I just can't help myself.

Dear Freda,

Now that you're gone, all that's left is a band of gold. All that's left of the dreams I hold is a band of gold and the memories of what love could be if you were still here with me.

Love always,

Wally

P. S. I wait in the darkness of my lonely room, filled with sadness, filled with gloom.

What do I look like!?

Do you ever get the feeling that you're just an object? I don't know if it's my Women's Studies course or if I'm just batty, but I think that I lack so much substance so much agency in people's eyes. In short, I feel like all people see are my nipples.

I love my piercings. In fact, I want more piercings and a tattoo! I like body modification. I was kinda against it at one point in my time, but I've grown accustomed to it. (Oh Rex Harrison!)

I like the idea of being able to make my body into something I want, customizing it. Different marks on my body, different scars, already symbolize times of my life. This is just an extension of that.

So I don't understand why it's so shocking that I have it done. Why does it matter? Does it change who I am? What kind of character I have? I don't think so.

And anyone that does can get off my dick.

Oops

Yeah, yeah, I did it again, I stopped posting.

Well...loyal reader (oh hai Alyssa!), I'm going to make an effort to start posting again. Starting now.

I like cheeseburgers, too! OMGz

I have a lolcat problem. Like a serious problem. I'm on page 74 of icanhascheezburger.com. No lie. I like to rationalize that it's because I want a kitten (like more arduously than one looks for Madonna), but that's probably not a good enough reason. I think it's just a way for me to get a dosage of adorableness that would come with my being in a relationship or pregnant. (Obviously not pregnant, who wants to gain 190231 pounds and push a watermelon through a pin hole?)

But I'm working on fixing that. I think that I can at least try. I might even try getting pregnant. Miracles can happen, right? I wonder what the Pope would say if I were to immaculately conceive a child by having gay sex. Oh, right, Antichrist. I suppose I can get a Mia Farrow haircut. Except on a guy that's pretty much just a haircut.

I need a haircut though. And I need to be wonderful. Like extraordinary. Without a blue dress incident, preferably.

Can I kiss you? Can I kisss youuu?

I've been thinking about this 'totally hilarious' consent presentation for a bit now. At first I was a little 'bleh' about it. I guess I've seen too many old-fashioned Hollywood movies where the hero grabs his girl and plants a kiss on her, whether she wants it or not. (Naturally, that was male/female...but that's for a completely different post.) And because of the amazing kiss, her reserves are melted and they realize their mutual love. Etc. I've always thought that was really rather dreamy.

But what if he asked her first? Wouldn't that still be sexy? He asks her and then she responds with a kiss of her own!! I think that's dreamy.

Still, I have trouble relating it all back to my own life. I don't really ever find myself in anything but hookups with people I don't care about. So I guess the respect thing doesn't enter my head when I'm completely wasted and getting hit on. I'm generally more concerned with not throwing up and keeping my clothes on than sloppy kissing.

Not very long ago, I resigned myself to try being a slut. Only now I realize that I don't want that. I guess I'm slut bipolar. I want no more drama and no more douchebags in my life! (One in the same?) I want a good guy to actually be interested in me. One that I find attractive!

Isn't that one of the most crushing experiences!? You're with a friend or two and they find you this 'really cute guy' that'd you'd be 'perfect' with...and then they go onto facebook. Now's when you find out that your dream date is totally not cute. And you're stuck between a rock and an ugly. Do you act 'bitchy' and say that that guy isn't goodlooking enough for you? Or do you just silently resign yourself to him? I often do the second. And then feel like crap. I don't know if there's much that's worse for the ego than having someone suggest your 'level/league' for you. Bleeeh.

And what is up with that league shit!? It makes probably no sense to me why we have to grade everyone. Why can't anyone be with anyone? Stupid stupid.

This is why my back-up plan is to be a nun. I always wanted a uniform.

Under the Tuscan Sun

Working a lot. Generally malcontented. Perpetually single. Singing along to semi-woeful music. Yeah, basically nothing's changed.

I've wanted to be back at Vassar since approximately May 20. I want my single and my freshmen. A consistent schedule would be awesome. Making more than $8.12/hour-minus heinous taxes!-is a plus, too. I'd like to get drunk more often. Getting into trouble with various semi-strangers is just not possible here.

I suppose I shouldn't look so forward all of the time. Maybe I could enjoy my time left more if I didn't. I know I'll miss my friends and family. But I'll adjust. Probably quicker than ever.

I think I just keep looking for new starts and they never really come. I'm the same person and the same people just keep following. My grandma says I should learn to accept things the way they are. But acceptance doesn't come easily to me. I'm bitter and resentful and stubborn. Does accepting that count? Or not accepting that lead me into acceptance? I don't know anything except I'm babbling to myself in a blog that I started to be humorous. My bad.

Girl, you gotta use what mommy and daddy gave you but you can't rely on the Lord's gifts...

I might've said this already, but one my of favorite Edith Piaf songs is "Non, Je Ne Regrette Rien."  I wish that that could truly encompass my life.  Unfortunately, I have some regrets.  Most of which are things I cannot change, even if I tried.  For instance, I wish I could sing well.  Desperately.  I sing a lot (in the shower, in the car, while drunk, etc.) and I love it.  But I'm awful.  Like Bai Ling has a better chance of getting a record deal than me.  But, to my credit, I don't wear band-aids as a shirt.  I like to think my class stands  in the way of me getting a pop-deal.  What?  I just took a facebook quiz that said my sexiness is poised and classy.  If a facebook quiz doesn't know the true me, who does?  

