SO I'm finally getting around to the reason I created this blog. Part of it was for the purpose of basic venting, and part of it was because when I kept a diary my mother routinely read it, so I figured - why not? - put it out where the whole world can read it, even if the whole world could care less. I'm not worried, because I have a habit of keeping myself entertained. This is just one method of many. (Also, I've had writer's block for like, 4 years now. The blog, it seems to be helping.)
Anyway, I'm finally tired of eating for a family of six. Long story short, I'm going back on the "eating for one person or less" wagon starting Saturday. It's no freakin' fun being a fat person, let me tell you. I'm tired of my knees hurting, I'm tired of buying bigger and bigger clothes. I'm tired of putting myself into a food coma every time I'm bored or depressed or aggravated. I'm tired of looking forward to lunch as the highlight of the day.
I'm back in school, getting a Bachelor's degree and having an experience I never thought I'd have. I'm looking for my own place (and if you hear of anything in the New York area in a non-scary neighborhood for $1100 or less, feel free to comment here) and I'm bringing my cats along for the ride.
The object of the game is to be a "Fat Dancer" no longer. (Who am I kidding ... I don't dance anymore. I get winded!)
Thursday, August 30, 2007
Tuesday, July 3, 2007
If I Believed in Hell, I Would Wish You There ...
1 - Columbia House. I hate you, Columbia House. You repeatedly send me things I don't want, you ignore my responses turning down your "Director's Selection," your email address doesn't work, your 800 number is useless - whoever came up with the commercial featuring monkeys trying to run a business must have worked for you.
2 - Apartment 4E. You know who you are - big ego, small talent. You're a Dashboard Confessional wannabe - barely. May your stereo equipment and all your instruments short circuit and take you with them.
3 - He Who Shall Remain Nameless - You got 10 years of my life. If Hell existed, you'd be in upper management.
Okay, I'm done hating ... for the moment.
2 - Apartment 4E. You know who you are - big ego, small talent. You're a Dashboard Confessional wannabe - barely. May your stereo equipment and all your instruments short circuit and take you with them.
3 - He Who Shall Remain Nameless - You got 10 years of my life. If Hell existed, you'd be in upper management.
Okay, I'm done hating ... for the moment.
Thursday, June 14, 2007
Why I hate elevators, subway cars and - still - Starbucks
Why do elevators attract stupidity? Have you ever noticed that there are a lot of people who:
- Don't seem to know they're getting on an elevator
- Appear to have confused an elevator with their own personal walk-in closet
- Don't appear to understand that the elevator does not magically respond to their thoughts and needs; they just stand there, waiting for their floor to arrive, despite never having pressed the right button
- Believe the elevator is, in fact, a soundproof phone booth
- Can't decide if they're ready to get off once they do reach their floor
- Can't seem to figure out why they got on in the first place.
Some of the same concepts apply to subway cars. My personal (non)favorites:
- The first person in the cluster who gets on the train always stops dead in the middle of the doors, looking around as if they've never been on a subway before and this is a new and memorable experience. Then they have the nerve to get upset when the other 15 people who have been waiting have to push past them to get on before the doors close on everyone.
- The people who feel they have to entertain the subway car. They share their personal conversations loudly and generously. Unfortunately, they generally don't have anything to say that's worth hearing. And their vocabularies are limited to the better-known profanities - so after the first minute, you've heard it all, and you weren't interested in the first place.
- The people who feel they can squeeze a seat out of less the less than 6 inches of space between you and another, normal-sized person. The answer is, and always will be, NO. Unless you are Nicole Ritchie.
And of course, there's Starbucks. I love the Orange Creme Frappucino (light, no whipped cream). I look forward to trying the chocolate, vanilla and strawberry versions. But the location on 41st & B'way remains the 7th circle of hell, rivaled only by the giant Times Square Toys R'Us during summertime, when it's routinely invaded by tourists who have apparently just given themselves lobotomies with a special Do-It-Yourself-With-a-Spoon kit. Not unlike the general customer population at the aforementioned Starbucks.
The lobotomy, it begins to sound better and better.
- Don't seem to know they're getting on an elevator
- Appear to have confused an elevator with their own personal walk-in closet
- Don't appear to understand that the elevator does not magically respond to their thoughts and needs; they just stand there, waiting for their floor to arrive, despite never having pressed the right button
- Believe the elevator is, in fact, a soundproof phone booth
- Can't decide if they're ready to get off once they do reach their floor
- Can't seem to figure out why they got on in the first place.
Some of the same concepts apply to subway cars. My personal (non)favorites:
- The first person in the cluster who gets on the train always stops dead in the middle of the doors, looking around as if they've never been on a subway before and this is a new and memorable experience. Then they have the nerve to get upset when the other 15 people who have been waiting have to push past them to get on before the doors close on everyone.
- The people who feel they have to entertain the subway car. They share their personal conversations loudly and generously. Unfortunately, they generally don't have anything to say that's worth hearing. And their vocabularies are limited to the better-known profanities - so after the first minute, you've heard it all, and you weren't interested in the first place.
- The people who feel they can squeeze a seat out of less the less than 6 inches of space between you and another, normal-sized person. The answer is, and always will be, NO. Unless you are Nicole Ritchie.
And of course, there's Starbucks. I love the Orange Creme Frappucino (light, no whipped cream). I look forward to trying the chocolate, vanilla and strawberry versions. But the location on 41st & B'way remains the 7th circle of hell, rivaled only by the giant Times Square Toys R'Us during summertime, when it's routinely invaded by tourists who have apparently just given themselves lobotomies with a special Do-It-Yourself-With-a-Spoon kit. Not unlike the general customer population at the aforementioned Starbucks.
The lobotomy, it begins to sound better and better.
Thursday, June 7, 2007
So this is Paris ...
Well, here I am... I've finally given in to the urge to Blog. Nothing special to report. I was going to do a bit on how the Starbucks' on 40th & B'way is, in reality, the Seventh Circle of Hell. Actually, I had a really funny thought about that yesterday, but now I can't remember it.
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