Tag Archives: i’m old

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.

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.


I’m not a loser

11 Apr

Because if I am, my friends are too. And since there’s no way my friends are losers, it is concluded, readers, that I am not a loser for spending some of my free – 3am on Tuesday – time, shooting my Nerf gun around the apartment.

You have that? Why?
No, it’s really fun! I promise.
Oook, Weirdo.

Friends from New York were visiting, and after many text messages, we decided to go out dancing later in the evening. At a time of such zest for planning a night-on-the-town,  we did not account for the aggregate levels of laziness that are often reached when we get together and try to come up with one plan that will suit all of our extremely easygoing personalities. I, with my indefatigable – even if exhausted – tongue, persuaded the majority that we were all much too tired from the previous night’s festivities and that it would be wiser to congregate at home to shoot the shit for a few hours than to deal with the Boston nightclub scene. And so it was, that the seven of us would meet with beers, cannabis, and cell phones with internet access to Foodler. Except this time I would throw a little something into the mix.

Instead of debating with, laughing at, and torturing one another with idle hands, we would do it all while shooting the Nerf gun. My toy was received with nods and mild curiosity. Then targets were set up, instructions were given, turns were taken, and voilà – the Nerf was suddenly the awesomest idea ever. Inner ninja assassins were invoked, decorations were displaced, dining tables became barricades – we were in a war zone where only canines were spared.

An hour later, everyone wanted a Nerf gun. A certain Russian bear became so obsessed, his eyes moved around the room all night, in search of new targets, new challenges. All the while, we put our liberal brains to work as we denounced the political atrocities plaguing American life.

Nerf guns are fun. You can line up toys, cups, dry erase boards with drawn on targets, and spend the night engaging your brain threeway – with shooting, socializing, and doing the aforementioned while intoxicated yet barred from using ‘intoxication’ as an out for inefficiency in shooting or conversing. I may be of Brazilian blood, Shakira-like hips, and hopeless modesty, but the older I get, the harder it is to forgo “staying in” for adventures with Boston taxis and Red Sox caps. Before you label me as “grandma,” remember that I’ve offset this elderly propensity with the adoption of pre-pubescent diversions. I’m still young; just going through some updates.

Wise yet fresh-faced. I’m definitely peaking.

14 Mar

Went out with a friend last night, with the intention of being home by 1230am but didn’t actually make it back till much later than that. When I awoke still in shoes and jacket past noon, I clutched my phone at the thought “ooooh, what were those things I jotted down that I felt I had to write about?” Perhaps I was still riding the previous night’s unstable mental waves, but I felt I should get to it before brushing my teeth – at least it would allow my neck a little time to undo whatever the couch did to it.

My iPhone notes consisted of:
Not theusic. Pathetic.
U suck. Ur a bitch. making a bad name for women everyoeheb.
Pusdywagon u van e controversial steali g ideas.
Love hanging w girls always with boys.
Tell the we are gonna be friends.
lost food drinks

It seems last night’s most entertaining events will not be immortalized in blog post form after all. I will instead collect here valuable life lessons I pondered on my drive to the parents’ house this afternoon. These came to me organically, as I’m two days shy of a 27th birthday celebration and feeling very very wise. There’s also a slight chance my brain was just functioning a little better after a shower.

Personal hygiene is very important
. You may be talented, funny, rich, and maybe even attractive – but if you’re nasty, most people won’t stand near or look at you. However awesome you are no one will know.

Pick your (inner) battles. Self-evaluation and improvement is what life’s about, but it’s important to learn when to give yourself a break. Fuck it; maybe you’ll always be 10lbs over your ideal weight because consuming beer and pizza is more important than ‘looking your best.’ Or maybe you’ll always be a smoker; you know the facts but you still want that fucking cigarette and you’re going to have it. Perhaps you have a pathetic phobia of mice that renders you schizo for a few minutes until you are far far away from that vile motherfucking creature that deserves massive amounts of poison ingestion causing its intestines to explode into a mass of blood and dead flesh that will rot below the surface forever until a flower uses its remains as fuel to blossom, thus FINALLY setting the world right and why can’t all fucking rodents just die horrible deaths? It doesn’t matter. If you see the mouse at a bookstore, you can grab your things and leave immediately. If you see it at home, very late at night, you can put on shoes, grab your dog and car key and sleep at a friend’s house, returning only the next day when you’re mentally prepared to threaten your landlord until the place is properly treated. Until then you can very well just avoid the kitchen altogether.

