So I think I’m finally feeling better. Slightly. I’m over my existential crisis anyway. Existentialism is for assholes. Stuttering is for assholes. Nosebleeds are for assholes (although I do still get them). But overall, I think I’ve finally realised that things aren’t so bad. They could be a hell of a lot worse anyway. It’s like my mom always said whenever me or my little brother would complain about stuff when we were kids: “At least you still have your arms.” And she’s right, luckily for me, I do still have my arms. I’d probably appreciate them more if they were slightly slimmer, but I’m thankful to have them nonetheless.
Why am I feeling better you ask? Well, my solution so far has been to never be alone or left with nothing to do, thus keeping my mind off of all of my over-bearing problems that I can’t be bothered to fix or face. Finding things to keep myself occupied has been an entirely new and exciting experience in itself. Over the past week I’ve played about 500 hours of Mario Cart, 500 more of Golden Eye, and roughly 5 million hours of Mario Party (which by the way isn’t even fun but my squat-mate Darren is obsessed with it and has a total psycho freak-out if anyone tries to touch the console when he’s in the midst of one of his 9 hours sessions). I’ve also spent an impressive amount of time playing charades. I had forgotten how fun that game can be. Try acting out “Lawrence of Arabia” when you’re stoned. It will keep you occupied for at least 45 minutes. Other activities have included watching every one of Britney Spear’s music videos chronologically all in one sitting… then doing the same with N’SYNC… then Mandy Moore, and so on and so on. I’ve picked up quite a few good dance moves along the way. I even went to the arcade… although that was a bit depressing as I suck at everything and the driving simulator thing made me feel nauseous. Sigh. If only I was an independent woman like Beyonce. Or Tyra. Or Oprah. Or any of those curvaceous, empowered black women. But no. I have the curves and none of the snappy, black-chick confidence to go along with them, so I’m just a frumpy, depressed white girl with a nosebleed problem. Boring.
In other news, all of my friends as lesbians. Literally. It’s beginning to freak me out. At first I thought it was cool because if we went out as a group any hot boy that paid us any attention would end up with me by default. Unfortunately for me, however, the honeymoon period is over and I think it’s about fucking time that the rest of my idiot friends started appreciating the male genitalia. It’s like, I wouldn’t mind so much if I wasn’t constantly burdened by the fear that I might catch it. (And by “it” I mean the burning desire to lick someone’s vagina.)
Now, I know what you’re probably thinking. You’re thinking, “She’s so naive,” or “ What a homophobe! Gayness isn’t contagious.” Well let me tell you something: YES IT IS. Not even a year ago all my friends loved the cock. Actually, they were gagging for it. Fast forward to 2007 (Which by the way was the year that gave birth to GIRLCORE. Coincidence?) and everywhere you go feels like a girl-power fuelled pussy convention. It sucks. I asked my newly converted friend Maria about her thoughts on the lesbo revolution, and her response wasn’t that a case of the lesbi-friendliness was going around, but rather that girls are just starting to realise more and more that… you guessed it… guys are assholes. I decided to think long and hard about what she had said, and though I never thought so before, after a week of being treated like fucking shit by the male species, I’m starting to think that, gosh-darnet, these bull-dykes might be onto something. For example, if you’re out having a nice, relaxed drink with a guy and you lean in to kiss him and he responds by whacking you across the face with a newspaper- that’s the sign of an asshole. Or if it’s 9am and you’re all sat around doing laughing gas and he pops your very last balloon with his cigarette just to piss you off- that’s the sign of an asshole. Or if he invites you out for a drink and then brings you back to his house with the clear intention of fucking you, then has to has hide you in his bedroom like you’re 14 and his mommy is about to come home because his flat-mates aren’t allowed to know you’re there because he has a fucking girlfriend- that’s the sign of an asshole. Fuck this shit. Boys are for gays.
In 30 years time I’m going to look back on my life and realise that there were three main factors in the hideous and spiralling decline of me as a human being: Lesbians, Nintendo 64, and Dawson’s Creek. I resent them all.
1. My black mother.
2. Whenever I’m feeling self-concious I try and “channel Tyra.” In the words of my idol: “Back that booty up and make it fashion.”