After I died from a sinus infection and came back to life just like Jesus herself, I decided to put my clean bill of health to use by moping. Every year around this time the whole world starts shitting themselves over ~*SNOW DAYS*~ most of which I spend wrapped in my snuggie complaining that it’s too cold and that people aren’t paying enough attention to me. Which is true. Winter totally blows my butthole and I’m tired of pretending otherwise.
Maybe it’s the fact that I don’t actually own a proper coat. Maybe it’s the fact that I don’t really have that many friends in New York yet (cue “Home” by Michael Bublé and also me eating a whole cake). Or maybe it’s the different piles of frozen vomit I’ve been finding outside of my apartment every morning and–ahem–the massive dead rat on my back patio that is covered in snow. I just don’t really find it that cute.
The only things that have gotten me through these past few weeks have been
a) the yoga class I just started (I’m a mom!)
b) drunk dancing to Gloria Estefan on the M train, and
c) my new haircut
I got bangs, and then of course Michelle Obama did too because she’s like obsessed with me or something. I’ve also become especially fond of these (second hand!) fur earmuffs I’ve been wearing every day.
So okay, I know I don’t even go here, but I just have a lot of feelings. And for whatever reason that’s only between the months of November and March. In the summer I’m always the first person to buy a round of DGAF for the crowd and start the party. I want that to be my winter look! I really do! But strong hoes also cry.
Strong hoes. Also cry.
When I’m not wallowing my social life basically consists of getting drunk way too early and making intimate winter gatherings as awkward as possible. Here I am around 11pm at Beth’s birthday potluck last weekend.
Since I’m not going to move to LA tomorrow and I probably shouldn’t take any more of that Xanax that was prescribed for my cat, my plan is to stay so busy that I don’t have time to be a psychopath! Buying breakfast for the people I’ve drunkenly abused is getting expensive, so I should probably find a more productive outlet for my nervous energy.
Uh, I’ll let you know when I think of one.
Meanwhile, the Identity Crisis Diet has made my body 100% beach ready. So when I received the call to be +1 on a SECRET ISLAND VACATION this weekend with hands so frostbitten I could barely even answer the phone, I clearly said yes.
Miss Jesus works in mysterious ways, y’all.
Bye Bitches. I’m Outie.