« I Don't Even Like Tombstone Pizza | Main | X FLORIDA X »
August 09, 2004
I Bet You Think This Song Is About You
This online blog shit is a delicate science.
I go back and forth all the time with just how much I want to share. The stuff I am most excited about content-wise is always the most honest. It’s just that Yahoo! and Google are off the chain. And the availability of it all is just scary. This is why when I write something about a particular person in my life, I make sure to tell that person that he or she has inspired me to write something. That way, should they read the site, they’re not surprised. Marlene, I love you. You’re my sister, but it is entirely peculiar that you like “Miami Booty Bass” and still go to church on Sunday and Wednesday and that, my dearest and best sister, I have to share with the world. Drop that ass, what did he just say? Does that make me a bad sister? I hope not. Besides, remember that time I gave you $300 for the – it’s not important. (Did I just try to buy my sister’s love back?) And gross. Did I just use the word “inspire” in a totally non-sarcastic way?
And I say that, of course, as the owner of the thoughts, that I have poetic license. Most of the shit is accurate, but I censor, omit and/or revitalize tons from some of the stories because they can seem bogged down with negativity or so ridiculous it’s downright impossible. I swear to God I was asked if I'd be interested in being the love interest in the latest Scorpions’ video because I am short and the singer is short. Was this invitation real? Don’t know (but I hope so because that would be the best day of my life!). Would you believe me if I told you so? Maybe. But that’s just too good to be true. Did a real live car salesman ask me on a date? Totally, but that just sounds fake. And I swear on my mother’s Taiwanese jade that I met a firefighter at Baja Fresh, a real firefighter, that looked so amazingly hot in his firefighter outfit that I just had to say, “I can’t believe you’re real. They really make them like you? You’re so calendar.” I got all the game sometimes. So much game, I forgot my whole food order on the counter because of his disgusting attractiveness. Walked all the way to the car without my food, but on the trip back inside he did get my number and I do have some serious fires that need putting out (or starting up). I just brushed some dirt off my shoulder if you missed it. Is it essential to the Cemetery Story that I mention one lady had on something really ugly by saying, “I love your fucking gold coin butt sash.” Probably not. That’s just sounds really mean. Well, shit, it is mean. And I did say that in my head totally, but to share that little judgmental nugget isn’t necessary to move the story forward. Why am I saying all of this?
Well, the Internet is put here for you and me. It’s from the earth. Smoke it. You ain’t got no job, and you don’t have shit to do. (Or you do have a job and you should be entering that data, but you’re steady fucking around on PrincessMelissa trying to clear that history every five minutes. I know who you are, and to be honest, most of this upkeep is for you. Cubicle World is fucking hard. I know because I’ve been there and I’m just trying to do my part to make you feel better.) Cemetery Dude said his friend read my website. And my heart just sunk for a split second. What did they discuss? Did they say I was an asshole? I mean, he can’t refute my claims. They are all true. And that’s why this shit is tricky. I never intend to hurt anyone’s feelings. I don’t think his feelings were hurt. But if they were, I sure would feel terrible. EDITED TO ADD: I just talked to him about this very topic and he said, and I quote, “Baby, that shit is hilarious!”
Remember a while ago I had posted a story about the goings-on with the Furniture Man but deleted it? Well, Furniture Man (hello if you’re reading this) is straight up aware of my website. Would his feelings be hurt if I explained in colorful detail his mannerisms (all beyond interesting and almost sitcom-ish) and his gold Italian horn (on a thick gold chain) and the fact that he took 19 years to deliver my furniture? Would he be freaked out by my attention to detail? Why would I notice that he delivered my furniture at the end of the evening in a clubbing outfit complete with cologne and the top three buttons undone just so? Well, he said he’d been doing deliveries all day hence his lateness, but in that outfit? Does he splash on some fine-smellin’ before every delivery? Would he be upset if I said to you, not to him directly, that I was totally pissed about the lack of urgency he displayed in delivering my furniture which led to my straight up disillusionment that he would ask me out? Probably.
I mean, I was still very pleasant and nice because I’m clearly too attached to making sure he doesn’t think I’m mean. But what did I do? I’m sure he’s a good person and 100% certain he’s an excellent salesman and 110% positive he’s the worst delivery man, but his interaction with me, in my opinion, was just crazy. And if I offended him, that would be just terrible. And ridiculous because homeboy knows where I live! The thing is this. I don’t think dudes know what they’re talking about, or how they are coming off. They (and yes, I did just use the general and gross term they) are just oblivious. And I must admit that I am a total enabler in this oblivion. I just observe and make mental notes and stand there as pleasant as a peach. Somewhere along the way, through a combination of maturity and fear of being gagged and stuffed in a trunk, I’ve managed to find a filter. Back in the day, I’d just say to Cemetery Dude that this shit was so far from fun and I’m going home now and he might have gotten the finger. I used to be very stank, unnecessarily mean maybe. Being a trooper is just the way sexier choice. Maybe sexy isn’t the right word. Whatever. I’m just saying I always have been an enabler. How is it possible to encourage oblivion? Fuck.
I’ve been known to bring a friend who smokes that desperately wants to quit a pack of cigarettes just because they were on sale. I’ll bring you a beer even though I see that your left eye is twitching uncontrollably and there’s spit-up on your neck. No peer pressure. I’m just trying to be nice. I mean, I am up. I must stop this cycle. But again, I digress.
To make sure no one’s feelings get hurt, I have to make this disclaimer. I’m in a very good writing space lately. That sounds gross to say out loud, but I get inspired by the people I meet every day. Inspired enough write some of this shit down because even I can’t believe it. I would totally forget I met Natalie from Facts of Life while standing in line to take a shot from a penis ice sculpture. You see, they pour the drink from the balls and then you – nevermind. See, I need to write this shit down. It has to be useful to me or somebody some day. So in this space, I can only write honestly. Now, here’s the disclaimer.
If you’re reading this, and it sounds an awfully lot like you or something you did and your feelings are hurt, that is not the intention and on top of that, this here is make-believe. I’m a fucking crazy person. My opinions are not to be trusted. I put tilapia and coffee creamer in my chocolate rice. What? Who? I know right! What do I know? I don’t know shit about shit. I can’t boil eggs for shit. I misplace punctuation marks and quotations all the time. I don’t underline book titles, hyperlink, bold or italicize because I’m too stupid to get the HTML or whatever it’s even called down. (EDITED TO ADD: I just learned how to five minutes ago. Yessssss!) I was calling X Games X “X Games X” instead of X Games TEN for like a whole week before I heard about it on the radio. And adding to that list of retardo shit, I’m really clumsy. Don’t let me hold that glass of Merlot near you, unless you plan on making that shirt the car wash shirt. See, I don’t know a damn thing. This here? Make-believe. All tomfoolery designed to make me feel better, I think. I don’t even know.
Nobody asked me to return a rental car (fucking Ford Focus – ooh alliteration) after a date. A snobby celebrity never said, “Did you ring me up at Barney’s the other day?” when she recognized me. Bitch. I’m a salesgirl now!? Throw me a bone lady. You see? None of this is really happening. It’s all an illusion, and when you wake up, you will feel ten times lighter.
Now, please wait for me to rock you like a hurricane. I got some shit brewing over here in my pretend little world and my fingers are literally itching to get it all out of my system.
Posted by melissah at August 9, 2004 12:56 PM