You’re Digitally Dead to Me

We’ve all been there: someone’s fanatical obsession with Farmville and their constant barrage of requests for hammers, cows, or other made-up virtual farm equipment drives you to the point of mania. GODDAMMIT WOMAN - I WILL NOT PARTICIPATE IN YOUR VICTORY GARDEN! IT IS NOT REAL!

And so...you delete them. 

Sometimes the delete is more passive. Whilst scrolling through your virtual acquaintances, you happen upon that random 5th grade pal who hasn’t been active on Facebook since late 2008. You delete them, and suddenly feel the urge to delete others who provide no benefit or interaction. It’s like spring cleaning. 

And so...you delete a mass quantity of them.

Haha, I’m a goddamn friend list hit man! Take that quasi-strangers! You just got iced and it feels so good. I’m humming that Eminem song about cleaning out my closet as I confirm deletes. 

Then there are the more sinister deletes. The intentional fuck you and your profile page. I imagine the bulk of these deletes include ex’s and feuding besties. For one reason or another this person has to go. Hopefully never to be seen or heard from again. 

I did this to someone - who ironically is also a reader of this blog, and very likely will enjoy the hell out of where this is going.  We had an argument (I was right), and I decided it was time for this person to be digitally dead to me. 

And so...I deleted them.

Epic flaw in my plan is that this person and I have to still communicate. So my “You’re Dead to Me,” is fundamentally countered by their, “No, I’m Not.” FIDDLESTICKS!

Of course this person was insulted. I was being immature. So they saw my maturity and raised it by not speaking to me entirely. And we both settled into the honeymoon phase of post-deletion.

We’ve since made up, but haven’t rekindled our Facebook friendship. There isn’t any need to really; it was never even our main method of communication. Just a metaphorical line in the sand, so that digital death could be inflicted. 

Now I’m on the other side - the Digital Great Beyond - because someone has deleted me. My list of friends is now one less. Certainly other people have deleted me, just as I have deleted others. Circle of life. Like Wild Kingdom social media. 

But this one was a little more personal. I’m digitally dead to them, but I’m very much alive in real life. Worse, this person told me they were going to do it! Like, “No Offense” and then massive amounts of offense ensued! 

So why do we sometimes care when someone gets their drawers all twisted and clicks delete? Fuck if I know, but my thesis paper is about this, so I’m starting to explore. Get your backpacks kiddos, we’re going on a walk...

I’m toying with this being the difference: 

1. That it’s more painful when you know the person because a) at one point in time you knew (or at least thought), they weren’t an immature piece of shit; and, b) you must now reconcile that you somehow had a real or perceived hand in their mutation into said immature piece of shit; and,  
2. An increased likelihood of happenstance encounters creates a high probability of something salty occurring (i.e. people who know each other well, or in person aren’t expected to delete each other. It’s the social media equivalent of shooting your friend at a house party. Bang, bang - you’re dead to me). 

That’s my brainy way of saying: I thought that motherfucker was cool, but they got it all twisted like I did something, and now I’ve gotta be all artful dodger so I don’t accidentally run into them and go all ape shit in their face. 

And that’s my hood way of saying something braining. I am diversity in motion. Holla.

So what does it all mean? I don’t know yet. The thesis about Rome not being built in a day wasn’t written in a day. It’s just a theory and I’m about to go all scientific method on this shit. 

W(hat the shit) Hotel

The "W" in the W Hotel stands for "What the shit?!?"

Ever walk into a place and said to yourself, "I feel like I should be on Ecstasy." If that's never happened to you, go to the W. Or, I guess maybe try ecstasy.

Everything is wrong with that place! Everything! Know where I don't feel all cozy-like and want to bed down for the night? A fucking nightclub.

So the very idea that this hotel would be designed like a nightclub from lobby to suites is rigoddamndiculous. I felt more like I should be OD-ing than getting a good night's sleep.

And I shit you not - there was a disposable camera, gummy bears, lube, condoms and weeny liquor bottles in the wet bar. WHAT THE SHIT GOES ON AT THE W?!?!

I cannot even fathom what prompted this particular selection of items to be standard stock at the W. And I have an amazingly robust imagination! But why - why dear God why - the gummy bears?!?