I think the best I could do is a drag act.  Besides the fact that I can probably safely wear six-inch heels and a 10-pound wig without much trouble, the real reason I feel this way is that I have a strange voice.  A little feminine, a bit nasal, low, quiet.  Obviously tons of fun.  I can make it raspy and sound like a drunk, 70-year-old potentially Jewish woman, but how far will that take me in life?  (Boca?)  But who really wants to do a drag act?  If I wanted to wear a skirt and get paid for it, I would go take some hormones.  I mean, I could probably land a spot on the Tyra show.  Which wouldn't be half-bad...I'd love to see that nut-case try to relate her life to being a transsexual.  (She must've already since she had that tranny on ANTM.)  Still, can't you just hear her?  "Girl, everyone always told me that I was too fierce.  It wasn't normal.  But I knew that my inner fierceness just had to be let out.  Just like your femaleness, I wanted to show the world that I'm a fierce woman with a great badonkadonk.  Sometimes you got to use more than what your mommy and daddy gave you."  I think that's too sane for Tyra, but I digress.

Other regrets have to do with my boring self-esteem fluctuations, but the one that remains despite my mood is always the singing.  If only I had been more a virtuoso instead of a gorgeous, intelligent, thin, good writer.  

I feel like a bald man.

I cut off all my hair again.  It seems I always go in this cycle.  I just get so fucking bored and then chop chop chop my hair's gone.  While, true to form, I am not sure if I actually like my hair cut, I have to say that the woman who cut my hair was hilarious.  Let me break it down...

Renee, Stephanie, and I walk into one of those Supercuts places and see three hairstylists.  I knew, immediately, that I would end up with the black woman.  (Stick to your own kind, perhaps?)  We had a little bit of a wait, so we meandered over to Wal-mart.  I bought a card, and we all got some yummy iced coffee.  (Sidebar:  I'm totally into coffee now.  I blame Amber.  I don't know if I've just grown accustomed to its taste [Yeah, I'm now thinking about My Fair Lady...] or my addictive personality is truly that insane.  Anyway...)  When we returned, Stephanie and Renee went first.

So I go up and I immediately want to die because I do get the black woman with the vaguely Caribbean accent.  While I'm showing her pictures of possible styles, she's going like "Nah, do you really like that one?"  HAHA.  And then she validates what I have said my whole life and why I cannot go to a barber:  "Oh, child, you have the finest baby hair in the world.  You cannot be buzzed!  You'll be showing too much scalp, it'll be like camouflage."  Yes.  If you have never touch my hair, I truly have the finest hair in the world.  Next she asks me which one of my parents have fine hair "Your mommy or your daddy?"  I explain that both of my parents have fine hair and she about dies.  "Oh, you were just plain ol' stuck then."  I inform her about my one sister, Amber, who has thick hair and cuts it all off, etc. etc.  "Oh!  Life is too funny, too too funny."  

Basically we had a blast.  I felt like I was at the Beauty Shop of Queen Latifa infamy.  Wouldn't that be nice?  Someone making you laugh and consoling you?  While I love my typical hairstylist (I sound as if I pay more than $18 on my hair...), she and I typically don't talk much.  We're both pretty content in the quiet.  Apparently, though, I had this longing to be a chatty mothafucka.  Because this woman swoops in and suddenly I feel like telling her my life story.

In conclusion, I gave her a three-dollar tip.  Because I don't know how to tip a bitch to save my life (I overpaid at a strip club) and I'm also kinda a cheap bastard.

Put Some Ice on 'Em

Dear Showgirls,

          You are the funniest movie I have ever seen.  I sincerely wish that you were supposed to be as humorous as I find you.  What other movie has such overacting and so much pussy?  Has there ever been a better script?  I don't think so.  I love you so much and I want there to be a sequel.  Nomi Goes to Hollywood.  Please.  Pretty please with cocaine on top?  

Love,

Wally

I hate myself for loving you.

I can't quite believe that I do this time and time again.  It's easy for me to wallow and preach at the same time.  I'm a shitty parent, what can I say?  I don't want children.  But, you know, that's something I admire in myself.  What is it with selfish people having babies?  You aren't magically going to care for other people, nope, you're just going to fuck up your child's life.  You might as well send your terminally ill child to sleepovers at Michael Jackson's house.  (Still haven't gotten over that.)  Or shoot yourself up with fertility drugs and then finance your greed through a reality show.  At least then your children will have enough money to become heroin addicts like every maladjusted child should.

Anyway, I digress.  I'm tired.  (Unfortunately, unlike my girl Maddie Kahn, it's not from being desired.)  Moping is so lame.  It makes me wanna kick myself in the face.  I cannot actually do that.  I tried getting my Rockette girlfriends to show me how, but apparently I need to loosen up my quads.  Furthermore, Nastia isn't returning my phone calls after realizing how excited I truly was for Shawn's DWTS win.  *sigh*  Gymnastics olympians are DIVAS.  I try not to be, but it's difficult now and then.  I blame boredom.  If I had more work and things to do, I wouldn't have time to think and to get so freakin' moody.  Truth.  Which is my new plan.  Busy bee, y'all.  Not to be confused with Busy B who needs to get me a backstage pass to her concert @ the IZOD center.  

It has been a while.

I'm frankly worried about my Sims dying.  I started a family of two sisters:  Bambi and Bunny Benson.  They each married.  Bambi and Hank had a daughter, Barbie, who's almost a teen.  Bunny and Zelda are happily childless.  Unfortunately, all of the adults are now elders.  Zelda is rather old, and I just don't want them all to die.  Barbie will easily make it to her teens, but if she doesn't get to be a young adult by the time all the adults die, I don't know what will happen to her.  I don't want child services to take her away because Bambi had her late in life.  Yes, this may sound silly, but when you've spent days of your life on a family, albeit a virtual one, you get emotionally attached.

Pushing Daisies ended last night and thus my dose of whimsy and true romance has expired.

I loved The Color Purple.  I read it yesterday while at work and it might be my favorite book.  I loved the strong women in that novel.  They were so rich and full.  I wanted to know them, so badly.