Most of the time, what other people think doesn’t fucking matter. When I was suffering from 64 bed bug bites all over my body – fuck with you not, 64, I counted them – I wanted to stab my boyfriend or my dog, or maybe sever a limb of my own with a rusty butter knife because the discomfort was so so great, I wanted any thing that could distract me from it. Sadly, I loved the boyfriend and the dog, and 1am on Monday was really not the time to be bothering either one with my desire to set fire to my skin. I chose instead to drive my skimpy-clothed welted flesh to CVS Pharmacy and embarrass the fuck out of myself while begging the pharmacist for anything I could have that would soothe the itch and put me to sleep. The people behind the counter spoke to me slowly and from a distance, as you do with the smelly homeless person who tries to touch your hair and yell nonsense in your ear, but I didn’t care. I knew I looked a mess, but I didn’t give a fuck. I’m lucid and will get from you what I need, pay, and leave just the same. Go on and tell your wife about the twitchy cootied freak that showed up in the middle of the night. I don’t care.

Same goes for your tastes/hobbies. If you’re keen on purchasing a coffee and two packs of twizzlers at the movie theatre, do it. Just because the four-eyed frail emo kid before you also bought coffee, it doesn’t mean you have to go for soda just so everyone else in line doesn’t think you’re also strange and anti-social. Because a) the emo kid got half-and-half and that’s pathetic, and b) it doesn’t fucking matter. The bottom line is; none of these people pay my  bills or share a bed with me, so… they don’t matter.

Give credit where credit is due. When I come home to find nothing has been destroyed by my dog, I tell her she is a good girl. When I clean out my fridge at work so that bad food doesn’t stink up the office, my boss tells me how happy that makes him. Rewarding good behavior makes you and the other person feel good and increases the chances of the behavior being perpetuated. For this reason I would like to acknowledge the Awesome within a certain Alex from Chicago, who passed my blog on to a friend by the name of Kanayo as one he’s been following and finds “hysterical.” Unbeknownst to him, Kana The Grinja is a friend of mine. Small world indeed. Alex, it is evident that you rock.

Getting enough sleep is crucial. When you’re well rested you make it to work on time. This means you keep all of your good excuses for being late/not showing up for when you really need them. The flat tire excuse being thrown away on a night spent catching up on Google Buzz is totally lame. Same goes for keeping loved ones around; if you’re  bitchy due to lack of sleep, you’re wasting a bitch coupon that could’ve been saved for PMS defense. Honestly, sleep is just good for your health; it’ll keep you “fresh-faced” and frequently carded so your shallow dependence on looks is stretched a bit longer.

It’s time to eat more birthday cake now. If you want to gift me in some way, send me an email with a sordid detail about yourself. Or ask me for advice. I love talking.

Blogging from a club at 1:40 because I’m a loser?

7 Mar

OK. I’m wearing a leather mini skirt, my favorite black military-style boots, a cute hat, and I’m sitting at the bar in a Boston nightclub. I’ve got my friends hanging out to my right.

I don’t wanna be a playa no ‘mo
[I’m not a playa, I just crush a lot]

That’s the music playing right now. Oh! New song:

Are you feeling naughty? Are you feeling naughty?
I get so fucked up with so many booby shots!
I’m fucked up! I’m trying to fuck!

I don’t know if it’s because I’m turning 27 in a week and have come to the realization I should probably stop referring to myself as a “girl” and saying that I “need a boy to crush on” (because the truth is, most of these ‘boys’ are starting to lose their hair and grow beer bellies). Whatever the reason, my patience for this shit is starting to wear real thin. Friends will call, inviting to go out dancing, and what goes through my mind is, “it’s cold… I can’t stand the fucking lines. I don’t want to pay $12 for a crap drink. The DJ will be some kid with a bunch of random manic songs on his iTunes. I’m bound to get molestered (this is a South Park reference. I’m typing from my iPhone. No fun links today). And I certainly don’t want to deal with the ‘Yankees suck’ bullshit that often happens at 2am, when all venues close and all of the city’s finest idiots invade the streets, stumbling around and taking all the cabs.

Yeaaaah, sorry, Ivi, it’s too cold and I’ve got two movies to watch.

I’m not old and I need to party. I just can’t party like this anymore. It’s not fun. It’s annoying. So to my super dearest friends sending me messages, asking me what we’re doing for my birthday: I don’t know. We’ll probably end up going to a bar in Allston, shooting darts, drinking some beers and laughing a lot. We’ll have plenty of room to stand and not feel like stuffed sausages holding $12 drinks.

The DJ just remixed a Guns N’ Roses song with Ke$ha “music.” If you don’t know who Ke$ha is, you’re probably a slightly happier person than me.