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December 07, 2004
Googlin' Fool
I just want to take a loose poll here.
Please tell me that other people battle the guilt and the paranoia and the nighttime secrecy of fucking around with Google all night. Someone tell me I’m not an asshole. I just need one other person to say that she has gotten sucked into search engines for hours at a time. I just need a little bit of affirmation. I need to know that I am not sick, that this is normal and that other people are also overwhelmed and entranced by technology. Honestly, I feel like a crazy person. One minute I’m in a chat room with lonely housewives (and straight up offering my raggedy no-knowledge two cents) and the next I’m reading someone’s prayers and (little voice) cracking up. From there, I can research the delicate science of weave because let’s face it, have you not wondered what Jay-Z does when he wants to romp around with Beyonce? Not that I’m thinking about what she does in the bedroom. I’m not a nasty lady. I’m talking about regular lounging around, making out horizontal style on the couch, morning cuddles. Does she have to say, “Ooh my hair…” and reprimand him when he’s too rough with it? Because, I mean, her shit looks expensive. And she is the Feria lady so she can’t really be half-stepping with the hair. Paris Hilton can put her shit on fresh out the bag because she’s Paris Hilton and if you clown she’ll just look at you and say, “But I’m really rich and I can get filmed giving a really awkward blowjob and still everyone loves me and I still get to be on Nickelodeon so um, whatever…” And you’ll lower your head in your poor overdrawn checking account shame and mutter to yourself, “Yeah but you said the N word and we will not forget.” I mean, that’s how I’d react anyway. But Beyonce’s got class and grace and hit songs and shit. She has to keep the hair right. You see what I mean? Am I insane? I am! Shit. I knew it! Well, let me try to explain.
I just got back to LA from a month in New York. New Yorkers, I finally understand. I get it. Yes, New York is the best place on earth. I don’t know if I’ll go so far as to say “LA is for soulless chooch clowns” like one hardcore New Yorker 4 Eva says, but I get it. New York is the best place ever. Point blank. Period. Yeah, yeah. The point is, I’m on a shitty sleep schedule now that I’m back on the cuddly and slow west coast. I can’t sleep. And I may be in a little bit of a transitional depression. I don’t know what’s going on but the things that normally bring me joy – Starting Over, the hot Brasilian delivery man, a brand new issue of Blackbook still fresh in the plastic and untouched, a big ass bag of Sour Skittles – do nothing for me. I just lie here begging myself to fall asleep, twitching my little toes in my moisture socks.
I’ve tried everything to get back on a healthy schedule of writing, avoiding phone calls, changing outfits three times a day, walking up to the deli to buy a slushy iced Coca Cola – all the fun and normal LA things that make me feel like a woman. Nothing. I got nothing. I tried to write a nice little Thankgiving story for you all, but then I decided to be a crab apple and keep something so sweet and personal and wonderful (and disgustingly amazing actually) to myself. You can have an excerpt though. Like to hear it, here it go:
This Thanksgiving was doomed from the jump. First of all, I was involved and if you know anything about the Howards, Thanksgivings are doomed. Whether it be inappropriate borderline racist jokes at the dinner table or dry ass turkeys, Thanksgivings are usually interesting. The kind of interesting where you tell those who inquire about your holiday blatant lies just so that they remain your friends. No mention of arguments with the fresh-out-of-jail relative who now only speaks in bible passages. No mention of The Great Honda Prelude Repossession of ’92 that caused a blown-out-of-proportion family rift. And certainly no mention of the fact that my mother’s taste buds have changed, over the years and through the sickness, thus causing everything to be really salty or not salty enough. But somehow, through the magic of wishful thinking, preparation and actually folding during the heated candied yams debate (you decide: old black lady’s recipe or 26-year-old metalhead’s recipe – that’s what I thought…), this Thanksgiving was a smash hit. That’s right, I said a smash hit.
So, I never finished writing the story. I stopped at the part where the Jamaican contractor named China came over at 1 in the morning to fix the oven and the water heater on the eve of Thanksgiving. I got sidetracked by a long tangent of oddly named people. An American named Paris. A Filipino named Israel. A Jamaican named China. And you know what I did when I stopped writing?
Google’d.
Google’d my ass off. Did you know some girl in New Jersey has a whole MySpace page dedicated to trying to find my boyfriend and sleep with him? Let me see her in my civilian clothes. Bitch’ll get hemmed up right quick. Keep in mind, I have no business on MySpace, but if you borrow my computer and your shit stays in my history thereby granting me the weird access, well, them’s are the breaks. Some Japanese girl has a blog about him and she’s never even met him. He’s amazing, yeah, but he’s just a crazy person from Long Island. What’s the big deal? He’s cute. He’s smart. Talented. He is a genius. Did I tell you about the time he made his employees work on Labor Day, and how he felt bad so he brought in a cake for everyone. And the cake said “Get To Work”? Did I tell you that story? Another day. Yeah, I could see how anyone could fall in love with him and then make a desparate stalker blog about him. Totally. That’s my dog (and yes, I am doing the Smokey Friday voice and dance). I bookmarked, yes I did. The translation to English is fascinating and makes no sense at all. I’m crazy. I am, huh? Help me! Oh no!
I need to maybe get a hobby. I ordered up a special request this morning to keep me occupied for when I go back to New York for the holidays. Ugh, the holidays. You know how I feel about the puff paint reindeer sweatshirts, and the bedazzled red and green ponchos and the peppermint Dunkin Donut iced coffees and the big dumb blow-up Satans, I mean Santas. Excessive ass Christmas is here already. How can this be! I’m all off topic. I ordered a Step-Up. Remember those? That turquoise and purple plastic box for exercising. I wanted to climb my boyfriend’s stairs 100 times for my cardio but it makes the dog go crazy. I’m going to do Step-Up! I also asked that he please find me some 5-lb dumbbells and boom! I’m exercising. I’m feeling good about myself. I can do anything. And no one, not even you Google, can stop me.
Oh shit, I just found the Zoobilee Zoo homepage. Those fools are still doing that shit? Remember the gay lion and the total lesbian cockatoo. Why is it that back then no one seemed gay but looking back we’re all pretty much gay as can be? Isn’t that something? Helen Hunt as the friend in that Sarah Jessica Parker dancing movie? Gay. Yes! I just yawned. I knew if I stayed talking about shit you don’t care about but that you’ll ultimately judge me for, I’d get tired.
Bye. If I don’t speak to you again, it’s because I’m hiding from Christmas, but have a good one, you know, whichever holiday you do or don’t celebrate. Seacrest out. EWWW! I do need to lie down. I’ve plum lost my damn mind.
Posted by melissah at December 7, 2004 12:10 AM