Now you know what I've been doing for the past several days.  And frankly, I don't care to go further back in time than that.

Suck my dick.

I'm trying to let stupid things roll off my back.  Just brush it off (ladies is pimps, too, don't forget).  But this shit is HARD.  I get angry so easily.  Wait, that's a lie.  I get annoyed easily.  I can't think of an adjective that describes that right now.  But I haven't gotten an adequate amount of sleep in over a week.  And when I did it was after getting no sleep.  So I'm not in the prime mental condition right now.  Which, perhaps, explains my severely limited tolerance for dumb ass mother fuckers.  (Like Barbara Walters and scotch.  You give that bitch one sip and she's telling you way more that you want to know about geriatric orgasms.)  

But, you know what, I don't know if I want to be more forgiving.  I don't think I ought to be.  So, yeah, as long as I'm not shanking bitches any time soon, I think I'm chill.

Three's Company, Too.

I've found myself shunning gatherings larger than 3 people.  Isn't that strange?  I guess I'm not cut out for orgies.  Even in platonic settings, I'm uneasy.  Well, that's not quite right.  I'm perfectly comfortable, it's just not fun.  I'd rather have 2 people that I love than 30 for whom I feel nothing.

Do you see what you do to me?

Dear Diet Coke,

I've missed you so much.  I'm so glad we've been reunited.  With two finals left and not much sleep, the stress was just too much to resist your charms.  Your chic silver can, that adorable cursive 'Diet,' and the fact that you're not pretentious enough to call yourself Diet Coca-Cola—Oh!—you just won me over.  I know that you're so wrong for me and this will just end in heartbreak, but I don't care.  Let's cherish the moment.

Love always,

Wally

Go on and cry, cry babayyyyyyyy!

So I finally got that cry I wanted.  After almost borrowing Terms of Endearment from the library, I decided to hold off.  And as luck would have it, I cried approximately four times during the Grey's Anatomy season finale.  

You know what, I'm proud of it.  I think crying is good.  While I look absolutely hideous during the process, I truly feel that it's useful once in a while.  It helps you cleanse some of the unhappy feelings you may have.  Even if you're crying over something frivolous (for instance, a tv series you are FAR too invested in), crying lets it all go.  

Let your hair down, get a box of Kleenex, and just cry.  

P. S.  Terms of Endearment rocks.

You say it's all in my head, and the things I think just don't make sense.

I don't know how it happened, but I haven't had Diet Coke in over 2 months.  I had seriously thought myself to be at least addicted to DC, if not soda in general.  But shouldn't an addiction be easier to quit?  I just stopped.  And I was done.

This kind of makes me think that I could potentially conquer my snacking habit one day after finals are over.  (Because, seriously, I am not giving up cookies during finals.  Suck it.)  And then I might actually get some semblance of good health.

Maybe it really all is in my head, which isn't really a relief, let me tell you.  That's really all I need:  more confirmation that I'm a bit off my rocker.  (Which, btw, I still want a rocker chair for my room next year.  Make that happen.)  But I think that should be fairly if not really really obvious considering I have an intense hankering to have a good cry.  And I just used the work hankering.  Lovely.

Unlucky

Sometimes I feel as if I am a bipolar single.  I flip-flop.  I'm the John Fucking Kerry of being unattached.  There are times when I truly do love it.  I like being free and I think the love I have for my friends and my family is indeed fulfilling.  But then other times I wish I could be more intimate.  While I'm close to some of my friends, I can never be that ultimate close.  I want that, badly, just once.  But I can't seem to find that elusive bugger.  

One of my best friends tells me that it's all about luck.  I don't know, but I can't help being jealous of her sometimes.  Today I knocked on her door while she was talking on the phone with her girlfriend.  And it was as if I was seriously interrupting, I was disrupting their own little world.  I crave that.

For as much as I can have my friends, I know that I am not number one in any of their lives.  Perhaps I'm up there for a few, but it isn't the same.  (Otherwise the [title of show] song wouldn't be nearly as effective, but that's a digression of sorts.)  

Well, maybe being some guy's somebody isn't that lofty of an aspiration.  All I know is that I'm feeling awfully romantic and also alone.  Except I'm not Bridget Jones.  (Lord knows I'm not Renee Zelwegger, though I can't say that it's too upsetting.)  Those kinds of moments don't just happen for me.  

I cannot resist associating luck with karma.  It's my guilt, I suppose...something along the lines of The Sound of Music's "Something Good."  What did I do to deserve not falling in love?  

Or does my desperation penetrate the olfactory glans of every available bachelor?  Does my utter want of commitment frighten?

It's a killer to the self-esteem, that's for sure.  I suppose I could just sacrifice my soul and my morals and become a slut.  I've thought about it many a time.  I really do feel, though, that I would lose myself.  I'd be hollow.  And so I know that while I could become a slut, I won't.

I know, I know.  Again, I'm warbling nonsense.  But my musings are all I have sometimes.  And I just keep hoping that maybe my analysis will yield something great.  I'll have a Eureka! moment about love.  

Until then, I'm stuck here in my tight pants and moccasins.  

The same friend often says that she feels less motivation to look especially dressed up since her love is in another state.  Whereas, I'm loveless and working on my shell.

Baby, baby, baby!

"There were things I'd never do again, but then they'd always seemed right.  There were nights of endless pleasure, they were more than any laws allow."

WAIT.  SAY WHAT CÉLINE!?  Things you'd never do again...seemed right...endless pleasure...more than laws allow.  I mean, I was thinking it had to be anal sex.  But sodomy hasn't been illegal for a while, right?  And I just never pictured Céline to be any kinkier than that.  A little anal sex can spice up any relationship, (Clean first.  Use protection.  And lube.)  but anything further definitely starts to get a little risqué.  Keep your electrodes to yourself Céline!

