no really, stop talking about it

I watched Love Jones for the first time in forever which means that it was for the first time as an official adult who has been in relationships and my appreciation for it has only grown. Not like Dirty Dancing where I cringe when Baby is all, "I carried a watermelon...?" and Patrick Swayze swings his mullet around in time to that love man song. I watch Love Jones again and I remember why I loved Larenz Tate before his Ashanti video ho days and why I thought that Nia Long was who I wanted to be when I grew up (don't you remember? she was sexy and smart and funny and her nails were always perfect? you remember.). Anyway, I watched it days ago and I'm still sitting here wondering when a man will take me out on a real date or when a guy will make me laugh until my entire body hurts. Whatever. I watch cute movies and I fall apart for weeks. I need a hobby.

I need people to get over the Red Sox already. No, for real. Stop it. I mean, I guess after 86 years of losing, this is big shit, but quite frankly, I think that we all need to just accept this win and let life get back to its regularly scheduled programming. Because all of this New England pride is making me want to vomit my life away. Or is that my lunch?

I'm a hot policewoman for Halloween. And it's so rare that I call myself hot, so please, believe me when I say it.

i think i hate my roommate

I kind of need the romantic-comedy genre to die off. I realize that this means that Meg Ryan could never work again, but that's fine. Meg Ryan and her cosmetically enhanced lips will be okay. But I'm watching When Harry Met Sally before Meg met her surgeon and I'm absolutely dying because I need my own misogynist boyfriend with an obnoxious voice to watch movies with me over the phone when we can't sleep. I know that these movies lull us into a false sense of security about finding The One. And for 90 minutes or so, I believe it. Like The One is going to be right there under my nose or next door or dating my best friend but once they roll the credits, I'm sick to my stomach because I know that I could just as easily end up alone and cold like Daisy, asking people downtown for a dollar. A dollar? I know. Street people are getting bold. Street people is a vulgar term. But does bum sound any better, really? Anyway, I'm 22 and this shouldn't even nearly be an issue but somehow it is because I guess I'm feeling lonely.
This is the best I Love You speech ever by the way.

Why did god make people who chew audibly? Is it so I can have someone to hate when I'm trying to watch a movie and there's nothing else for me to hate? I want to vomit. Or have my roommate's jaw wired shut so she can never eat pasta out loud again. Her boyfriend type person will thank me.

And my cat shit on my favorite shoe. I feel like it's a metaphor for my life somehow. Or it just really fucking sucked. Fin.

i need to move

Sometimes, I wish that this were third grade. You know how it was. When girls were evil not because we wanted someone else's man or job...but just because we could be. We kept it gangsta back in grade school. We would call someone and three-way and engage them in a trash fest about the other girl on the line just so the other girl could be all, "I knew you were talking about me. We're not friends anymore." That sucked. I don't know where I'm going with this. I'm not some crazy, cold-hearted bitch. There are just some people that I feel like I need to randomly cut out of my life without having to worry about the aftermath. I don't want to have to deal with the whys and the but how comes. I just want to have a platonic divorce and not have to break down and explain that yes, I am tired of spending money on you. I'm not your husband or your mother. I don't appreciate having to cater to your every emotional need. I am not here to make sure that you're having a great time even though you are clearly determined to have a shitty night.

I don't know why this is coming up. I'm sitting here hating my best friend because when she feels like blowing me off, she just does and it feels awful like back in junior high when your crush slow danced with another girl and you cried in the bathroom stall. I'm regressing in chronological order. I think I need a drink to remind myself that despite the fact that I'm messing around with a boy who just turned 18, I'm supposedly an adult who is legally able to imbibe. Yes. 18. I am prematurely getting my groove back Terry McMillan style. This can't be my midlife crisis already, can it?

I just want to move. To Seattle. And reinvent myself. I feel like it would be a stress reliever. The whole living a lie thing.

someday i will write for jane

Just when did we as a nation give up on the mass utilization of the spell check? This is simply a question. I mean, it is there for us. People, let me help you. You are one click away from being readable. But what do I know? I rant on maddeningly about The Apprentice, so spelling shouldn't even really matter for me. And speaking of, did we all love how Jen C. was fired? Nice segue, right? Right? Whatever, man.

I'm realizing that we've never touched my absurd obsession with jane magazine. It is an illness. Almost as bad as my infatuations with reality tv and Beyonce. So I love this magazine. I've loved it since Sassy died and we all mourned the loss of a piece of publication produced primarily for women that somehow wasn't Cosmo. But the new layout is upsetting because there's nothing clip out-able anymore. And Mischa Barton on this month's cover? Please. She looks like a corpse and I'm not quite sure how to deal with myself when I'm forced to pretend that her lifeless photo shoot was brilliance. She was not sexy and inspired. She was hungry. Oh wait just kidding - she loves food! What am I saying? I am obviously crazy for saying these things about Mischa what's her face. And I'll save myself any future skinny girl bitch fests because it is so appallingly blatant that these Hollywood starlets are just chowing down their burgers and whatnot. Like, at the beginning of every interview, the otherwise credible journalist is seemingly contractually obliged to mention that when they sat down for the interview, "so and so was polishing off a t-bone with a mound of buttered mashed potatoes, which she washed down with petrified fat," and oh my god doesn't this like, totally mean that Cameron Diaz is like so real? Ladies, please I eat like that. And I run two miles every morning except for Sunday because if god wanted me to run on Sunday, he wouldn't have invented the snooze button. But I digress. My point is that I eat like I really enjoy food once a month or so and I'm not withering away. But maybe I need that good old speedy metabolism like Lara Flynn Count My Bones. I need them to stop promoting bulimia and start admitting that they are still on The Zone or whatever new-fangled diet that permits people to publicly starve themselves.

Look, I got all distracted and forgot what I was going to say. Oh yeah, I love jane. The end.