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3-31-03 Shoulda, Woulda, Coulda
Instructions: Fill in the blanks.
Dear (recipient),
Hey, how's it going? Boy, did we have some fun this weekend or what? Actually, I think I may have had a little too much fun, if you know what I mean, ha ha. Anyway, I'm sure it's no big deal because you're so cool about everything -- in fact, you're the coolest person I know -- but I wanted to drop you a line and apologize.
First of all, I'm sorry I tried to pick up your (younger relative). I know s/he's only (actual age plus two years), but I wasn't thinking straight. And you know I haven't gotten any for, like, (actual lapsed time period minus five months). And s/he was flirting with me. Also, I'm sorry I called your (male relative) a/n (adjective) (reproductive organ) and punched him in the (body part). See, what happened was, we were talking outside and we were totally cool, I swear, and then he was all, "(Recipient) is such a loser," and I was like, "Dude, s/he's my friend," and he was like, "Whatever, I don't care, s/he's a loser and s/he smells like fucking garbage," and I was like, "Dude, I don't want to fight you, but if you keep badmouthing my best friend in the whole world, I'm going to have to kick your ass." So he totally looks at me, and then he goes, "I bet you can't because you hang out with losers like (Recipient)!" I didn't want to fight him, but I was getting really upset about all the things he was saying about you. But I'm sorry about that anyway, because I'm the bigger man.
I'm also sorry for making out with your (parent/guardian), and for writing HUMP ME!!!! all over your (household pet) in permanent marker. That wasn't called for.
So I hope you can forgive me, and I hope your (same male relative) is out of Intensive Care. No hard feelings, huh? See you at the next party, biatch!
Sincerely,
(Your Name)
P.S. Oh, by the way, (same male relative) also said that your ass looks like a shelf.
Guess what yesterday was? As of yesterday, this site was officially one year old. "Jess, in that case, why didn't you post this yesterday?" Shaddup. I am -- and my ex-boyfriends will back me up on this -- embarrassingly shitty with anniversaries, birthdays, and dates in general. Can't help it. I've seen a lot of blogs with "This Time Last Year" links, where you can read what was posted exactly one year ago to the date. And I thought about doing that for nine seconds, until I realized that I'd have to go back and put permalinks on a year's worth of entries, and if you think I'm doing that, you must be new. "Jess, why don't you have permalinks already? Everyone else does." Yeah, I know, but I'm not powered by Blogger, or Moveable Type ... I'm not powered by diddlyfuck. "Jess, you sure are brave to run a site all on your lonesome, especially since you got into this with precisely no knowledge of HTML. I'm impressed. I'm even a little turned on. I know this is kind of sudden, but just looking at you, it ... it makes my heart flutter. I've never felt this way about anyone before." Um, thanks, but I have to wash my hair.
So. It's been a crazy year, hasn't it? A hectic move to Boston, a perverted landlord, various hot 'n' heavy escapades with various ministars, a temp job ... oh, my stars, I'm getting flummoxed. (I was just trying to use the word "flummoxed" in a sentence today.)
This afternoon I was bored, so I stopped outside my 7-Eleven to talk to Elvis the Bum, my favorite member of the Local Convenience Store Loiterers, Homeless Unit. He's Native American, and happened to mention that he's from a reservation in Arizona. I said, "Really? What are you doing here?"
"A woman. This girl from Dublin. Moved in with her five years ago. Five years together, down the drain."
"That's harsh. What happened?"
"Got sick of this." Elvis the Bum made the international symbol for glug-glug-glug.
"Ah."
He shook his head, took a drag from the cigarette I'd given him, and said simply, "Irish girls."
Irish girls. There you go.
Told myself I wasn't going to watch it last year, and I did. (Damn you, Oscar pool!) Told myself I wasn't going to watch it this year, and what am I doing? Watching Kirk Douglas and his son whatshisface present Best Picture. With only seconds left, I predict Chicago will win right now, although it should probably go to the Pianist.
And now we wait ...
And I was right. Booya.
I'm torn. While I absolutely adored Adaptation, being a mildly fucked-up struggling writer myself, and while Chris Cooper kicked quite a lot of ass in said film, I am forced to dislike him for ripping the coveted gold naked man away from Christopher Walken. Boo!
Hmm. I smell nice.
What the hell was I talking about?
Oscars. Quick recap: Chicago? Surprised no one. Catherine Zeta-Jones? Surprised no one except Meryl Streep. Adrian Brody? Surprised everyone, and I think he also deserved the Oscar for Best Adorably Flustered Acceptance Speech. Best Actress, I missed because a.) I was in the kitchen making some delicious stir-fry egg noodles with chicken, soy sauce, and just a sprinkle of lemon juice; and b.) I didn't care.
Well, I'm off to brew an enormous pot of coffee and stay up all night watching Reservoir Dogs.
(Note: There is absolutely no significance to that title. I had the song in my head.)