I Ain't Mr. T

I like myself, maybe a little too much now and then, but I really like me.  Thus when I see people act like unpityable fools, I just shake my head.  It's sad, if anything, that people don't have enough self-worth to conduct themselves with pride and respect.  Everyone has issues—my motto has basically become "Being happy isn't easy."  I don't understand why being a bully ever seems like a reasonable and logical step to take.  Hurting others because you're in pain?  Please, get over it.  One day you'll find yourself either unmarried or divorced and wonder where it all went wrong.  And at that point, what's it worth?  But when you're still 18-19-20-years-old, you have plenty of years to enjoy once you've grow up.  Let's start now, okay kid?

Rewind

So as I'm eating my chicken empanadas from Twisted Soul and some delicious multigrain bread, I've realize that I need to take a chill pill.  PLP would smack me upside the head and say, "STOP YOUR WHINING, who do you think you are?  Eponine!?"

I do love my friends.  And I'm sorry I'm not easy to manage normally, let alone when I'm in a bad mood.  I don't know where I'd be without my friends.  I don't want to get stuck at the Golden Palace!  I'm a bit too brash sometimes, but let's just chill on the lanai.

My First Break-up

Dear Vodka,

I think we need to see other people.  It's not you, you're just a lovely potato-derived liquor.  It's most certainly me.  You see, I can't control myself around you.  And I just don't want to a sorority girl again.  I think one time's enough for this kid.  I'll always love you.  And, sometime soon, when my tolerance is better or I'm with people who will reign me in, we can hook up again.  

Love,

Wally

P. S.  Do you have Champagne's number?

No More Hot Pockets!

Scratch that.  I'm thinking it's just staying hydrated.  haha.  Though I do have a Founder's Day menu planned out:

Breakfast-  Bagel with mimosas

Lunch-  Sandwich with screwdrivers

Dinner-  Pizza with some jungle juice

Dessert- ...okay at this point I don't think I'll even know what I'm ingesting.

Here's hoping that by the next meal I won't be throwing up.  : )

Hot pocket?

I think I found the way to ensure one will not be hurtin' on a Saturday morning.  Hot pockets.  I don't know why I ate so much random shit last night—I don't smoke—but I did, and it was pretty glorious.  And this morning, I'm great.  Like I'm feeling amazing.  And it's gorgeous outside, aka I'm about to take my top off and go lie in the sun.  Okay, so I was also really hydrated last night, but I feel like I always am?  Who knows.  I also mixed beverages (not literally), but I thought that was bad?  Anyway.  I guess I'd better stock up on water and hot pockets for Founder's Day.

Journey to the Center of the Petty

You know your friendship is on the fringes when you're not tagged in one of those epicly awful facebook notes.  I'm just saying.  Times like these you learn who your real friends are (aka the ones who remember your fear of nipple infection but assure you everything will be fine, the ones who buy you vodka in Baltimore so you can sing Captain and Tenille while plastered together, you know, the classy ones).  That's just two of my friends.  But you know who you are, and...all together now:  Thank you for being a friend.

IDK...my BFF Lil' Kim!?

Lil' Kim is my new BFF.  Seriously.  I'm in love with her on DWTS.  She actually trumps the adorableness of Shawn Johnson in my book.  And that's hard to do, let me tell you.  I feel as though Shawn's very obviously cute:  all American teen, Olympic gymnast, goofy, smiley, spirited.  Lil' Kim is the kind of cute that sneaks up on you.  Most of it has to do with her self-awareness.  She and Derek danced to..."Jailhouse Rock."  LOLz.  She legitimately seems really nice.  Extremely chill.  And we already know that she ain't a snitch.  WHAT MORE DO YOU NEED IN A FRIEND?  

I need some B in my life!

For crying out loud, I need to quit this introspective bullshit.  It's so unbecoming...like horizontal stripes on anyone who isn't the size of an Olsen twin, velour, and jumpsuits...or most specifically a horizontally striped velour jump suit.  Yes.

Anyway, I'm debating over how you can tell if something is 'too late.'  I mean, I'm only 19, so I don't know how I can really give up on somehow when there are potentially 60 years for him/her to change.  (But do I really wanna wait for our lives to be over to know if a relationship will turn out fine?  Yeah, Paula Cole actually makes sense here.  Go figure.)  Like a friend who never has time for you but still says, "I love you."  Or someone you never bothered to be friends with and then wondered why he/she isn't nice to you.

How long do you wait for that friend to wise up?  I have almost completely stopped IM/text/facebooking said friend and naturally our communication is currently around nil.  But I still find myself annoyed over and even obsessing with it.  I have such guilt issues, I suppose.  But I feel as though I've done so much already.  And I don't know if I have the nerve to tell someone that they blow at being a friend.  (It's like a fucked-up Golden Girls anthem:  "You suck at being a friend.  We travel down this road and back again.  Your heart may be true, but you ain't a pal nor a confidant.  And if you threw a party and invited everyone you knew, you would see the biggest gift would be from me and the card attached would say, 'I wish you were a better friend.'") 

Onto my second person of issue.  I keep meaning to say something.  I really do, but is it worth it?  If we're not going to have to deal with each other soon, can I just let it be?  Or would it make more sense to take a chance and try to make the rest great?  This one I'm more conflicted about because the ball really seems to lie in my court.  (Did I seriously just use a basketball metaphor...and a cliched one at that?)  But then again, it doesn't.  It lies at half-court.  I guess it always does though.  Ugh.  Sometimes I wish I could just go be a hermit.  But I'm too high-maintenance for that shit.  Please.  

