The other night while flipping aimlessly through the channels in between a game I caught a preview for the Biebs punking T-Swift, who knew this show was coming back? I am now completely convinced this explains my entire life up until this very moment, I must be the new season’s finale, right? The ultimate punk? I’ve always held the belief that I am starring in my own private version of The Truman Show, and you have all secretly been laughing at me for years. This is is the only logical explanation I can come up with in regards to my complete joke of a life. Certainly, the average citizen does not live this way? I’m pretty sure Ashton Kutcher, or whoever is now running that mess of a show, and his or her henchmen have set me up for failure numerous times this past month. Allow me to explain my thought process with a quick catch-up of the shenanigans going on in my life recently –
—— If you’ve had the distinct pleasure of driving with me, you know I enjoy listening to some fairly questionable music while zooming around. After re-discovering the wonders of JMac (Jesse McCartney to those not in the know) recently I’ve been conducting my own duet with him for about a week during my daily commute. Yes, I realize that this in and of itself is embarrassing enough, but lets up the level of awkward shall we. Since acquiring a wonderful iPhone, I have been able to do amazing things that were never possible with a flip phone – such as texting the wrong people inappropriate things and I’ve newly discovered the uncomfortable joys of pocket dialing. The other day after viewing my recent calls while heading out of work I tossed my phone on the passenger seat, threw my bag on top of it, popped on some JMac and prepared for a glorious ride home. In the middle of a passionate sing-a-long to Body Language (presented for your viewing pleasure here – http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KiDtvTEHHwU&ob=av3e ) I reach for my phone to check it – only to find that my phone has in fact pocket dialed and is leaving a voicemail the last person on earth I would ever want to hear me singing to Jesse McCartney at the top of my lungs at 10pm. And that Ladies and Gentleman, is the ultimate way to cock-block yourself, for life.
—— Continuing on the inappropriate music trend, I tend to listen to some sassy tunes in the morning to get me going as well, this led to a rather terrifying encounter the other day. While preparing myself for the day I put on some 80s hair band music. In the heat of the moment I lost myself in the music and broke out some serious singing-into-the-hairbrush moves while busting out Paradise City only to whip around in a serious hair dance move and find a cop and the motorcyclist he had just pulled over, both staring into my window. I reacted maturely by dropping below my window line and proceeding to put on my makeup in the closet, the lighting is clearly much better in there anyways.
—— After packing my lunch all week I forgot one on St. Patricks day and was forced to leave the solitude of the back office to hunt for food amongst the increasingly drunk and surprisingly old public infiltrating the mall. After dodging two elderly, and I mean over the age of 65 easily, couples making out and one kid swaying on the stairs I managed to grab food and figured I was in the clear, how naive. While clutching my Panera bag and attempting to run, not walk, down the escalator an obscenely drunk young man grabbed my hair with enough force to pull me back a step and scream at the top of his lungs, “I FOUND A LEPRECHAUN!!!!! YEEESSSSSSSSS!!” Um, excuse me for one moment sir, but I am in fact taller then you, am not sporting any sort of facial hair to my knowledge, and do not appear to have a pot of gold – please check your facts before you touch me or my flowing locks again. Additionally later that night, when I made the intelligent decision to get out the line for Rasputins, I mean seriously now, I was puked on by a passerby while walking back to my car and then had to perilously remove my tights in order to drive home. This did not solicit any unwanted attention at all.
—— The other week in City Market I encountered a hipster giving out some completely unsolicited relationship advice. I may have reacted poorly to said advice. Let me give you a little background information on my feelings for hipsters – I detest them, despise them, downright loathe them. Here’s why:
1. Let’s start with the fact that they infiltrated and subsequently proceed to takeover my favorite bar, the Needs, making it nearly insufferable to enjoy. College memories destroyed by pretentious morons who parents usually still pay their rent. Unacceptable.
2. Then there is the whole mindset of “I’m a hipster on a bike. That means my luminous white ass can hang out of my too tiny skinny jeans while I blow through a red light and cut you off, and it’s totally fine. Rules don’t apply to me, I’m a hipster.”
3. You are wearing glasses that you DO NOT NEED to actually see. As someone who suffered numerous years wearing glasses with a plastic frame and massive lenses, and was made fun of for it, I just want to rip them off your face and stomp on them. Don’t worry you can always go buy another pair for $10 at Urban.
4. They always think they are superbly awesome, and you are not. “You should come hear my band, A Mermaid’s Vagina, play sometime. My cat does vocals. It’s a really underground thing, you probably wouldn’t understand it.”
