I am more aggravated at this moment that I can articulate. I am so done. DONE. Aggravated. You know how angry you get when you insert a tampon and the fucking cardboard applicator doesn't slide properly? RIGHT?! Its like "Are you fucking kidding me! It's bad enough I'm on the rag--and now this??"And you're perched over some goddamned bathroom toilet at a fucking bar celebrating some douch nozzles birthday--and you don't even like the mothafucka that much. You parked 4 blocks away because the valet cannot handle your car that needs a transmission, the drinks are $12 a pop, and you don't even know understand what the big fucking deal is about Foie Gras. But you grin and smackle that shit on melba toast anyway. You came to the party because that's what adults do, when in truth you should have stayed at home, eating Oscar Mayer Liverwurst on saltines watching Power Puff Girls with your granny draws and heavy flow Maxipad on. Fuck a tampon.
Look here, if that paragraph made you squeamish--you ought not fuck with this posting.
So I've had a few Tecate's and 25 grams of Diphahydrimine --I'm not gonna even go back to correct the misspelling--and so by the time I wake up tomorrow morning (lord willing) I may regret this posting. But I don't fucking care at the moment.
When I was a younger woman I watched HBO's Sex and The City. I watched that shit religiously. Every time I head the fucking theme song I was a piggy in shit. I squealed like a P-I-G hog, every time that geriatric Samantha mounted & conquered a man. I was for sure, like every other dumb ass woman in her 20s (and maybe even 30s), convinced without a shadow of a doubt that I was the 5th member of Quarto Putas. Those four well dressed whores were like a pantheon of goddesses, ya dig? We were all stupid enough to think we were either the sharp lawyer, the uptight princess, the assertive sexy beast, or the lovable protagonist Carrie. Those women made money, got their nut on and lived in the greatest city in the world. At 22 I lived a great city too. Chicago. I was fresh out of college, slim-ish, trained in Acting and virtually debt free. I didn't have much. No apartment, no car but plenty of ambition. Okay I'd encumbered a few hundred dollars because a day after graduation I went traipsing off to London and Paris--but hey, if you're gonna have debt, world travel is a good reason to, right?
I paid my dues. I worked shit jobs, and scraped money to purchase a NY Times newspaper everyday, because I wanted to see how adults lived. I wanted to be well versed on geo-politics, fashion, science and food because I wanted to be prepared for my windfall. I was happy to ride the train for hours
for the opportunity to audition for some play. I did every reading. Workshop. Bootcamp. Casting couch--well I wish I had. If I did, I wouldn't be ranting right now.
I accepted any invitation to plays, art shows, music goings on because I wanted to meet people. Honey I'd show up at the opening of an envelope, okay? Because that's how you met people--interesting people--people with careers--those people became your colleagues---then friends---those people slowly started to grow up--and get apartments---then condos---then boyfriends--beaus--husbands---girlfriends--wives---they got preggers---had kids---bought homes.
And it wasn't a big deal right? Because your turn was coming up. Soon you'd have your shit together and wouldn't be dreaming forever, right? You too would be living somewhere over the rainbow.
Back to that bitch Carrie Bradshaw.
Carrie and her goddamned fucking mouth. Those stupid voice overs! I even tried to smoke, because she made it look so cool. That "independent" petite ass clown had me thinking that if I had a computer, a cute pair of shoes, and a quirky response in the face of adversity that life would be grand. That I would be able to dine in the finest, swankiest establishments, that I would solve problems with men in 3 maybe 4 episodes. That I would have some charming rent controlled apartment . Okay even when Carrie was "broke" she was able to buy her apartment because of her friend Charlotte. And for the record MANY of my girlfriends have given me the clothes off their backs to save my ass--so I'm grateful. But this isn't a posting about grace. Its about my anger. My disappointment. With myself. With how the cookie is crumbling. Oh god, I'd kill for some cookies right now. Warm gooey cookies. Oh but no! I have to stick to the Lent plan. Suffering for Jesus. *Shakes fist at sky. I hope you're happy! I gave up so much for you Jesus! I've given up things I love for 40 days! HAPPY?
*Swigs more Tecate.
Look, money isn't comptely what I'm ranting about. Okay it is. People say "Oh money can't buy you happiness." Yes it can. Money is a great servant, but a terrible master. But I don't care. I've had poverty as a master and I am ready to revolt. And I know you're thinking "Nic life isn't about immulating the lives of 4 white women on a fictioucs series." Well fuck you. It's my mental breakdown and I will liken my life to whatever the fuck I please. Because those bitches completely set me up for failure. Here I am 3? years old, and where the fuck are my designer shoes, couture dresses, and bottomless wallet? Where's that coveted career? I know where I went wrong. See I was so busy watching Sex and The City that I completely ignored The Wire. See if I watched The Wire in my 20s, I would be a drug king pin by now. Ugh I'm such a moron! I could be Avon or Stringer Bell or some shit by now. Shooting my way to the top. Or maybe I should have watched fucking Walker Texas Ranger, and I could simply used Kung Fu treachery to kick the ass of any thing or person in my way.
I need gainful employment. I need a home. I need to be able to pay rent and not sprint like Jackie Joyner everytime I see my landlord. I need peace of mind. I want to live and not survive, you know? I know that I 'm not Carrie. This isn't New York-- it's Los Angeles. And I ain't interested in living back in Chicago, so shut your pie hole. I actually like it here in Southern California. I just happen to like LA more than she likes me.
I need to stay away from cheap Mexican beer and allergy drugs-- that clearly warn you against taking any dosage with alcohol. Oh well. Time to go into my closet and play dress up. I'm going to put on all my pretty clothes...because one thing I learned from Carrie is true: If you look good, you feel good.
Or if you look good enough, some old creep billionaire will purchase you to be his wife.
At the risk of offending my ancestors...I don't mind getting back on the auction block.
|Blackie Bradshaw: Writer, Fashionista, Demigod.|