be to allow photos of the most private aspects of your life and genitalia be posted on the Internet for the world to see. To live without a thing to hide – I’m not sure if I have or will ever experience that. I’m always covering up something: my emotions, my tenders. ESPECIALLY my tenders. No Lycra swim trunks for me.

You know, blogging really is sort of like doing porn. You’re putting yourself out there, exposing yourself (albeit figuratively) to the judgement of family, friends and strangers alike. Of course, blogging is far less lucrative and usually doesn’t involve getting your taint waxed.

I recently discovered Girls Aloud through their latest single “Untouchable,” which is played on Energy 98 all day long. It is the official SONG OF THE SUMMER, at least in my head and also in my boyfriend’s car, where I whine and complain until he caves into letting me plug in my iPhone and play the damn song. (I always choose the seven-minute extended version because I’m an asshole.) Anyway, I love this song, and I love Girls Aloud as much as one who has never actually handed over money for a Girls Aloud song can.

Knowing my interest in shitty music, B___ sends me a link this afternoon to a music video by some group called The Saturdays. I had heard a little about them and assumed they were some indie hipster group. But when I pull up their Wikipedia page, I discover the familiar formula of five attractive women, each with varying degrees of skin pigmentation and stylized hair. They look just like every other girl group – SO OF COURSE I BECOME OBSESSED WITH THEM.

Their video for “Work” is pretty much perfect and adheres closely to the standards and practices outlined in Girl Group Music Videos 101:

• Leather outfits
• Posing disguised as dancing
• Hair extensions
• Balls of fire
• Wind machine
• Sparks falling from the ceiling
• Overexposed closeups
• Fake dance floor with a runway
• Spotlights
• Stomping around on a wet floor
• No plot
• Sexy face

God, I’d give anything to be in a girl group. I’d even volunteer to be the ugly one who isn’t trusted to sing verses.

On Saturday, I choose my outfit very carefully. It is S___’s 30th birthday and he’s hosting a party to celebrate and I need to wear something that’s tight enough to make myself feel sexy (and others uncomfortable) but loose enough to remove in a moment’s notice should I be asked to throw on a pair of heels and sequined “gown” for the inevitable booger drag show. The winning selection: a black T-shirt and jeans. Imagine that!

One hour and a quart of iced tea vodka into the party, I’m standing around, minding everyone else’s business, when the male apotheosis of GLAMOUR enters the room in a garment that, at the time, could only be described in breathless sighs and seething stares of jealousy. Since then, I’ve identified the proper term for this woven wonder: JORTS.

Yes, jorts. As in, jean shorts. I haven’t seen anyone wear jean shorts since, well, yesterday, when I saw a pack of Midwestern tourists on the Metro. But I haven’t seen a GAY person wear jean shorts since, well, Latino night at Apex last week BUT THAT’S NOT THE POINT.

I am not an elitist but jorts, no. Just, no. There’s another name for jorts and it’s “boner killer.”

(Interestingly, the ever-reliable Wikipedia reveals that July 25 is National Jorts Day. Also, jorts are “extremely prevalent in the state of New Jersey, which actually leads the nation in jort sales. [citation needed]“)

My self-esteem instantly cripples
At sight of your abs and their ripples
But still you’re a douche
Who’s hooked on the juice
With bacne and two puffy nipples

Like three 19th century convicts deported by the British government to the penal colony of New South Wales, S___, K___ and I were ravaged by a work week’s worth of physical punishment and medical neglect.

But with most spates of excessive labor comes an eventual reprieve, and for us, Friday evening offered such an opportunity to forgive Australia for its cruel sun and backbreaking coal mines and, instead, indulge in the healing balm of its yeast-based cuisine.

A journey to the south and to the west – a journey traveled so many times by so many – over the bridge and through what was once surely woods, to Outback Steakhouse in Arlington, Virginia, we go!

There was a 30 minute wait at Outback, so we went to Olive Garden instead.

Presented with a menu of perverted Italian fare, I chose the Apricot Something Chicken, which the ristorante’s website later revealed as having just 380 calories.

S___ and K___, on the other hand, each opted for the gastronomic Tour of Italy, a 1,400-calorie junket that typically includes an abrupt stopover in the bathroom.

I was pleased with my choice, although you’d never guess based on how fat I’m feeling at the pool today.