Was it progressive? Liquor, I get. And once you've been drinking, frisky is induced. Ok. So that leads to the condoms and lube. And if you and your special friend feel like making it a night to remember, then ok...I can even follow on the disposable camera.

But the gummy bears! How does this happen? How the hell does this happen to one of America's most beloved chewy treats? It's like an E! Hollywood Story: Gummy Bears' Fall From Grace.

Or GB - from Grace to Gross. I don't know...it's a working title...can't make with the genius if I can't work out the kinks here.

Anyway, I'm baffled. That hotel is made more for choking on your own vomit in the bathtub with a Vietnamese hooker than anything else.

What happened to Jessica? She died in at the W, with an Asian hooker in the tub. It's all so unclear, they obviously didn't use the disposable camera from the wet bar...so many unanswered questions!

He'll Be In a Better Place

As if this disclaimer needs to be said: **of course I'm happy for Joseph** but...

What the shit are we going to do without him?!?! Whose office can I come stomping into feeling disheartened and fussy? Who will then feed me dark chocolate (because it's better for me) and provide reasonable advice as to what to do?

Seriously Joseph, we're all so goddamn unreasonable without you. Even Sunshine. He's unreasonable perky. The rest of us are unreasonably surly and salty. By the way, I think Surly & Salty would be a great snack name.

Where else will I find an iPod with a playlist so diverse that I can listen to blush-able gangster rap and religious choir music in the same sitting? Do you know how hard it'll be to find another coworker who does obscure Russian exercises?? The stats on that are vague, so I'm guesstimating damn near impossible.

I don't want to eat chicken fingers with anyone else!

You're funny and inspiring and have a really random folksy coffee cup that we've never gotten around to talking about. Hell, you inspired the first (and hopefully only) cartoon on this blog. We're all going to get that picture of you dressed as Superman at a kid printed into coffee cups. I'll always only fill mine halfway...

I don't think any of us clearly (or fondly) remember the time "Before Joseph." BC; AD; BJ; and now - AJ. It'll definitely be our Blue Period.  Hopefully it won't turn into the Dark Ages.

You're irreplaceable. You can think it. Don't listen to Beyonce.

And while I wish you luck as you go onto a better place..really the only reason it's going to be better there is because you're there too.

e-PSA

Hope you’re sitting down, because this is about to be an exercise of epic maturity from me.  Remember a couple of months ago, when I fussed at some of you for trying to dictate what I wrote in my blog? Called you a bunch of fascist, insisted that your feeling degraded the off-the-cuff humor that we’ve all come to love? For the most part it was all spot on and you deserved it…

My point of view was (and largely is) that if I spend time worrying about how what I say will impact people, then it bottlenecks being funny. Hell, it bottlenecks even being creative. Or talking. People are so damn sensitive about everything, and I am really bad at picking up on it.

Well, ironically – that is the exact assertion I was making when it occurred to me that is was wrong.

It kind of went like this: You can’t tell me what to say! But what you’re saying was wrong!

So I’m standing on my soapbox, getting all sorts of indignant about my right to say…wrong stuff??  I fucking hate being wrong. In fact, I just got into an argument with someone recently about how wrong they were and how frustrating their refusal to not stop saying wrong was.

And yet, here I was, doing the exact same thing. What is that called? Realization? Empathy?

Well whatever it is, I got a big old eye full of it. I don’t perpetuate wrong. I may aggrandize misinformation for humor, but never for harm. Which leads us to this unprecedented occasion…

A REDACTION!

(gasp!)

Like any good redaction, it starts with the acceptance of the wrong. Then the formulation of a plan of how to right the wrong. And finally, rightedness. I’ll go slow, for both our sake…

1. Nigel does not have a shock collar. It’s called an e-collar. Is the “e” for electric? Why yes it is, but (shockingly) not in the way you think.

2. Like anyone on a mission to correct a wrong, I started with Google (“e-collar”). 48,300,000 results in 0.32 seconds later and I had my evidence. Naturally I picked the most scientific sounding name on the page – Tri-Tronics.