So here we are. And who better to voice their opinions about the war than me? Let's see ... everyone. So fuck it.
It's March 20th, and that's a special holiday where I come from. It's called Apology Day, sort of an extension of St. Pat's. This year, though, Apology Day has been cancelled due to overload. So fuck that too.
And that leaves me, what? Rien! So I'll come back tomorrow when I have something to say.
...... hhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh. Ow. Oh, but remember my list of things to do before I die? I just crossed off another one last night: have a song written about me. Thank you, Tommy and John, for your beautiful impromptu acoustic ballad, "Are You Guys Pussies Or What?" Brought a tear to my eye.
Happy fucking St. Paddy's, yeh bollocks! (Tip: For extra super fun, read this entry in a terrible Irish accent!)
I'm on me way out, but I'll be arse-fucked if I don't take a wee minute to bloody say to you lads that I ...
Okay, forget the accent. Time to celebrate, kidlets! I'm wearing my Guinness T-shirt and bedecked in green carnations. And don't think I know that this is the tackiest, trashiest holiday of them all, with the possible exception of Valentine's Day. I know. I love it.
If you're in the Boston area and looking for somewhere to go, I highly recommend Tir na Nog in Somerville, or the Irish Embassy Pub in the North End. I'll probably be at one of those places, or at J.J. Foley's on Kingston. I'm pushing to get kicked out of all three before the night is up. If you're in New York, try St. Dymphna's on St. Marks. If you're elsewhere, I cannot be of service to you. But in any case, have yourself a green shitload of fun.
Oh, man. See that picture down below, the innocent prissy-looking bottle? Stay the hell away from that innocent prissy-looking bottle. I mean it. Okay, maybe I'm the douche for putting up the picture prior to sampling the actual product. Well, whatever. That was then, this is pain for which there are no words. I am Here's my problem with the whole blogging craze: People that I know in real life, right now, have blogs. This is not a supposition; they do, and I'm only finding this out recently. In some cases (salutations, Dan and AJ), this was actually extremely cool. In other cases (oh, hello, ex-boyfriend), it wasn't so much cool as ... is there an opposite of cool? Tepid? No, not tepid ... ah, yes, unthinkably mind-rapingly bad. That's what it was. I held off from looking at it for almost a month because I have a little bit of self-control. Then, long story short, I looked.
Okay. I mean, I blame him for practically shoving the address in my face, but I still felt like I wasn't allowed to read it, so I wasn't allowed to get angry either. But, damn. "Aw, gee, when we were going out he sure was in love with ... that other girl he was banging. Good-natured chuckle, thank you and good night." Feh.
I think it would be a fabulous idea to have Pit Pat from Mr. Show appear in the corner of the screen every time GWB does a press conference. I'd be all set to turn it off, cry, and/or plan my move to Europe, and then ... "Take it from me! I love you!" Aww, Pit Pat. I love you too.
Another option, of course, is to gather some friends and do a shot every time W appears to be confused, constipated, or tweeeekin'. Fifteen minutes in, you won't give a rat's ass anymore.
So we're going to war on St. Patrick's Day.
St. bloody fucking Patrick's Day.
What the --- why? WHY?? There are 365 days in a year, Mr. President. Now, obviously, you can't kick off a war on Christmas or Thanksgiving, so that leaves 363. (I'm not excluding Chanukah; I'm just banking on the fact that he doesn't have a fucking clue when it is.) And if you take out St. Paddy's also, that leaves ... oh, gorsh, only 362 other days to choose from. Yeah, you're right, this makes perfect sense.
I'm not offended so much as completely bewildered. Well, balls. While I wish the best of luck to our troops, I've got a tradition to uphold.
Clink!
Also, in honor of the Broadway strike (and coming from a entire family of freelance musicians who find this kind of shit heeeeelarious), I present The Book of Jobbing. If you're pressed for time, just read Part 6: And God Created Sidemen.
And very quickly, happy birthday to my mom (yesterday) and my dad (next Monday). Mom, I hope you had a great day, and I apologize for my total inability to wrap things. Also for the whole turning out the way I did. Sorry about that. My bad.
So cold. So snowy. So windy. "Jess, I know what you mean. I'm not in Boston, but it's cold here too." No, you don't. You don't, and you can't, and I hate you for trying. I have never been so close to throwing a tantrum in my life. Imagine driving a five-year-old to school. She's fine on the way there, but once you pull up and stop the car, it's, "No! NO! NOOOOOO! You can't make me!!" This was the reaction on the tip of my tongue when the subway driver announced my stop. "End of the line, my fat Irish ass! You can't make me get out! You're not my real daddy!"
Hey, here's a Boston fun fact: Did you know that the subway trains are not allowed to travel at speeds exceeding forty miles per hour? This, plus the constant stopping which I find so offensive, makes them twice as slow and half as efficient as driving! Wheee!
