Tag Archives: crybaby

Nite Writer returns… dear diary style

19 Mar

ImageEvery day I’m hustling. I’m a small business owner now. This means I quit my job, and said goodbye to predictable paychecks at the end of each month. I love the butterflies in my stomach that come with knowing nothing is guaranteed, and I alone am responsible for my financial success.

If you didn’t think I was badass before, you should now. You should also ask me for my number and send me two pictures of your face; one smiling, one not.

But the butterflies and autonomy I’ve created for my future haven’t prepared me for the blessed curse that is having the freedom to create my own schedule. Take yesterday, for instance. I did not have to “go into work” but I certainly had plenty of work to do from home. And I did… after a bowl or two, and a hike with the dog at a local trail, and three loads of laundry washed, and the hour spent looking at pictures of myself and my friends on facebook, and the two hours spent analyzing the definition of douche bag.

Douche bag is a term I’ve had at the tip of my tongue lately. I say what brilliant re-purposing of a stigmatized yet rather utilitarian word! Merriam-Webster defines it as “an unattractive or offensive person”. For the level of embeddedness the term has in our culture today, I was unpleasantly surprised by how much this definition leaves to be desired, in quality and accuracy. I hereby take the time – a quick break from work – to put henceforth available to all who seek truth and accuracy on what a douche bag really is. And while I’m at it, I’ll do the same for the up-and-coming variation, douche baggery.

douche bag     noun

  1. one who sleeps around on his/her significant other, denies it, gets caught, gets dumped, and skillfully refuses to ever make mention of the entire incident;
  2. one who starts inventing relationship problems right around the time he decides he wants to start having sex with his ex again, particularly if this is an ex that has cheated on him in the past;
  3. a teacher who texts his student at 11pm two nights in a row to say she was “impressive” in class, and kicks her out of the school 5 days later, making the office manager, her friend, place the unprofessional call, banning her from ever returning to the premises;
  4. a teacher who holds school membership over a student’s head as a way to force her to “be friends”

Synonyms

1. manipulative jerk, insensitive bastard, lying cheater

douche baggery     noun

  1.  telling other people your significant other is crazy, and a bitch, while you send her emails telling her she “influenced [you] to be better” and that you “often look at an imaginary version of [her]”, and you miss her, that she’s “the most courageous and confident girlfriend [you’ve] ever had” and that you hope to still have “someone who [will] help you through everything”;
  2.  having all of the means and potential to be the greatest guy on Earth and acting like a douche bag

Synonyms

1. arrogance, selfishness, idiocy

There you have it, friends. A couple of better defined words in this crazily misinformed world. Don’t mention it ;o)

Jesus fucking hates me this month

19 Sep

When I was little – 5 or 6 – I got small rubber snakes to throw on my mom while she was asleep. I’d seen her wince a couple of times, and look away from the television when the image of a snake came on. My dad said she had a ‘phobia’ of snakes; that they really frightened her. So I got rubber ones, put them on her chest while she napped, and then called out her name, to wake her up.

When she saw them, she screeched, waving her arms 3 or 4 times, then jumped up and away from the bed. I laughed for a while, until my father came into the room and realized what had happened. I think they spanked me a little, and then explained how frightened my mother was of them, and how cruel what I’d done was. I got the picture and never pulled a similar prank – though I did always love catching her reaction when she caught sight of snakes.

A year or two later, I stood in the living room, chatting on the phone with an aunt who lived in the United States (little Ju here was still living in the motherland). While mid-sentence, I saw a mouse run from a corner of the living room, over my right foot,  to the other end of the room, underneath a piece of furniture. I freaked the fuck out. I screamed, and jumped up and down, waving my little arms, dropping the receiver and hanging up on my aunt. My mother ran to the living room, and I told her a mouse had run over my foot and was now hiding in the room. She told me to calm down and assured me my father would get rid of it. I went to bed imagining mice would take over my bedroom while I slept, running over my legs and hair. A few months later, my dog would chase, catch, and mutilate a massive motherfucking rat she found in our backyard. I watched her do it, and saw the vile fucking creature being shaken as she bit into its hind legs. I screamed, half in support of her bravery, half in horror. I was disgusted and extremely proud.

I can’t remember when it started exactly, but I developed a real phobia of mice. Walking through Boston’s Back Bay alleys is a no-no for me; there are mice running from one dumpster to another, crossing the street ahead of and behind you. I did it once, and saw seven of the revolting motherfuckers; I ran to the end of the street and then started crying. I was with friends, and extremely embarrassed as we were all just walking to a club, but my knees started shaking and I was sobbing.