You can mock my method if you want, but Tri-Tronics turns out to be a Garmin company. Obviously reputable. Smartie pants names work. Tri-Tronics site has a very helpful “Safety Studies” section that explains the safety of the e-collar, which they must have come about during studies, probably. Even better – these studies of safety were conducted by veterinarians and physiologists at a major university. One can only assume that the major university was in fact one of those fancy, and obviously reputable, Ivy League ones – Garmin U.

3. I cross-referenced my research with Dogwise Forums – a place where wise people discuss dogs, forum style. Since there were few spelling errors and the grammar was decent, these people are obviously also reputable. Likely graduates from Garmin University, now working for Tri-Tronics.

4. I compiled my findings and decided that I needed to clear up my earlier statement about Nigel wearing a “shock collar.” Please enjoy…

Nigel doesn’t wear a shock collar; it’s an e-collar.

Ha, no I’m just kidding! That would be too easy and not mature. Well, at least not epically mature.

Nigel doesn’t wear a shock collar, it’s an e-collar. It’s more like an electric stimulation than a shock. Think of it like when your phone rings when it’s set to vibrate. The vibrate is the stimulation that lets you know to act. Essentially, Apple has already trained the masses with the same technology.

The collar doesn’t exactly vibrate…it’s more of a pulse. Ladies with Rabbits know exactly what I’m talking about. Don’t be shy; we’re all friends here. You know what I mean girls…

Only it’s not that pleasant. So it’s like that time you let your boyfriend control the Rabbit and he turned it up too high, too fast. And…you learned not to do that, right? Exactly.

Similarly, Nigel is learning his boundaries too. Similarly if you stretch that example to the max.

So don’t worry. I’m not torturing Nigel. Neither is the Wizard. The e-collar is going to make things better for us so that I don’t have to give him away. And that’s going to be the most amazing thing ever.

My Fuzzy BFF

Remember when I had that blood clot? I spent 6 months thinking I could have a pulmonary embolism and die at any second. I was fundamentally shaken at how much I stood to lose. I thought I would never see 29, let alone 30.

My always-20-minutes-away parents relocated to 5+ hours-away parents. Talking on the phone about the twice daily injections of blood thinners is SO the same as in person...

Then my dad passed away and how much I would never get back became incredibly painful. The next month my grandmother died. A month later, my Nanny passed. Then an aunt. My friend Jason too.

In 4 months I lost every shred of a carefree young adulthood. My family tree has essentially been decimated. My friend was murdered. Add to that moving, splitting time with Lillian and giving up my dream to go to law school...well, let's just say - I'm tired of giving and losing.

The ONLY thing I had there for me through all of it was Nigel. And dammit, I don't want to lose him too.

iPoop Nano

Fuck Nigel. Seriously. Fuck. Nigel.

In the 6+ years that Nigel has been my dog, he NEVER ONCE ate anything that he wasn't supposed to. He chewed on a pair of shoes that I didn't really like and gave me a great excuse to buy new ones. He once had one of the kiddo's stuff animals in his mouth, but was so royally fussed out over it, he spent the next 2 hours sulking in the closet and never so much as looked at one of her toys again.

Since we've moved though, Nigel has lost his mind. And mine. He destroyed 3 doorbells, a comforter, a pair of shoes I liked, the cord to a lamp, rummaged through the garbage, dragged me down a hill, barked until my neighbor's ears bled and is psychotically losing his fur in tufts.

But last night ladies and gentlemen, last night Nigel took it to the next level. Here's how it went down...

I get home and he's jumping around all extra crazy like. I remember thinking, "Aww, poor buddy...he's really gotta go. I'll take him on an extra long walk now since I've gotta go out later." So I change, throw on some tennis shoes and out we go.

I kid you not, that motherfucker stopped EVERY 10 or so feet, hunched up like he was going to poop, looked at me with a mix of sadness and shame, gave up and repeated. What is wrong with Nigel? Here's hoping he didn't get into the garbage again...poor guy...

About 15 minutes later (and really only 100 feet farther), Nigel stops, assumes the position, and ta-da! Yay, Nigel pooped! Good boy! Who's a good...WHAT THE SHIT IS THAT?!?

There, in Nigel the Bad Dog's poop, is a pink, glittery something. For a split second I thought Nigel had eaten one of Lillian's toys. And then it dawned on me exactly what it was...

NIGEL ATE MY IPOD NANO!

