I’m sitting at a bus stop listening to a cover of ‘forever young’ and getting SENTIMENTAL. I had to leave the bar because I’m tired/old/drunk/hungry/OLD, which is the saddest thing I’ve ever admitted in public.
help a bitch, srsly.
And of course the bus is 20 minutes late. I WANT TO EAT THE CHOCOLATE MY MOM SENT ME. Happy easter, you cunt.
hey. how are you? you’re doing great? your business has never been better and you’re actively running 3 or 4 companies? i’m so happy for you.
WELL I’M NOT SO GREAT, THANKS FOR ASKING.
i’ve become everything i never wanted to be: i’m single, penniless, MOSTLY SOBER BECAUSE I’M SO PENNILESS, and living with someone who yells at me if i wash my face or make toast after 930 pm. AND I HAVE TO TAKE THE BUS, MARC. THE BUS. do you know what that’s like? feel free to read this insightful socio-anthropological study about bus people in Seattle and then picture yourself all up in that asshole. IT ISN’T PRETTY. IT SMELLS.
and my life has become a series of panic attacks because i either can’t stop thinking about being unemployed or, more recently, why a job i’ve interviewed for three times didn’t pan out because i’m a ‘cowboy’ and ‘too creative.’ so i spend most of my days walking to calm myself. i walk right when i get up in the morning (afternoon), when all the people who work from home are running or pushing strollers and it makes me even more depressed because it makes me wish i was unemployed and still in London, where the only people out during that time were homeless people and nannies who took their charges to the park just so they could secretly smoke behind their backs. i also walk at night, which is the witching hour for fat chicks who don’t want people to see them run, and hormonal youths who eat each others tongues at the bus stop two blocks away (YOU ARE TERRIBLE KISSERS). i also keep my eyes out for Lucius, Wyatt, and Gordy:
HELLO, REWARD MONEY. i’ve thought about calling these people and telling them that i have their precious pet, but i won’t let them have it back because finders-keepers, just to stir the pot.
and i’ve found that i’m doing this thing that i do when i’m really depressed and have no friends, which is eat really fibrous foods and then lie, silent and bloated, in my bed watching 3rd Rock from the Sun thinking, ‘i’m so glad i don’t have a bunch of friends who are always asking me to do stuff, because i would definitely have to turn them down tonight, i’m so gassy.’ i usually pass out right before the Solomons sit on their roof and muse about that week’s adventure.
but before you go doing something silly, like OFFER ME A JOB or go cry on your EGYPTIAN COTTON BEDSPREAD WITH HAIND-STITCHED SILHOUETTES OF YOURSELF (i’m assuming), everything isn’t lost. i’ve been pictured on a couple blogs looking like the piece of trash i’ve become, which is obviously nothing new but it keeps my spirits up and my name in the papers.
i’m getting desperate, marc. REALLY desperate. tomorrow i might apply to work at a grocery store just so i can save myself from needing to go to the emergency room when my bedsores get infected.
please, marc. please get me out of here.
since i moved in with my gay dad, i’ve been watching so much Food Network that i’ve started to dream in recipes. like, one time i was hanging out with Giada De Laurentiis and i was like, ‘girl, how can i be as successful as you?’ and she was all, ‘first, take two tablespoons of LOSE SOME WEIGHT and add a pound of GET OFF YOUR ASS and then combine with two parts of NO MORE PEANUT BUTTER. sprinkle some FIND A RICH BIKER-HUSBAND and you’re done!’ i really took that one to heart.
obviously giada is great and all, but my FAVORITE Food Network star is Ina Garten, the hobbit of East Hampton and host of Barefoot Contessa. can you introduce us? i’m SO obsessed. our first meeting would go a lot like this:
MATT: ina! it’s so nice to meet you!
INA: shut up, i know.
MATT: i love your shirt! i read somewhere that you get them custom made?
INA: yeah i do, jealous? poor ass.
MATT: oh, um…
INA: you want some chicken?
MATT: i don’t really eat meat.
INA: faggot ass.
MATT: totally! speaking of which, is that TR guy you hang out with all the time gay? he’s hot.
INA: you’re too short for him.
MATT: oh. hey, i’ve been thinking of pitching my own cooking show to Food Network. it would be like yours, but with more accidental hand cutting and smoking. and at the end of every episode i would just give up and eat my roommate’s leftovers. how bad can that be?
INA: bad vanilla. shut up.
so in love.
sally (my friend and one-time lover) and i wrote this essay on the history of Christmas or Jesus or something when we should have been cropping photos for yearbook:
all typos (and repeated sentences?) aside, i think it’s pretty accurate? also, sally made me type that penultimate sentence because she actually turned this in to her teacher. clearly, we broke up due to creative differences.
i’ve only been in TWO relationships in my life (if you don’t count the weird thing that’s going on between me and nicotine) and the only proof i have are two pieces of paper that were (hopefully) part of larger, grander love confessions/this-isn’t-working confessions:
god, these people were CLINGY and DEMANDING. don’t tell them i said that. and don’t tell them i showed you these.
P.S. i used to be straight!