Welp friends, I have decided to abandon the advice-giving format of this blog as it only works if we all play. From now on you will have to glean whatever advice you need from these poorly-structured ideas loosely strung together with passive voice narratives. Yeah, I went to college. Fuck you.
And it turns out, despite living in an interesting city full of weirdos my life is actually devoid of any interesting conflict. So here is a list of my first-world problems with no solutions to counteract them whatsoever.
AND THEN I HAD NOWHERE TO PLUG IN MY IPHONE
no computer
Ever since Obama declared access to the internet to be a human right it has been nearly impossible for me to access. I can get to it easily enough at work but I am way too busy to do anything but check my facebook for 30 seconds at a time while no one is looking, and that shit is DIFFICULT to come by at home. My computer recently crashed, losing all my data and I am currently pecking this out on an unbuntu system run off a disk with an internet connection slower than dial-up. I used my computer for news, radio, tv, movie watching, book reading, and porn obv. so I literally have NOTHING to do in the hour between my arrival home from work and when I have to go to bed for my full 8.5 hours of sleep I need every night to fuel my rage for the oncoming day.
beans
I need to stop acting like I can cook beans that come from anywhere other than out of a can. For real. I wanted to make some rice and beans for dinner tonight because I am POOR AS FUCK and I had all the ingredients laying around (my high level of bewilderment in supermarkets indicates that I need to get groceries more often. Anything bigger that two crowded isles housing cat food, off-brand laundry detergent, and Triscuits disorients me). I soaked the beans over a period of 36 hours because I forgot about them for the first 24, so those bitches were totally ready to go. But come to find out, they need to cook at a gentle simmer for an HOUR AND A FUCKING HALF. I started that shit at 9pm, when am I going to eat them? I briefly considered boiling them on high for 20 minutes and hoping for the best until I remembered that I read once that incompletely cooked beans are toxic and destroy some vital body function while causing an elephantine degree of flatulence. I couldn't look this up on wikipedia due to first world problem #1. I ate an egg instead. Lateral move at best.
colon
Speaking of flatulence, wtf my colon has ceased to function in any reasonable capacity. I have some serious issues when it comes to the butthole arena. And I say arena because my struggles often feel like a motherfucking BULLFIGHT. As of late, if I eat anything after 4pm I wake up the next day completely bloated, gassy as fuck, and sometimes, with a terrible case of spicy butt. Usually I find a way to use these things in my favor on my commute to work: farting right after the Bedford stop on the L train ensures that the swath of hipsters crowding the car smelling of kale and last-night's homebrew inch their vegan coffees far enough away from me so that I can comfortably turn the pages of my book and the bloating makes me look pregnant. If someone mistakes me for an actual pregnant lady and offers their seat I roll with it. Probably more than I need to in that I put a hand on my back and lower myself slowly into the seat, then continue to rub my belly for the remainder of the trip.
I went to talk to a doctor about all my butt problems, and she gave me some pills to control my colon spasms. I have to see a specialist to really root out the problem though, and the earliest they could get me in is February 14th. Yep. That's right, Valentine's day. While all you other suckers are out there cooing over each other's chocolate-dipped dicks I am going to be scheduling a colonoscopy.
