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Sometimes when my dad and i email each other, we give each other funny names, instead of “Dad’ and “Monica.”
The last one I called him Beatles Fan with Original Flavor and I was BeatlesFan Light (With no Trans fat and fewer calories!)
And this is my life.
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Here’s the other half of the living room. And half of my face.
I should be sleeeeeeping. On that couch, where I’ve spent the past few nights. I mean, yes I have a perfectly loveable and comfortable bed but for some reason that couch is SO COMFY lately.
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This is totally my new hairstyle.
I need a haircut.
Also, welcome to my apartment. Well, part of it. Look, you can see my (messy) kitchen! And totally tell that I shop at Whole Foods, yup. I have a feeling I’ll get a call from my mom tomorrow asking me why the kitchen is so messy.
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For all that I am positively horrible/incapable-of-it when it comes to lying to other people, I’m a fucking fantastic genius in terms of lying to myself.
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“There was a lady named Monica
Who liked to celebrate Hanukkah
She played all day
With books in the rain
And wondered why they got wet (haha!)
When she stumbled upon her bus stop
She met a man who was NOT her pop
He sniffed her hair
Thought she wouldn’t care
‘Til she took out a gun and shot him DEAD.
BANGBANGTHEENDILOVEYOU.”
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This obviously does not include cookbooks or the books I ATTEMPTED to start.
And the year isn’t over yet, either!
EDIT: Make that 63.
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It’s really irritating when you don’t want to go to work and you build up all the anxiety and frustration to have one hell of a tantrum … only to realize that you’re not a child anymore, and your mother isn’t going to go “FINE! STAY HOME” just because you’re being difficult.
And you still have to go, because the only person who has any say in the matter is you, and you still want to have money.
But dammit, you wear the muppet socks BECAUSE YOU CAN.
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