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!

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 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.

I’m on a train to New York. While boarding, I asked if a certain car was business class. The black conductor said, “No, it’s a car for white males only. You’re a white male, aren’t you?” Ha! The conductor is my hero.

So, was I truly out of line to bring up at dinner on Saturday the rumor of Trig not being Sarah Palin’s baby? Evidently not.

And, in a move practically out of Karl Rove’s playbook, [Sarah Palin] dwelled on how [Republican opponent] Stein’s wife used her maiden name, going so far as to demand a marriage certificate as proof of their nuptials.

Oh, I see. It’s OK for Palin to demand a copy of someone’s marriage license, but it’s sexist of me to demand a copy of her son’s birth certificate. Makes sense to me!

Say what you will about Sarah Palin, but the thing I will remember most about this ridiculous woman is her chilling non-reaction to Joe Biden following what was unarguably the most somber moment of the evening. Classless.

This is pretty much what I eat for dinner every night. Grilled chicken, sweet potatoes, usually a salad to go along with that. I marinate the chicken briefly with a mixture of olive oil and Herbes de Provence and then cook it on the grill pan that my grandmother gave to me as a housewarming gift. I cook the sweet potato with a sliced yellow onion and a ton of olive oil. Not the healthiest – ergo my backfat?
Oh, and you best believe I drink every beverage out of a god damn Solo cup. Damn, it feels good to be a gangsta.

Yesterday was my last day at work. My coworkers threw a little farewell get-together late in the day, with cake and a card. It was like something my parents would organize for my birthday, only less awkward. When I cut the first piece of cake, my boss said, “Wow, that’s a big one.” I wanted someone to chime in with “That’s what she said!” but tragically the moment came and went.
Closing the office door behind me for the last time was easier than I feel it should have been. I will probably come to deeply miss the place when I wake up on Monday at the crack of noon, itching to make pitch calls, reply unnecessarily to all, or unjam the Canon PC920 Laser Digital Color All-in-One Piece of Shit. Memories!
I’ve been standing in front of the mirror a lot lately, mostly in bodybuilder poses. (Shame.) In high school I would mimic Britney Spears in front of the mirror (shaaaaaaaaaaaaaaame), and now I’m biting Ah-nold. I am so freakin’ BUTCH.

If you have not heard of the game Phase 10, please drop everything you’re doing, drive to your nearest Target, and buy it! It’s sort of like rummy (or so I hear, given that I’ve never actually played rummy), and it is perfect for when you want to get shitfaced with your friends at a more relaxed, gradual pace. Of course, it’s not really a drinking game, but if you manage to pack in two beers per phase, then you’re set. (There are 10 phases.)
Anyway, that is what I did tonight. The Gentleman Friend came over and we went upstairs to Shank’s apartment and played with Rusty and Shank’s roommate L. I didn’t win, but I didn’t get pouty when things weren’t going my way, so in a way, we are all winners tonight.
No gym today; Wednesday is my day off. Tomorrow is my last day at work. Hard to imagine that I’m leaving my first “real” job, but it’s been more than a year and I’m ready to move on. Come Thursday at 5:30 p.m., I will take to the air and depart on my umbrella, my work done and my coworkers’ lives changed for the better.

I weighed in at 154 pounds today – 154 pounds! That is two pounds less than yesterday. I don’t know where those two pounds went, but, in the words of Michelle Phillips threatening her daughter’s abusive boyfriend Ben Savage in the Lifetime Original Movie No One Would Tell, “If I ever find out, God help me … .”
The Gentleman Friend made dinner for me tonight and then we had a drink at some bar called Tonic. When we got home, he made the mistake of handing me the remote; I flipped between Lifetime, Nancy Grace, QVC and The Tyra Banks Show. Now we are watching the Discovery Channel and I have no idea what is going on.
Oh, by the way, JRs was pretty good last night. I ran into a lot of people I know, but I only had to talk to a few of them.

I weighed in at 156 pounds today.
This is an embarrassment, but I can’t feel sorry for myself because it’s nearly 9 p.m. and I’ve only had 2,300 calories today. This is no way to grow.
I worked on my chest and triceps today. It was OK. For some reason, Washington Sports Club has decided to switch the television in the weight room from CNN to “All My Children” during the lunch rush. If Susan Lucci can be 60 years old and look as good as she does, then I guess that’s all the inspiration I need to keep on liftin’.
Now I’m supposed to be getting ready to go to JRs for a going-away party. I totally forgot about this and I’m already in my pajamas and jonesing for a Lunesta, but, no, I must be valiant and throw on a pair of jeans and a t-shirt and take the Metro to Dupont Circle since I’m too cheap to pay for a $15 cab. Oh, well. The sexual harrassment of which I’ll undoubtedly become victim will alone make it all worth it.

I hope it lands on Los Angeles when Britney and Kev are vacationing on the Jersey shore and then all the celebrities will die and Britney and Kev will come to rule the world forever and ever.
But collision isn’t slated until 2029, y’all, so perhaps the whole Spearocracy thing will have already happened.

Merry Christmas, fuckers! I’m off to Staten Island for the day. Smell ya later.