That fuzzy asshole swallowed my fucking iPod Nano, got his tummy all upset, and spent almost half an hour trying to poop MY IPOD NANO out. POOP OUT MY IPOD NANO!

And now, not only do I have to grasp the fact that my Nano is now covered in my dog's poop, but I have to pick it up and throw it in the dog waste recepticle. Picking up dog poop isn't fun anyway, but can you imagine how much less pleasant it is to pick it up, knowing your iPod Nano is in it AND then have to throw it away??

Seriously, fuck Nigel.

Dear Travel Coffee Mug

Dear Travel Coffee Mug,

Go fuck yourself. I hate you. I don't know why I keep forgetting that the reason I don't use you is because you spill coffee on me. I always think that it's because of that stupid Christmas theme decorated all over you. And I frown at myself for being so concerned with whether or not people will consider my Happy Holidays coffee mug so last Christmas season or scold me like a department store in July for bringing it too early.

But the reason I don't use you has nothing to do with seasonal social perceptions. I fail to remember that the reason I don't use you is because you're the most horrible, sneaky piece of shit travel coffee mug ever crafted, and later given to me as a gift. You're an asshole travel coffee mug.

You don't drench me in coffee on the first sip. No, no - you wait until the second, perhaps even the third sip to spew coffee across my entire ensemble. How did you get in my hair?? I just bought new perfume; I smell amazing today! But you had to go and ruin it because now I smell like coffee, with a hint of amazing. Later I'll smell like spoiling creamer with a hint of sadness and shame.

You'd be in the garbage right now if it wasn't for the fact that your poor excuse for a java vessel is still carrying my beloved coffee. I'm already wearing most of it, so dammit goddammit, I will be drinking the rest of it. I have nothing to lose at this point. That's right - I've been brought down to rock bottom by mug.

And you can sit there in your whimsical decoupage smugness because you know that even when I'm finished drinking a third of my needed morning caffeination, that I still probably won't throw you away because you were a gift from my boss. And despite the fact that he has never once dug through my trash can, I am paranoidically convinced he'll start on the day I put you in there.

It's true that most often I feel guilty after dragging you all the way back home, that I still don't throw you out. I lie to myself and make excuses for you. Maybe I don't know how to screw that top on right to create a tight seal. Maybe I've never once gotten it right in the 2 years I've had you, despite copious evidence that I can do that with every other screw on lid.

Well no more thermos! This ends now. I'm throwing you away at the gas station after work and you can go spill to your dark heart's delight in the garbage dump.

Why Do I Listen to You People?!?!

All of your advice is COMPLETELY opposite of my natural inclination. If you want something: ask for it. If you don't like it: say so. No confusion. No pussyfooting.

Manifest destiny.

But you're all so in love with this go with the flow, let it happen bullshit. Why don't you marry it if you love it so much? Oh wait, you probably won't marry it because you're waiting around for the Universe or some other too little too late force of nature to ask you out. Let it go dude, the Universe is seeing someone else.

It's not like I'm wanting it to be November or something. Obviously that timeline cannot be helped. I can sit here and wish it was November until I was blue in the face and it'll only be 15 minutes later (I'm guesstimating; I do not know how long it takes to make yourself blue).

Plus, I find it particularly insulting when the tightest-wound are doling out zen tips. The reason we're friends in the first place is because you are all equally assertive; and yet, e tu? Seriously Brutuses, this Caesar is over it. That's not even a good parallel...Brutus was at least a make happener. He didn't wait around for destiny to stab Caesar! No, no - he did it his damn self, someone (I'd tell you who, but Wikipedia isn't working right now) wrote a book about it, and the whole thing was epic. Which is why we learned about it in 10th grade literature along with all the other epics. And yeah, I totally realize that I over-explained that entire thing for nothing because the "e tu" part was pretty in line with your traitor asses. But I didn't want anyone to think I was perhaps confused on the more critical elements of the story.

The point is, I don't want the Universe to see someone else! I would really like for the Universe to like me. Is that so unreasonable? No, of course not. Who would want the Universe to break up with them?! God that would be sad. Everything in existence decided it didn't like you. Nothing in existence likes you. That's a contrapositive. I finally started studying for the GRE. I HAD TO BECAUSE THE UNIVERSE WASN'T GOING TO OSMOSIS ME WITH THE KNOWLEDGE! Somethings you just have to do yourself. Like date the Universe.