This is why Beyoncé and I should really be friends.  We wouldn't have these problems.  B and I would have a very honest and open friendship where we could tell each other any and everything.  And if we had trouble communicating, we'd do it through song and/or dance.  If that didn't work, we'd create alter egos to express our bad sides.  Worst case scenario, we'd call up Oprah and have her moderate for us.  Gayle could come, too.  She's a peach.

Box o' Wine

Last night I ended up in a random TH where a party wasn't even going on.  But we were invited in, I swear.  And they offered us boxed wine.  I mean, how great is that?  That's just priceless friendliness.  I wish I were that easy-going.  I don't know if I would invite strange freshmen into my home to drink my alcohol if I weren't having a party.

I just thought that it was significant enough to recall.

Also, our campus is SERIOUSLY small.  I think I saw everyone I know in that Strong party, at the TH's, and then at the Mug (including those delightful boxed wine ladies)!  Which basically makes me question how people hook-up.  You WILL see them again.  Probably at Sunday brunch at the DC.  

Actually, I'm Eloping to Atlantic City in About an Hour...

Why do we need excuses to look nice?

Shouldn't being pretty be reason enough?  

It doesn't seem to be.  Apparently, there must be some ulterior motive to wanting to feel good about oneself. 

But, of course.  There's gotta be somewhere to go.  Something to do.  (There's gotta be something better than this.  <-Shout-out to my Cy Coleman followers.)

Are we, ourselves, not good enough to suffice?

Vanity is a virtue, dammit.

This is what happens when I try to fulfill a major requirement...

Here's a little shout-out to anyone else who was planning on taking Asian American Lit (aka ENGL 229-01):  WTF VC!?  I go to pre-register for my classes like a good student, and low and behold, it tells me that ENGL 229 is CANCELLED.  Oh, nuh uh.  Girl, hold me back!  I was planning on taking that mofo class!  And BESIDES, it's still in the Catalogue and Schedule of Classes!  UGH.  That's just straight-up ridiculous.

It Ain't That Cute, RiRi.

Does anyone remember that SNL skit that was something like "I'm single and LOVING IT!" where everyone really hated being single.  I think that's me right now.  Except not really since I'm being open about hating it.  So maybe I'm like the end of the sketch?  Anyway, I decided that being single isn't really fun.  At all.  In fact, I really dislike it so much that I almost want to be in a relationship just to be in one.  Yes, I know that's pretty crazy like wearing latex anywhere but on your dick.  But I can't help it.  

And this is how I realized that I don't really know how to make a relationship happen.  I pretty much live in a world of women, which isn't doing me any good.  While having a lot of friends, pretty ones at that, is fun... it's not THAT fun.  I wish I could like take a course on it or something!  I'm a good student.  Or read a book, after all, I like to think that I'm occasionally literate.  But that'd make me feel a bit more pathetic than I could handle.  Whole pride nonsense.  

So, I'm about to get into a fight...with myself.  I need to find a way to, as a friend put it, "broaden my horizons" and "open up my options" while still feeling like I'm who I am and making sure I'm comfortable.  Okay, maybe that's not possible.  I suppose uncomfortability is key, right?  I have to move out of my 'comfort zone'...and I guess if that's what it takes, I'll do it.

And so this little introspection makes me feel like Carrie Bradshaw specifically but maybe one of the other 1920312 female leads who narrate TV series with questions about life.  I think that might just be the problem.  Again, women.  At least I don't menstruate.  

Think!

I was soooo good at posting and then I just kinda fell out of it.  But a dear platonic sex partner of mine and I have been feasting (rather gorging) ourselves on the delicious cornucopia that is karaoke.  We 'raoke like we're drunk 30 year olds at a singles' bar.  We do some good Motown, but also rock Michelle Branch like nobody's business.  (Least of whom...Michelle Branch).  Moving on, I think Motown just really cranks out some good karaoke tunes.  Speaking of which, I'm dying to do Aretha Franklin's "Think."  C'mon, just picture me...skinny white boy doing "You need me and I need you!"  hahah.  Pricelessness that is 'raokin', baby.  

Oh my.

I want to kill a bitch...namely my 11-14 years old self.  

Did you ever re-discover your middle school Xanga?  I didn't do this recently, but I'm currently talking about the moment that I did.  It had to be one of the worst days of my life.  Not only was I so angst-ridden and lame...but I filled out all of those stupid surveys designed for 13-year-old girls.  UGH.

It's like everything I hate about children combined and was me.  I seriously can't understand what I had to be so annoying about.  It's not like middle school had hard homework or really anything of value.  I also don't know how I had any friends.  I must not have.  Because I think I was that annoying.  

Now, by no means am I saying that I'm a beacon of vivacity and brilliance today, but I like to think that I'm not a bratty prick.  I can actually remember one of my backgrounds...wait for it...Britney Spears.  UGH.

This is the worst part...my username.  No lie, it was.....onelonelytear.  KILL ME NOW.  Seriously!?  I throw machetes at emo losers with screennames like that.  UGH.  I wasn't even emo.  My hair was short and not black and I most certainly wore colors.  I mean, I still have some of the clothes.  

I don't think Edith Wharton had these kind of problems.  But then again, she was too busy being really really rich and talented.  

This must be what anyone who survived the 80's feels like when they look at their old pictures.  

Utter shame that I channel into anger for no one for kicking me in the face.  It would be the friendly thing to do.  So I promise that if anyone I know is acting like a whiny emo bitch, I'll smack them.  Or at least give them a sarcastic 'Please.'  

P. S.  There goes my shirt up over my head...oh my oh my.  Anyone remember that song?

Food NEVER Judged Me!

