Dear Heartless Dipshits,
Are you all high? I know it is the weekend when you’ve got your B-team in, but this is stupefying:
"Coming Up at 10: The U.S. military’s worst nightmare–an escalation of violence in Iraq…and here at home a war of a different kind [cut to video of donuts]" (emphasis mine)
Now, WSMV, you’ll forgive me if I do not know precisely what the "war of a different kind" story was about, as I was too busy yelling WTF at my television.
How did this happen? An associate producer wrote it, no doubt, but then the producer had to okay it, and potentially the executive producer had to okay it, and then the anchors had to actually read it aloud. How did no one scream, "Hello people, this is some tacky shit! We should not compare record-high deaths of American soldiers and innocent Iraqis with fried and glazed pastries whose main claim to fame is their holes! We should rethink this tease!"?
Please try harder.
Thinking of you,
Brittney
Yesterday I was watching the news. The boyfriend was within earshot in the other room.
TV Reporter: "And, for more coverage of Sara Evans and her scandalous divorce just visit our website."
The Boyfriend: "What do I need to do for less coverage?"
You think this girl looks like me?
I saw her photo on Flickr and was stunned by how much I think we look alike.
This screenshot from Bloglines should give you a good indication of how many blog posts I read in an average day. Please note that this three and a half day build-up of entries happened on the weekend, when people are less prolific.
Holy cat crap on a cracker! And I thought people were mean to me on the internets. Check out the venom this woman is currently getting. And I’m sure I’ve only scratched the surface of the hate out there for Heather.
I wonder when I will become less affected by the insults I receive from time to time. Then I read stuff like that and realize I’ve got it pretty good. Makes me want to close right up and never utter another confession on here that can be used against me. I wish, in a way, that I could still tell good stories like I used to. Like about the night I went to Amanda Not Wage’s birthday party and drank entirely too much sangria on a belly full of nothing but a couple hors d’oeuvres, but didn’t know it til I stood up to go home. Waiting for the elevator in their apartment building I said, I am told, quite loudly, "NICE PARTY." At which time the boyfriend suggested I pipe down. So I repeated it again, this time screaming at the nearest apartment’s front door: "NICE PARTY!"
I do not remember doing this. In fact, pretty much everything from the time we left the party had to be recounted to me the following day by the boyfriend who was none to pleased to have to relive it. Apparently after we made it outside I was again asked to hush up due to their being two or three men in blue standing mere feet away. His request was met with a beligerent "Fuck you. I’ll do what I want!" Then I, evidently, walked the wrong way toward the car down first avenue, blitzed beyond belief, stomping in my lime green heels pissed as hell. About what I do not know. Usually if I have one too many I get somewhat amorous. Then sleepy. That’s it. That’s all that ever happens. This time was different, though.
Once back at the car the boyfriend had to wrestle my keys from me. Apparently I let him and everyone in the parking lot know that I could drive! Thank God he’s bigger than me. I made it home in one piece thanks to the man I was slurringly swearing.
The next morning I woke up, but every second of it hurt. I had never felt so hungover in my entire 28 years. How did that happen? It was just a little some brandy, red wine, sugar and fruit juice. It wasn’t as if I did Jagerbombs all night like I was 22 again. I lay there motionless on the bed, hating to breathe, wondering what the hell happened. Why was I in bed alone? What had we fought about? Why could I not peel my lips from one another? If I fall back to sleep will this nightmare disappear?
I had to know what had happened.
I woke him up from his slumber on the couch, and he gave me a squinted stare. I knew I’d fucked up. I sat and cried as he told me about the sloppy verbal blows I tried to land in my inebriated state. It wasn’t that I was mean, he said, it was that I was trying so hard to be.
I don’t know why that happened. I have never been an angry drunk. Never once have I even gone on a belligerent rant. Where did the anger come from, and how long had I been supressing it?
I mostly feel guilty because I don’t remember anything. I was horrid and nasty, and I don’t remember. The things I think I said are probably worse than the words I actually said, but maybe I’ll never know. I am just so sorry.
I felt like such a loser. What kind of nearly-thirty-year-old behaves in such a manner? How could I allow myself to become so out of control? I was going to drive?! That is how powerful the alcohol was that evening. I would have never made it home alive.
It’s such a terribly scary thought. All because I didn’t stand up enough or eat enough at a birthday party. I think, because I am crazy, that I am in control enough to survive and do well in this world, but it turns out I’m a plastic cup of sangria away from killing myself and probably others.
See? That’s a damn good story, the drunken cussin’. But now I’m scared to death I’m going to be secretly judged by a co-worker or chastised by a superior. Or even worse I fear that this confessional information will be used against me in some way by some psycho with plenty of time and a serious grudge. Because when you expose yourself and, in the parlance of Heather Armstrong "write about your feelings," they can find ways to use it against you. Ways you never imagined.
Having the blog job has changed this place so, so much. Part of me mourns what is lost. I have so much to say, but by the end of the day I am spent. Thoroughly through. I cannot so much as muster an email, much less anything eloquent. I no longer puke up rambling passages about what is inhabiting my head, so it just compiles there and molds. And stinks. I don’t know how to rectify it.
In my head this entry was only going to be four lines long. Looks like I’ve been pent up for a while. This vacation should be damned therapeutic. Get some popcorn, it should be an interesting week.