I don't want to date the Universe, just have it like me. And no, the Universe is not code for a person. I don't want to date anyone. Ever. Stop asking. Don't make my Universe boyfriend get all jealous. You don't know how he gets when he's angry. It's like everything is stacked against you. It's just because he cares so much.

Again, not a person. I just have Universe issues. I would like for it to shower me with rainbows and gem stones. Similarly I probably would date someone who could do that, provided they were not a leprechaun. I don't want to live in a tree. Ironically, that is my biggest reason for not wanting to date a leprechaun. Sad irony.

Man, that really did go all sorts of confusing right there at the end.

RSVP

"Hey Jessica, wanna come over later? We're grilling out."

I appreciate my neighbors' invite. Except it's raining and we live in an apartment. So I appreciate it while also being confused by it. Thus, I gracefully decline with "Thanks but I don't really want to stand in the rain. Or make idle conversation with you fools."

Ok, perhaps I didn't say that second sentence. Out loud.

But seriously, I'm totally ok not having plans. I'm kind of digging it. Feel free to settle down; I'm not going to start accumulating cats. If anything, I'll finally learn how to iron. Or finally buy an iron. Or just keep on with the dry cleaner thing since they already have an iron and know how to use it.

Touché Indeed

As surprising as it may be, yesterday was the first time anyone called me a bitch. At least directly. I’m not so naive to think that no one has ever made titled me as one, but never to my face. Apparently most people are too afraid of the reaction. Or I'm really gosh darn lovely. I couldn't even type that without a giggle...

So am I epically devastated? Well…no. In fact, I am comfortable in that I deserved it. My gripe was founded but my method of delivery was lacking. It went like this:

You’re a massive disappointment. You’re a bitch.

Touché indeed.

But if anything, my two most endearing qualities are that I’m fleetingly angry and can respect someone with balls enough to call me out. Honestly kiddos, most of you let me walk all over you.

Furthering my lack of devastation is that the name calling fest interrupted an incredibly awkward situation I had become stuck in. I hate to have to start all future conversations with, “Just what exactly are your intentions tonight…” but if that’s what it takes to avoid more-than-friend seekers, so be it. Blanket statement of not interested.

I mean really! Hint, hint dude – I’d rather fight with this person about nonsense than have drinks with you. I’ll pay my own tab, thanks.

Obviously it’s a miracle I haven’t been called a bitch to my face before right? Go figure.

Anyway, in the sobering light of the morning, the whole thing isnt (and never was) a big deal. I find it somewhat amusing. Hey, remember that time you called me a bitch? Ahhh, memories…

And as for my friend with ambitions of more than friendness – what the shit were you thinking? No sir. Please do not wait on bated breath for an apology for how that went down last night; I will not be issuing one. Truth be told, my favorite part of the whole thing is that it fucked up you acting shady. Touché indeed jerk.

I Heart the Coworkers

I know that most people aren't this lucky. Most people despise their coworkers. Maybe like one or two. So the most common response I get when I say that I love my coworkers is disbelief.

"You really love your coworkers?"

Yes, gosh darn it - I surely do. I love the dickens out of my coworkers. Every last one of them.

And since I bitch more than praise, let's dedicate this post to all my beloved coworkers (then and now) and their quirky points of interest that delight me.

• Used to be a stunt man, yet to perform stunt
• Used to be a traveling magician, not once performed magic
• Once derailed a train
• Family tree includes video games
• Infallibly mellow
• Taught 70% of us how to knit
• Believes every urban legend
• Ruined every rap song
• Loves cowboy boots
• Thought monkeys could talk
• Made me listen to the wedding march for 4 months straight
• French Quarter partner in crime (Original Team Genius)
• Works out while I'm snacking, learns hip-hop while I'm sleeping
• International dry humor
• Best deviled eggs ever
• Nice shoes, Yes
• Save the Pandas
• Story Time kiddos!
• Oh, Jessica...tisk, tisk

They've been the best coworkers a gal could ever ask for. Sadly some have had to move on out of selfish motivation instead of just making me perpetually happy.

Thanks for making the carnival of ridiculousness a little less ridiculous.