I love paper. I cannot control myself when it comes to buying crafty/artistic journals and notebooks with blank pages. “Oh, are you a big journaler, Becca?” No. I like the idea of journaling, but have never actually practiced it. Actually, that’s not true. I used to write really angry evil poems about hating my parents when I was like 11, because they wouldn’t let me wear clothes like Christina Aguilera or be a royal bitch to them. In retrospect, I’m glad they didn’t. Otherwise, my sole outlet to writing is in these Facebook notes that I pump out faster than Michelle Duggar does babies. Anyway, today I went into Borders to purchase a hardback blank journal, because Trent and I want to create a dream book. I came out with three blank journals, a hardback self-adhesive photo album, an address book, 6 Valentine’s Day cards, metallic gel pens, a glue stick, tape, and Total Money Makeover by Dave Ramsey.
I have a problem with loving the “idea” of things, but never fully committing to them. Journaling and scrapbooking is one example, but a better one would be coffee. One of my favorite things to do while grocery shopping is meander into the coffee aisle, deeply inhaling the delicious, robust aroma of Folgers and Maxwell House. For some reason, I so desperately want to be a part of the culture that cannot function without their morning cup of coffee, and can honestly say that they are addicted to Starbucks. The issue is that I hate coffee. To me, coffee tastes like tree bark and top soil. I keep being told that coffee is an “acquired taste,” and that I have to just get used to it, sort of like beer, which I still don’t like. So, over the weekend in Chicago, I did actually drink an entire cup of coffee at dinner, and didn’t mind it. Then I was informed by the other 9 individuals sitting at the table with me that it was awful coffee. Excellent. Today while in Borders, they had a tiny stand with complimentary cups of french roast, so I helped myself to some. I didn’t love it.
Do celebrities just get bored and decide to be disgusting sometimes? I wonder this as I flip through an issue of Us Weekly. A few hot topics:
Brad Pitt, or ZZ Top? You decide. I’m not sure what possessed People’s MagazineSexiest Man Alive to present himself as a billy goat gruff, but there is no logical explanation for this. I’ve seen homeless people with nicer facial hair than this scraggle-beard. Why, Brad? Why.
“Does this outfit make me look fat?”
Alright. I know Jennifer Lopez has never been famous for her trendy attire, but who makes this mistake? A onesie is never appropriate unless 1) you are an infant, and 2) it is made entirely of soft, fuzzy fleece. Whose mad idea was it to create these scuba suits, or “cat suits” as they have been dubbed? I want to know who has been doing crack in the fashion industry.
Oh wait, that’s everyone.
J-Lo, you don’t look sexy. You look like a sea lion dipped in glitter. Maybe your fashion failures are related to your failed marriages. Just an idea. I don’t care if you sport this unitard on Giselle Bundchen in amber lighting, it will never be sexy.
Or socially acceptable.
Can someone explain to me why I feel carsick while sitting on the couch in my living room? Here I am, just clicking away on blogs and looking at web formatting, when suddenly I feel like I just ate a chili cheese dog and then rode 11 rounds of the spinning teacups at the State Fair. Motion sickness in this scenario is as probable as Tori Spelling ever being attractive. The most movement going on over here is my fingers typing away at immeasurable speeds.
ANYhooter, time to fetch a hefty dose of Dramamine. Until next time, folks.
“It looks like a huge—JOHNSON!”