I have a hot date with this guy come V-Day
fattyGood to know some things never change. As many of you may remember, I kept a blog full of self-effacing jokes about being a fatty in our thin-obsessed culture. I had no IDEA what thin meant until I came to the east coast though. EVERYBODY IS BEAUTIFUL (see above: kale). Everyone is petite and cute and has nice bangs and power-clashing outfits and punchy lipcolor. The men too. And I am just as awkwardly proportioned and sweaty and uncomfortable in my own skin as ever. I work in SoHo, which is America's fashion district, and full of beautiful, hungry smokers. There are shops that offer the latest fashions for super low prices all along Broadway, but I cannot purchase a single.fucking.thing. there because bitches don't carry extra large and say so on signs posted ALL OVER THE GODDAMNED STORE. But people seem more sensitive about confronting reality here, as evidenced by the reaction of some of my officemates to one of my self-effacing jokes. I said something about how awkward it was to be a fat person in NYC in a sea of skinny beautiful people and everyone was like, "You are not fat! You are totes not fat." I mean, it's cool, I know I am kind of fat, my doctor knows, my family knows, it isn't really a secret. It was almost comical to see how uncomfortable they became when they got hit up with some REALTALK. Later, my super-skinny coworker Christine told me all the Popeye's chicken she was eating was giving her a fupa. She IMed me and told me to come over and touch it as I was hella skeptical. I was right too, as she only has a thin layer of skin over concave abdominal muscles (yeah sluts, I touched my coworker's fupa). Then I had to explain to her that MY fupa was so large that it pulled other, smaller fupas into its orbit. I then created an illustration of such.
Not a fupa.
Fupa. Kind of from faraway, but it's there.
keeping up appearances
Even fatties like me want to keep things looking young and smooth, and thus every so often, after someone calls me "sir" on accident for the third time in a month, I get my meatbeard whiskers waxed off. I don't know why I all the sudden began growing a ladybeard, but once in my 20's I started sprouting little face and neckhairs. At first I could just pluck them out, but now I look like Shaggy from Scooby Do. Zoinks scoob, we lookin haggard. So, last weekend as I was waiting for my laundry to dry, I went to the weird mani/pedi/bodywaxing place next door. The lady took me into this storage closet with a table in it and shined the lamp on my face. I assume my facehairs acted as prisms because the aesthetician gasped and said . "You have SOOOOO much hair. You want me to do neck too?"
"NO!" I squeaked, "Just the chin is fine."
"I do neck too. I do for free, you just have so much hair."
panhandlers are making me a cold-blooded republican bitch
Oh man. Does it COST you to be bleeding-hearted liberal goon in this city. Every day I am hit up by panhandlers on the subway, sidewalk, in cafes, everywhere. I want to help EVERYONE. Even the alcoholic bums who piss on my stoop. But giving them 5 dollars is NOT really going to help them, and it certainly not going to help me. The worst is the children though. CHILDREN ARE THE WORST. Given my proclivity for avoiding and glaring at children, one would think that I have no problem ignoring them when they plead with me to spare some change. Even though I KNOW that their parents/older sibling put them up to it and even though I KNOW that I am making it worse, I still have a hard time not giving them something. And I know I am a huge sucker and that these people are crafty and playing off my middle-class suburban guilt but FUCK ALL if I cannot help myself. But these days I am super broke and find myself saying in my head, "this bitch does NOT get my last 5 dollars until my next paycheck." The other day I walked past a young woman and her baby sitting on the subway floor with a sign asking for money and food because they were homeless. I almost went and bought some baby food before I realized that I had ten fucking dollars in my bank account and no food for myself at home. Selfishness trounced nobility and I walked past without looking at them. COLD HEARTED BITCH. I feel guilty neglecting children I could feasibly help for one night and I feel guilty supporting their parents' heroine habit and I feel guilty for assuming a homeless person begging on the street has a heroin habit. But another part of me feels annoyed that such folk are trying to take advantage of the goodness in the world and gets angry at them for it. Then I realized, "Oh my god, this is how the Republicans feel about the 99%. New York is making me think like a Republican." Once I stop feeling guilty I am probably going to end up donating all that money to the John Huntsman 2016 campaign or something (don't act like the Mormons aren't going to try and keep the momentum going). GAWD.
making movies is hard as fuck
Lastly, doing what I came here to do is super hard, and I have a one-up on the competition as I am already in, "the biz." I am working on my first ever short film, writing, producing, and directing. I am really grateful for all of you who supported and helped me make this leap. I am hoping that my first project will be complete by the spring. I hope you all join me in rewatching it 107 times on youtube so I can get a bunch of pageviews in order to feel validated in my attempt at bashing in my dream and making it my bitch.
Habichuelas, ho.
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