Can somebody logically explain to me how it is beneficial in any circumstance to be wearing a safety belt on an airplane? I wondered this today as I boarded my flight to Chicago at the demand of the stewardess over the speaker system. How is this going to save me in the event of a crash? I asked as I buckled the limp restraint over my waist. A seatbelt in an airplane crash is about as effective as wearing a bullet proof vest to prevent drowning. I don’t care WHAT kind of apparatus you strap over my body as a passenger in a jumbo jet—may it be made of wrought iron, solid steel, and military-issued paracord –no contraption or safety device of any kind is going to protect my ass from being destroyed upon impact in the event of a plane crash. Not to mention the fact that even if my body did NOT splatter against the first class cabin upon impact by some act of God, that I would be incinerated in nanoseconds by the earth-quaking explosion that would send the entire area up in flames like Nagasaki, turning me into cigarette ashes in the blink of an eye. Seatbelt? Useless.
This is the price of one of the menu items on the Westin Hotel’s room service menu. Sounds reasonable, right? Sure. Until you realize that item is a f*cking APPLE, for crying out loud. Are you serious? $6.50 for one single apple? Are these apples from the Garden of Eden? Have they been blessed by the Pope? Did George Washington once pluck these very apples from his apple tree, and they have been preserved for retail by the Westin Hotel ever since? I’ve killed for less! Are they serious about this? For six dollars and fifty cents, I could buy an entire crate of apples. Apparently the same people making bathing suits are now making fruits as well. Unbelievable.
My body is completely and utterly intolerable of alcohol now. I have gone so long without binge drinking (approximately two years), that now even 1 glass of wine or champagne makes me insult people around me at a decibel loud enough for Marlene Matlin to hear. This would be fine if the places I DID party at were college dorms, apartments, and dirty kegger houses dripping with beer. It is not okay, on the other hand, at business events.
This weekend in Chicago, I drank somewhere north of 8 gallons of free champagne and wine at the biggest company event of the year. I passed out at the dinner table. My region manager was there. FML.
Needless to say, the next morning I had a hangover that not even Chuck Norris could get over. After taking at least 1200 milligrams of ibuprofen, chugging a quart of water, and laying lifeless on the Westin’s Heavenly Bed for three hours, I finally felt ready to stand up. Bad times. I really shouldn’t be allowed to drink. Fact.
It seems everyone is all about this “Doppelganger” week phenomena right now. By principle, I don’t like putting photos of anything that is not a likeness of myself as my profile picture, but since we’re in the bandwagoning era here, I guess my closest match would be sweet little Emma Stone:
After Superbad came out in theaters, I got bombarded daily with texts and commentary along the lines of, “Oh my god, you look just like that girl from Superbad!!” day in and day out. I still get it. I occasionally receive a “You look like Lindsay Lohan” comment or two every now and again, usually by people drunker than sailors, and who also fail to realize that I am missing the coke addiction and lesbian tendencies to fit that bill.
Well, maybe just the coke addiction.
I had a nice conversation with a man named Jason at Bartle Hall a couple weeks ago about the human body. We both agreed that the male body is just not that sexy. No matter how built, how cut, how flawless and Zeus-like you appear as a man, you are never going to be anywhere close to how hot women can be. Let’s face it, you’ve got hair in strange places, things hanging off of you–women are goddesses. Like, I’m not into chicks, but I get why people are.
On that note, I am considering getting boobs someday. Not right now, but, sometime in the future. The other day I woke up and my tits were enormous (relatively speaking); the product of a hormone influx. I looked in the mirror before stepping into the shower and said, “Holy shit!” to myself, followed by an in depth investigation. I was so pleased. I looked like a Victoria’s Secret model, minus 5 inches and plus 23 pounds. It was awesome. Of course, two days later they were back to being the size of Kate Hudson’s, but it was nice while it lasted. Am I insecure about having small boobs? Not in the slightest. But I do wish I had a nice rack. Who doesn’t?
After attending two bridal exposes in the past 5 months, I have been BOMBARDED with advertising emails from bridal boutiques, florists, reception venues, bartenders, caterers, officiants, DJs, videographers, photographers, and more. It’s getting ridiculous. I feel like I’m under fire. Every fifteen minutes my phone dings to inform me I have received yet another email from a wedding vendor of some type. I have spent the better part of the last couple of weeks just unsubscribing from them all. It’s nearly impossible. Somebody help me.
Welp, time to write again.
“GET A REAL JOB!”