I realized last night while I should've been falling asleep that I understand Star Jones.  (Cue gasping audience!)  I mean, I don't understand being on The View or what she actually does for a living (I know she's a lawyer, but PLEASE) or why she married that obviously gay man, but the food thing...I got you babe.  This is because I'm on a slippery slope to becoming morbidly obese.  I must've eaten 1293081290321809312 calories this past month alone!  And that's not good.  I'm not really active.  Michael Fucking Pot Smoking Phelps would be fat on my diet.  And I'm convinced I gained weight.  Unless there is some immaculate conception going on (and it's have to be SUPER immaculate), and I'm about to give birth to maybe a 10-20 pound baby, I'm not happy.  No no.  I'm like that crazy fuck that was screaming to leave Britney alone except I'm yelling about me and I'm talking to fat.  

And it's true, okay, food never judged me.  It never said, "Bitch please, do you really need this much ice cream?  Who you trying to kid?  Your metabolism ain't that fast, child.  CHECK YO'SELF."  Food doesn't really speak to me at all.  It just kind of cries out:  EAT ME I'M DELICIOUSNESS INCARNATE!  And I obey.  It's an abusive relationship.  I just hope I'm strong enough to break free of it and have an amazing comeback that maybe involves some fuck-nasty wigs and my legs mysteriously never looking better.

You might be saying, what does love got to do, got to do with it?  But Tina was talking about sex, probs, not food.  Love has everything to do with food.  I'm not going to go all Oprah and say that food fills a void in my life where a significant other and a soul would reside.  Nuh uh.  I'm gonna break it down when I say that I love to eat.  I truly enjoy it.  It's one of the favorite parts of my daily routines, up there with showering and sleeping.  

I just don't know.  I only hope that one of my crazy friends that are becoming doctors will magically decide to be a plastic surgeon.  Because boyfriend's gonna need a tummy-tuck.  Pronto.  

Which brings me to my final point.  I don't understand why Star Jones lied about her gastric bypass.  WHATEVA.  You thin-ish, honey.  Who cares how you got there?  I mean, you did it without crack cocaine aka TrimSpa!  COUNT CHO BLESSINGS.  Now you're not even on that hot mess The View.  Elizabeth Hasselmotherfucker still is, for crying out loud.  Baby, food doesn't judge, but I do.

WISH

Dear Sutton Foster,

I don't know why you are not yet worldwide famous.  Okay maybe because no one appreciates musical theatre actresses anymore unless they happen to appear in shitty movies or on TV (here's looking at you KChen).  But still.  Your new CD, Wish (who woulda thunk!?), is sublime.  And you're genuinely nice.   Furthermore, you're a normal person!  You're kinda lanky and awkward in person, but onstage, you're a dream.  It's phenomenal...almost like anyone could become a theatre sensation (if they could sing like a lark and dance circles around most—minor details)!!!  Maybe a music video?  Does anyone watch videos anymore?  A youtube series?  A vlog?  Or even a blog!?  I just wish you got more recognition.  Even though you're really not a secret...anyone who has a half a brain in regards to theatre ought to know about you and your 42nd Street-esque discovery.  *fawn*

Love always,

Wally

P. S.  I almost want to see Shrek because of you...almost.

If only you could put a hit out on a book...

Dear Twilight Series,

GO DIE.

Love always (and by love always I mean with loath eternally),

Wally

P. S.  Stephanie Meyers (sp? I don't care enough to check), you made your buck, now CUT THE SHIT.

P. P. S.  Teenage novels with not-so-secret religious agendas are SO PASSÉ...so passé that THEY WERE NEVER IN.  

P. P. P. S.  It doesn't even make sense.  Vampires can't have babies.  DUH.  No one turns 80 year olds into vampires.  How are there legit old people vampires!?!?

P. P. P. P. S.  When you die a slow and painful death, Twilight series, can you take Taylor Swift with you?

Oh, Michael Cerveris!

I saw Hedda Gabbler today and I realized that I need to stop falling in love with tragic female characters.  Clearly that's not going to work out.  That's like living with your boyfriend before going on (#U$JDLKSFd of Love.  Please.  Ugh.  Anyway, I really liked it.  Mary-Louise Parker was wonderful.  She's a petite thing!  Geez.  That other girl was not very enjoyable though.  No, no.  I didn't know if she was just bad or it was a really awkward character choice.  haha.  Oh well, Michael Cerveris was Mr. Tesmond and GREAT.  As always.  : )

OMG DIANE!

First off, a quick little fun fact.  My parents now have a Skype account.  Kill.  Me.  Now.

Second, apparently my vivid dreams may mean that I'm pregnant or getting too much vitamin B6!  I mean, that's just illogical.  I don't take supplements dammit!  But this article said something about taking control of your dreams, and that sounds just amazing.  I can just picture it now:  chocolate fountains, lots of sex, Beyoncé, Ella and I scatting.  Ugh.  Sign me up!!!!!!  I'd be on that shit like herpes on Bret Michaels.  (Which, BTWz, Rock of Love Bus girls, I really really really hope you use protection.  Maybe even a dental dam.  Because although normally I think dental dams are a little ridiculous, I wouldn't be surprised if you had open sores in your mouths and he had potentially 4 STDs...allegedly.)

Which sort of brings me to my final point...this was the Yahoo! headline: "Popular reality show gets busted for illegal activity"--it was that History Channel nonsense Ax Men.  Hold up, popular?  Please.  And how is it that out of all the crazy reality shows on TV that's the one that gets busted?!  C'mon.  COME ON.  Although I did recently read that there were fights at a recent NYC Top Model audition.  Priceless.

Pick up on THIS.

Today was like show explosion for me.  I watched last night's Damages via iTunes and OMGz the last 5 minutes.  Shit, I thought I was like having a heart attack or orgasming.  Okay not at all, I certainly know the difference, but I mean, c'mon!  That was intense.  I just wanna know what's up!!!  DAMMIT.  I wish I were as close to Glenn as I am to mah girl B.  Because I think Glenn must be such a sweetie, and she could advance me the episodes.  She knows how much I love the show and how I generate such press for it.  She'd be like, "Wally, please, I'm ashamed you asked.  You know I love you, babe."  And then we'd make out and watch the last few episodes hand-in-hand.  But since my fantasies never come true, I'll have to wait a few weeks more.