Dressed in PJs, I was watching TV in the living room of the first apartment I had, by myself,  when I saw a mouse come into the living room, slowly, along the wall. I screamed, put on my flipflops, grabbed my keys, cell phone, and dog, and ran to my car. I called my father, crying, who told me to grow up and go back home. I then called my best friend, crying, and begged him to let me sleep over. The next day I went back home, cleaned the place, set up mousetraps, and mostly hung out only in the bedroom with the door closed. My landlord initially suggested I use some poison pellets, but they didn’t solve the problem. The traps kept trapping more fuckers, and I found droppings in the kitchen every day. Eventually I threatened to file a report against him with the Dept. of Public Health, and also refused to pay rent until he had a proper job done by exterminators, which he did. It took a month and many nightmares of mice with severed spines, but I did it. I never saw another fucker for as long as I lived there.

I had mice again in my second apartment. I had just returned home with my best friend, and was about to heat up a sandwich in the toaster, when the little fucker ran from underneath the toaster oven, inches from my hand, jumped to the floor and hid under the fridge. Once again, I freaked the FUCK OUT. I started crying and ran to the bedroom. My friend told me to calm down, but I started getting hysteric. Then he got pissed at me and told me to grow up and stop crying. I cried more. Then I was hyperventilating and had trouble speaking. That made me cry harder because I realized I wasn’t in control of myself. My neck felt tight. My friend got worried and drove me to the hospital. I was still crying, hyperventilating and now my tongue and jaw stiffened. It was hard to breathe. At the emergency room, I’d get my breathing in check for a few seconds, then the crying would resume, which made it difficult to breathe, and the whole fucking thing started over. Eventually my friend got in my face, and coached me through each breath. I followed his lead for a few minutes and then began breathing normally on my own. I stopped crying. I felt normal again – exhausted – but normal. We drove home. All because of my pathetic, senseless, irrational fear and disgust of fucking mice.

This afternoon I was greeted by Tori as I came into the apartment with grocery bags. I put them down to the right of the door, and took a step left, toward the bathroom. There was a dead mouse on the floor. Tori went to it, sniffed it, then came back to me, wagging her tail.

My knees almost gave and I’m pretty sure I started whimpering. I grabbed a plastic bag to serve as a glove and another for disposal, walked toward the thing, bent my knees and closed my eyes, letting my hand find the body. I shoved it in the plastic bag, wrapped it, and threw it out my door. Then I cried a little. Before bringing the bag to the dumpster in the parking lot, I decided to ask a neighbor if she’d ever seen mice at her place.

“Oh yeah. My roommate actually owns our unit and when we first saw it we thought it was because of dog food, so we got it off the floor, but that wasn’t it, cause they came back. She had the place exterminated but all they did was bring some stupid traps and some poison. But then the other day, I was going through a drawer in her room – just a drawer, there wasn’t even any food – and I saw one in there.”

Saint Juls

16 Apr

Grab your vomit bucket. Yes, the trash can will do.

I’ve decided to volunteer my time to someone else. I don’t know whom just yet, so I figured we could embark on this journey of discovery together. Like a reality show. A reality blog post of love and unity and benevolence. Robin at TwentySomething Test Dummies is a Big Sister to one lucky little girl and, after reading her post on what volunteering does for her, I was reminded of the extent of my self-absorption and how, if I want to go Heaven, I better use my spare time wisely.

I’d searched through Volunteer Match before but never made the commitment. Now I’m ready. Maybe because I’m getting old and afraid of dying without having lived a life with purpose, or maybe… I don’t know, I don’t care, I feel good about trying to be good, so let’s get on with it.

5K Run for Success
WOAH THERE! I mean, I wanna help, but preferably while sitting. Next.

Tutoring ESL to Adult Learners
I’d be good at that. The memories of answering “YES!” to “Which bus are you taking home, sweetheart?” are vivid still, and working with adults who wipe their own noses sounds noble and hygienic. We’ll save this one.

Personal assistants
Fuck… You. Next.

Food Pantry Volunteer
Food pantry run by Catholic Charit… NEXT.

Help at the 12th Annual Charles River Cleanup
Last summer, after a couple of hours of kayaking on the Charles, my partner and I flipped our kayak on purpose and swam to dock. I got a rash from that water. Now I just feed ducks from afar. Next.

Get Crafty as Top Cookie Sellers are Honored
Trust me, no one wants me in charge of cooking anything to be consumed by strangers without their signatures on liability waivers. I’m a good veggies chopper, table setter, and (albeit reluctant) efficient dish washer. Next.

