Unfortunately, there was no catastrophic event on December 21, 2012 to send us screaming into oblivion. Of course, what if we were all wrong and the end was going to be slightly later? Coming to this realization made my disappointment a little less and allowed me to dream that the end was only a few days away. I napped with greater intensity, ate even less and drank even more as I waited a few more weeks for the apocalypse. Alas, the end still didn't arrive and I was left with a sense of longing I had never before experienced. How could the Mayans do this to me? Laaaaaammeeee.
Then, I had a secondary realization: what if I needed to help the process along? After all, as super famous and influential as I am I should be able to help bring about the end of the world, shouldn't I? I resolved to make a list of things I said I would rather die than do, hoping that the universe would step in and make that result a reality.
And leggings. And slouchy boots. And a denim jacket. And wear pink eyeshadow. And pose cheesily on a staircase while hoping that my mesh tank stays firmly over my hot pink and yellow tank.
At some point in one's life, the "retro" look comes into play and you wear it either as an ironic statement or an homage to the classic. For me, it was an exercise in excess, an attempt to experience a life I wished I could have lived without having to dress that hideous way all the time. From what I've heard, the 80s were the time for supermodels, cocaine, jet setting and the ultimate life of leisure. Unfortunately, I'm too young to have lived in that era as I just missed being born in that decade and can only imagine what it would have been like.
I spent an entire evening in this horrific outfit (drinking plenty of wine to cope with the embarrassment) and no galactic portals opened, no puzzle box was solved to release creatures addicted to inflicting delicious pain, and Jesus himself did not knock on my door and tell me, "I take back everything I did for you." So much for that plan.
|Everyone should spend some time in the 4th circle of Hell.
This should be fairly self-explanatory, but the less-sophisticated of my readers may need to be clued in a bit. Each year, a family member sends me a gift card to the scary emporium for icky poor people, despite my protestations. I end up trading it away for cash or alcohol.
This year I decided to use it on myself for things that are useful to me, such as laxatives and diet shakes. I spent a whole hour experiencing a frightening side show of the macabre and the Earth did not implode. I did see a man that looked an awful lot like the Gorton's fisherman (full yellow outfit) and a lot of creative tramp stamps with accompanying animal print leggings, so you can't blame me for thinking it was all over.
I later discovered that the world was not likely to end upon my entry to that store due to the fact some of the richest bazillionaires in the universe have made their money from charging low, low prices while having the awesomest balls ever to not pay a living wage to employees. I felt so inspired from this example and started daydreaming ever so vividly about someday starting an awesome sweatshop of my very own. This plan of mine clearly backfired in a big way because I wanted to die, not be motivated to greatness!
|Daisy is professional and discreet.
During my irritating teenage years, a common slumber party activity was someone putting ice on someone's ear, then sticking a needle through that ear into a potato. The mall piercing establishments required parental permission or being 18 years of age, so finding a friend to stick you was often seen as preferable if you had shitty parents.
Well, I had the non-permissive parents but also a sense of self-preservation and fear of hepatitis. If a mom baking cupcakes at home and bringing them to school could give you organ failure, I was certainly not going to let her daughter stick something sharp into me so close to my brain. Therefore, I had virgin ears until the age of 18. After that, as long as it was professionally done, I had anything and everything shoved into my lobes and surrounding zone as much as humanly possible.
Now that I was finally ready to do damage to myself at a slumber party, I realized I didn't have any teenage friends or potatoes in the house. Luckily, Daisy offered to do the deed for me in exchange for ten cans of gooshy food. This was a payment I could easily promise as the world would soon end anyway and I wouldn't need to actually follow through on the agreement. But, like with the other attempts, Armageddon did not materialize and I now had a raging infection and an angry calico.
After so many failed attempts to doom us all, I gave up on the rest of my list and polished off a bottle of Veuve Clicquot and an entire cookie sheet of baked tater tots. Unfortunately, it looks like we're going to live after all. The worst part is now I have motivation to do things again. But not too much. I suppose I'll just have to blog about my doing things in addition to my not doing things from now on. This really sucks.