Meanwhile, Ugly Betty is trying to weasel back into my heart!  Mary J. and I were all like "Bitch, back the fuck up!  I said no more drama in my life!"  And UB was like "BUT I wanna be a drama now!  A dramedy?  C'mon!"  There were shanks drawn, it was ugly.  I almost had to pull a Li'l Kim and lie when my entourage shot show bitches up...which would've gotten me onto Dancing with the Stars.  Fuck!  But I didn't.  And now UgBet is definitely getting a little bit funnier.  Vanessa Williams is a dream.  She's got such an amazing body, I can't even believe it.  And funny, too!  Such a dream.  Too often funny girls look like Lisa Lampinelli instead of my idol Madeline Kahn.

And Grey's was kinda decent, too.  Shocker!  I liked the fact that there was some progress in the Izzie storyline.  That shit was getting to be the Dave Williams syndrome on ABC.  But we got SOMEWHERE.  We know what she has.  FINALLY.  And DAMN, my sources were off.  But who would've guessed that?  C'mon.

Anyway, too much sitting!  Too many shows in a row.  GAH.  It's time to bust a move.  Hit it Spinderella!

I can't believe I'm saying this...

Dear Lady Gaga,

Even though you dress horribly—like worse than a crack-addicted, crabs-infested street-walker from the 1970's—I have to admit that your message of "Just Dance" is quite relevant to my life.  I tend to just say fuck this shit and I dance around.  I don't know if it's productive...Hell, it's probably not, but thank you.  Can you please buy a pair of pants now?  Thank you.

Love always,

Wally

I don't know why y'all actin' like this!

(My girlfriend already saw the movie.  She said they don't even stay together in the end.)  <3333

So against my proper notions of sanity, I watched Dancing with the Stars.  I have to say that I just don't understand why they're so stressed about it, nor why Shawn Johnson would go on.  You won a fucking Gold Medal...WHY!?  No way my girl Nastia would go on DWTS.  NUH UH.  (Unless there's a Russian edition...)  But watch, Shawn'll probably win.  & Denise Richards...did you seriously cry?  DO YOU HAVE NO SHAME!?  Wait...I already knew that answer.  (ABC just prompted that question two days in a row.  WHOA!)  

Anyway, to the important stuff...Holly Madison (of The Girls Next Door if you're somehow not aware) is fucking THIN.  Like I knew she was on the thin side, but she looked incredibly small tonight.  Geez.  I feel bad...I always though Bridget looked chunky, but she's probably just a human being...who might've slept with Hugh Hefner.  All together now:  EW!  I mean, yeah he's rich...but SHIT.  I just don't know.  Maybe 20 years ago...but not now.  I'm not looking to be jumpin' some octogenarian.  Puh-lease, I'm not that cheap.  

Anyway, at least Holly's not Rose-Byrne-on-Damages-Channeling-Ally-McBeal-thin.  Rose-PLEASE EAT A SANDWICH.  Yes, your miniscule frame makes me feel your grief...but it also makes me feel fat.  Stop it.  Cut the shit.  Or else Glenn will kill you.  

WTF ABC!?

Okay, what is with that Desperate Housewives promo?  That's just stupid.  They did NOT follow through.  I was all excited for it to come to fruition and I mean, I guess it did, but that was misleading.  Shame on you, ABC.  SHAME.

Wait, hold up, this is the company that thought Dead Denny was a good idea.  Nevermind, they have zero concept of shame.

Poor baby

Hey there good lookin' honey.  Can I have back my money?  'Cause I don't want you, anymore.  And besides, I lied.  You're short, stout, and old—an eyesore to behold.  Baby you ain't that cute.  I guess while I'm talkin' 'bout that, I can admit that you're fat.  So can you get outta my life and head to the gym?  That's right.  Get outta my life as quick as you can, but don't run, 'cause you'll look like a man, but, oh girl, head to that gym.  

Truth.

Sausagefest

I just saw Watchmen and it was MEH.  But besides that it was a total sausagefest.  Like whoa.  And I don't mean the 90% male audience.  I mean 9123801 penis shots!!!  Blue penises are weird.  I wanna know if that was that actor legit naked or not.  That takes...balls.  (I'm SO sorry for that pun.  UGH)

They don't KNOW that I'm affiliated with gangs and shit!

I haven't posted in a while, but I figured I could briefly comment on last night.  Watch the HBO special of Will Ferrell's B-way show.  It was wayyy funny.  Western grip.  That's all I'm saying.  But...I have to take back my comment earlier.  He's actually really cute in person.  Like he looks straight out of Elf, not creepy at all.  Yesss autograph!!  

BTW-Renee, I was just asking someone for a fucking DOLLAR!  <333

Yes, I'm About to Relate to Joy Behar

Now this is getting a little bit cray cray.  While I can sometimes understand having a Facebook status that goes something like "Suzanne Somers is MADDDdDDDDdddD SHWASTEY" (and by sometimes I mean never), I refuse to even pretend to understand why anyone would want a status along the lines of this "Suzanne Somers is WANTING TO TASTE WHITNEY HOUSTON" or this "Suzanne Somers is about to kill Paula Abdul" or this "Suzanne Somers is so alone right now and could use a friend."  This, kiddo, is Facebook not DrPhil.com.  (Don't get me started at that fat piece of crap.  I belong to the Kathy Griffin school of thought in regards to him.)  So, please, PUH-LEASE, do not reveal the details of your personal life via your Facebook statuses.  Don't do it.  It's worse than doing coke off of a toilet seat.  Which clearly is vile and way too kinky for anyone this side of watersports.