[break for facebook check; Barbara commented on my link]

Assemble Lego Science Kits
That sounds fun, until I act out the first day in my head:
Welcome, go ahead and jump right in! Little Timmy needs to finish his DNA model, will you give him a hand?

Right… DNA is the double-stranded one, unlike the RNA, which is not double. It’s single. So, there you go, Timmy. Think of two snakes having sex while on  adderall somewhere without gravity. What, amino acids? OK. Hold on, Timmy, I’m just gonna go to the bathroom for a second and I’ll be right back.
Next.

Volunteer for the EMA Fund
We are an all-volunteer reproductive justice organization, committed to making abortion services accessible to everyone in Eastern Massachusetts.
FUCK YES. Save. My goddamn uterus, goddamn it. Vagina power!!

Host Families for International Students
Do Tori and I count as a family? Will the student be a very attractive heterosexual male? Oh, they’re underage? Fine, next.

Dog Walkers at Local Shelter
Fuck. I was bound to come across it. A kennel filled with neglected pups desperate for a belly rub and a cookie. They will bark and cry when I pick one over the other, and will be sad when I put them back in their cages. I’m not sure if I’ll feel fantastic for giving the little guys some love, or if the whole experience will only help me drop 20lbs with depression-induced starvation and fatigue, but… I should give them a call at least. Save.

ESL Tutor in Wellesley
If you’re familiar with the town of Wellesley, you will have laughed as I did. It’s one of the most affluent towns in the Metro Boston area. How about they help me?

I’ve had enough, and I haven’t even done anything. Stay tuned as I hope to recount my first day helping a chico spell out “lovely breasts, young lady,” harassing protesters with words from the Satanic Bible as I enter an abortion clinic, or as I get dismissed from my dog walking duties for depressing the dogs with my nonstop crying.

Hypocrite!

12 Apr

Yes, hello, did you call me?

Little miss too-cool-for-school, independent, totally capable of shanking an intruder, go to the movies by myself and don’t feel weird about it, play with my Nerf gun, have a fun blog, yadda yadda yadda.

The truth is, I’m also a crybaby.  But I’m aware of this. So it’s OK.

Want to make me cry? Show me a malnourished stray dog. Or play a particularly good romantic song, show me images of people hugging at airports, make me watch The Land Before Time (especially the part where Littlefoot sees his own shadow in a cave and runs after it, thinking it’s his dead mom), ask me to talk about my family, or my friends, or my dog… whatever. I cry easily, so I try to laugh all the time. Otherwise the tears well up and, fight them as I may, the bastards will trickle down my cheeks, exposing me in emotional defeat. And I hate that.

It’s especially embarrassing when the person who sees you crying more than anyone else is your best friend – a boy. Oh my god, you’re such a crybaby, he’ll say, as I choke on laughter and tears, thanks to fucking Sarah Mclachlan and the ASPCA.

Naturally, when I found out that he and his girlfriend were moving in together, I had to fight the eye leakage.  He didn’t tell me – there’s a sensitivity chip missing in men that doesn’t pick up on the importance of events such as moving in with your girlfriend for the first time in your life – she did, because she understands. We hugged, I told her how excited for them I am and proceeded to fan myself and look away because we were at his birthday party and I’m supposed to look cool.

I’m fighting back tears right now (not anymore, they won) as I search Craigslist for rentals I can forward to them, as they’ll need a larger (read: actually livable) space to share than the fantastically located bachelor’s sandbox where he now resides. I’ve known this boy since we were 18.  He taught me Calculus through irrational tears, never failed to show me the bright side during hard times, and has patiently waited for me to come around and finally follow his advice, time and again (except for when it comes to watching Lost. Don’t care, not doing it). He is the most righteous dude and bestest friend a girl could ask for, and he is moving in with the nicest, funniest, prettiest, sweetest, coolest chick I’ve met in a long time, whom I’m happy to call my friend.

Except sometimes I wish he’d be more of a girl.

me: [attached link of awesome rental available five blocks from my building]
i think that’s exactly where you should live
stop looking elsewhere
want me to call and arrange a viewing?
the hallway has 4 closets
she won’t need to get rid of any of her clothes
you can tan on the roof and no one will laugh at how white you are

him: youre frightening me
im frightened

me: no, no, it’ll all be OK
I’M SO EXCITED WE’RE ALL MOVING INTO FUN NEW APARTMENTS   YEAAAAAAAY!

he signed off

Actually, I take it back. He signs offline when I start going off the deep end, explains physics to me, and occasionally introduces me to cute boys. I’m glad he’s a guy.