Anyway. I talk a lot on here, but I realized today that I reveal very little of my day-to-day life. So, by popular request (trans: I felt like it), here's a new segment to Boat Drinks ... A Day in the Life of a Jess. Part 1: Thursday, March the Sixth, 2003. Oh, and before you call my mother, Thursday is my day off.
9:30 a.m. - Wake up to find formerly missing roommate puttering around apartment and locksmith inserting large drill into front door. Remember that locksmith was called after perverted landlord (specifically, Larry The Pervert) broke into apartment last night while we weren't home, probably to go through my laundry and ... ugh. Have cigarette. Go back to sleep.
2:15 p.m. - Wake up again. Notice snowstorm currently in progress. Say "Fucking balls" to no one in particular. Look through kitchen for breakfast possibilities.
2:30 p.m. - Consume only food left in apartment -- bag of Goldfish crackers and carton of eggnog. Discover halfway through the eggnog that someone has spiked it. Suspect roommate and self, not necessarily in that order.
3:15 p.m. - Leave apartment and brave snow in order to attend meeting with Matt of Emerson College off-campus student services.
4:10 p.m. - Arrive in downtown Boston to discover two things. One, the snowstorm has increased substantially to frostbite-inducing level. Two, Matt has left for the day and appointment will need to be rescheduled. Decide to purchase products from Bath & Body Works to make self feel better. Decide also that Matt is a jerk.
4:30 p.m. - Buy foot scrub. I like foot scrub.
5:45 p.m. - Back home, stop at 7-Eleven for coffee and cigarettes. Have extended conversation with favorite homeless person in Massachusetts, Jerry The Bum. Let Jerry The Bum into Fleet ATM booth to get out of snow. Give Jerry The Bum two dollars, because he calls me doll and says I have pretty hair.
6:20 p.m. - Having done good deed, use foot scrub. I like foot scrub.
6:50 p.m. - Write poetry for midterm portfolio. Read poems. Wonder if poems are any good. Wonder if I should have added more line breaks to make it look deep. Decide to take out all capitalization and punctation instead. Think that it looks retarded now, but perhaps professor will think that I am reincarnation of E.E. Cummings. Wonder if there is such a thing as reincarnation. Decide that I would like to come back as a bee. They're tiny and cute and they can fly and girls are afraid of them.
8:00 p.m. - Call everyone I have ever met to say hi and see how many of them are watching network prime-time so that I may ridicule them.
10:00 p.m. - Insomniac with Dave Attell. Yeah, it's bizarre to watch it after yadda yadda yadda. But frankly, Scarlett, it's still a good show whether or not I might have gjarmaed frga ;sdfbav on multiple occasions (sorry, typo). Which brings us to the present, and I'm on my way out for a night of debauchery.
Before I go ... read this. I used to have one, and I find her review to be honest and insightful. Plus it talks about sex with cleaning products!
To: Makers of Guinness Draught
Dear Sirs,
I regret to say that I had an unpleasant experience with your product recently. My enjoyment of your delicious beverage was severely impeded by the inclusion of what appeared to be a small plastic dildo in the bottle. At first, I was confused and alarmed, which I loudly expressed to all present. After all, a strange clacking sound was emanating from my drink! I was thereupon forced to empty the remainder of the beverage into the kitchen sink, but was unable to discern the nature of the object within, nor was I able to remove it. I left the confines of my apartment building and shattered the bottle on the sidewalk, much to the surprise of passersby, and removed the object of which I spoke earlier. It was about three to four inches in length, and three quarters of an inch in width. Except for the small amount of dark liquid barely visible inside the object, it bore a striking -- nay, exact -- resemblance to ... well, a dildo. Granted, a small and ineffective dildo, but a dildo nonetheless.
I removed a second bottle of draught Guinness from the refrigerator, and upon shaking it, discovered the same odd clacking sound. I examined the packaging closely, and found the answer I was searching for. Your company refers to this object as a "rocket widget"; however, its purpose was left unexplained. Now, if I may extrapolate for a moment, a "widget" is a whimsical word applied to imaginary products. Is it shaped like a rocket? Yes. So are dildos.
A bartender friend who was present suggested that this "rocket widget" is inserted into bottles of Guinness so that, when poured into a pint glass, it is filtered over the widget so that it does not come out all head. In other words, it functions much in the same way as a bar spoon, turned upside-down to ensure even pouring. This explanation was satisfactory to me, although slightly obnoxious in assuming that I would not have come to the same conclusion, given more time and a lower blood alcohol content. But one factor remains unresolved. If you will reread the first paragraph of this letter, you will note that I POURED MY BEER INTO THE SINK.
Fellows of St. James Gate Brewery, I am not a rich woman. I lead a simple life. I implore you, send me mass quantities of free Guinness and I promise to fully embrace -- nay, worship -- your decision to fill your beer bottles with little dildos.
Yours,
Jess
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All this crap (c) Me, even though it's just meandering, self-serving bullshit.