Yes, I just said watersports.  Ewww.  I'm going to go wash my hands now or use some Purel like Joy Behar did to that skeevy Bachelor's face.

Mmm, Mango.

Hold up, I have a question.  In the song, "I'm Too Sexy," there's the lyric:  'I'm a model, you know what I mean...'  I really don't.  What does he mean!?  What does that mean!?  Is modeling a euphemism I'm not aware of?  Because I'm pretty knowledgeable in that area.  Wait...I'm starting to think like this is some Grey's Anatomy shit.  Maybe repeating it 1230 times with difference emphasis will help.  I'M a model.  I'm A model.  I'm a MODel.  I'm a modEL.  Nope.  Still nothing.

P. S. The title of this blog entry is derived from me being a total asshole and finding an innocent post by a stranger on a Facebook event page hilarious.  I won't say what because then someone could look and see that I am really being a jerkface.

P. P. S.  I lied.  It's the Rita's Spring event.  

Hootie?

I MISS YOU CARLA.  GET YOUR OWN SHOW.  ASAP.

PS-It's definitely Hootie-Hoo.  I don't care what they say.

Crap, I sound like the killers...

Someone told me that my post wasn't coherent.  I said s/he just didn't get it.  Score.  But, yeah, this is how I do.  I'm generally a bit scatterbrained, and I type silly things as they come to me.  Maybe I'll go off on my crazy tangent a little long, but whatever.  I blame it on the fact that my middle name's Whitney (it's not) and that Whitney Houston just influences me.  Sometimes I can be really sassy and diva-esque, but others, I'm yelling at Diane Sawyer, "CRACK IS WACK!"  Seriously though, crack is cheap, I don't do crack.

I'm a little annoyed at the weather.  In case you didn't notice, it snowed.  Fuck the snow-snow.  I'm grateful it wasn't the 1923018 feet they were predicting, but it's still lame.  I'm a little fed up with this winter bullshit.  I guess when I actually have to walk places, surprisingly I care about the weather.  Who knew?  Like I'm actually willing to jump right into allergy season Spring and have to take all of my crazy meds.  (Relax, they're not the good kind, and I won't sell you any.)  Besides, that means those rabies fucked-up squirrels will be back!  And I'm a bit afraid of Vassar squirrels.  For real.

BTW- I know that maybe 2 people have read this blog, and I insist that you do something special.  Like comment or follow it or something.  So I feel less like I'm either 12 and this is my angst-ridden Xanga or that I'm beyond Whitney and channeling Sybil (Sally Field anyone) and talking to myself.  

You're Lucky I've Got Plans

This is why I wish I weren't such a scrawny fucker or that I had someone on my payroll.  I don't have time for drama but I seem to attract it worse than my girl B and those tacky tacky House of Dereon outfits.  I'm sitting here thinking, 'FUCK!  I'm a highly successful African American woman, what the hell am I doing letting my crazy mom still dress me?!?  I bet Oprah picks out her own clothes.  Shit.'  And then I remember that I'm not actually my girl B and I die a little on the inside.  (Beyoncé, call me!  Girl, I'll flat out wear your mom just to meet you.)  Anyway, I digress.  I may or may not have allegedly gotten a certain piercing done twice over Winter Break.  And since I got back to VC, people have been acting like straight-up fools.  I mean, I know I know 3LW—them hata's gonna hate, but jeez Louise, I didn't realize that my nipples could be such a hot topic.  I'm all about showing them off when I'm drunk!  I'll even talk about the piercing process in general (see below).  But I'm not about random people talking about it to people or being asked about my motives as though I just went O. J. on someone's ass.  Essentially:  CHILLAX.  We've got to respect each other.  Didn't Aretha tell us that decades ago?  Whatever, Spring Break's in four days, and I'm not getting expelled for rippin' out weaves any time soon.  Not like I actually know anyone with a weave right now, but that's a minor detail.

Furthermore, my mom tells me today that there's apparently a snow storm coming.  FUCK THAT SHIT.  And not in some 2-Girls-1-Cup-NASTY way, but in a I-Just-Fashioned-This-Shank-From-My-Toothbrush-While-I'm-Waiting-To-Be-Paroled-For-These-Lame-Drug-Charges-But-I-Could-Still-Stab-You way.  Like my title says, I've got plans.  Renee and I have a threesome planned with that ugly bastard Will Ferrell Friday.  I'm bouncing outta here Thursday at 11 AM Hell or high water.

Last but not least, I need my beauty sleep.  I can get cute on a good day, but without quality sleep, I'm damn close to looking like a case for True Life: I'm a Crackwhore.  You know who you are, stop having Feng Shui crises at 1 AM and learn to dance.  Girl, why you stompin' so much?  Is there some new dance move that I've missed out on recently by neglecting my life partner, Vodka?  I sincerely doubt it.  B would've texted me.  She's a great friend like that.  Like if you were about to jump some bitch, B would definitely hold your earrings.

Mad about Madeline

Dearest Moey,

       I feel obliged to bring to your attention that very VERY few people can actually pull off vibrant color streaks in their hair.  However, you are the exception.  In fact, I have remarked just this, on several occasions.  I'll see several people on campus with various Crayola hues dyed into their hair, and I'll just think, "Wow, you, sirs, suck ass.  I think Moey's the only one who can pull it off around here."  And then, of course, I laugh at said person on the inside and go eat a cookie.  Trust me, Moey, I'm a man of my word.  Hence my first post being all about you.  

Love always,

Wally

P.S. So they measure it, make some marks, and then put a clamp on it.  The needle's hollow so the bar can fit inside.  Then they shove the needle through.  Pulling the needle out, the bar remains, and they screw on the two balls.  Repeat.  : )