5. Did you dress yourself in the dark in my great grandmother’s closet circa 1980?
6. Handlebar mustaches were left in the 19th century for a reason. Get that thing away from me.
These reasons and oh so many more make me send a side eye to any hipster who dares to be near me. So naturally I was not pleased when one decided to interject himself in my life with some tragically misinformed advice. While I was doing my quick lunch time shopping at the CM I ran into an old acquaintance from college and we had a little catch up at the hot bar during which I was my usual sarcastic self. Eventually he asked me one of my favorite questions – “So, are you seeing anyone special?” Ugh. Seriously? What if I’m seeing someone who happens to be mediocre, or if I’m seeing multiple people and their all special, or if I’m still single and destined to be a crazy old cat lady who talks to them like they are her children. Hint – it’s the last option. All I managed to get out is “Well, no, not at the moment..” before a faux-spectacled, 1990s rainbow wind-breaker wearing hipster douche materialized to add this little gem to the conversation – “You know, you are far to sarcastic to ever actually interest a dude. You’ll be single forever. You should probably just become a lesbian.” Ah ha! This is the answer to all of my problems. How silly of me to be straight! This is when I lost my cool. I turned on him so quick he took a step back, busted out my very best Valley Girl accent and shrieked, “Like, oh my God, you are, like, so right! I am, like, so stupid! I totally keep forgetting to take my lesbian multivitamins! Like, thanks so much!” Luckily, the moron had enough sense to run away from me before things got any worse, unfortunately my college acquaintance did too, and everyone in the general vicinity was staring at me like I was a freak. Pssssh, City Market shoppers – keep your judgements to yourselves.
—— The other day while walking out of the bank I decided to be polite and hold the door for an over the top FC (french canadian) man who happened to be wearing some of the tightest leather pants I have ever seen on an individual. As he walked through the door, he proceeded to place his currently lit cigarette in my hand, wink, and say “This is for you.” I’m sorry? Your half-smoked cigarette, which could have the herp for all I know, is for me? Why thank you, don’t forget to catch me as I swoon with admiration Shakespeare. Seriously.
—— I had a romantic encounter with a pack of dude-bros while leaving Mad Hatter earlier this week. I popped out the door and landed in the middle of a small swarm of Jersey Shore looking wannabes. The seduction started when one of them burped in my face and then slurred at me, “Wanna experience the thunder down under?” Mmmm, yes. People wonder why I’m still single? Honestly, I have no idea when tantalizing tidbits like this are thrown my way daily.
—— For anyone who is not officially hanging on my every witty, charming Facebook status update I will tell you about my disastrous coffee cake baking experience. I decided to bake a coffee cake around 10PM, this is usually the hour when most of my genius ideas strike, for my work meeting the next morning. (Not trying to bribe anyone’s love with carbs or anything, please.) So naturally I got together all the essentials for baking – a disastrous scene of flour and sugar coupled with 90s pop Pandora station and 1 to 3 cocktails. By my third rum concoction I was good to go when Backstreet Boys anthem Everybody blared onto my Mac. Seizing the moment while shaking the coffee cake to fill the pan, I lifted it up and began to sing to it. This is totally normal behavior for those not in the know, everyone who is professional baker obviously serenades the goods, Betty Crocker is a pro at it. Deep into the middle of my singing zone I hear a terrifying noise, someone knocked at the door. Ummmmmm. I look up to see an equally terrified guy my age peeking into my door. Since he spotted me, and we made eye contact I figured there was probably no realistic way to ignore the situation and hide in my room. After gently placing my coffee cake on the counter and shutting off my music I answer the door to find a horrified guy timidly asking if he interrupted anything. Well yes, you clearly interrupted what was supposed to be a beautiful moment between me and a cake, duh. After a quick conversation it was determined he had flown into Burlington to surprise his girlfriend but had gotten lost in Winooski and needed directions. Great, some romantic boyfriend type is chilling on my porch having just witnessed tragically single me, drinking alone and singing to a baked good on a Saturday night. Excellent. Five minutes later Romance is gone with his directions and I was battling a exploding oven. Ah yes, living the life of an average 24 year old … or not.
—— Last but not least there is Mardi Gras weekend. Every year this weekend seems to present a plethora of awkward predicaments for me to endure and evade. Senior year it involved mimosas, scorpion bowls, finding out someone who had once hit on me in a bar was a serial cheater when he was attacked by his girlfriend’s seriously intoxicated friends, and last but not least, dropping $80 on a purse that looks like it is made of human flesh sewn into the shape of a skirt – my Silence of the Lambs purse as it has been henceforth named. The next day was not cute. Knowing what has happened in the past you would think I would be smart enough to simply stay inside with the doors locked, but lets be realistic – when do I ever do anything remotely intelligent?
So I proceeded out to meet my friend Lauren, and had an unfortunate encounter before I even got out of the parking garage. Three fairly intoxicated college bros followed me into the stairwell chattering about “crushing bitches at pong” and some girl named Katie’s “huge cans.” I could already tell this encounter would be full of win at this moment. Now, as many of you know, I am big on personal space. Unless I invite you into my personal space, don’t come into it, especially not aggressively. It won’t end well … for you. So as this pack of bros proceeds to practically piggy backing me on the way down the stairs, I get fed up, and ask them if they want to just go in front of me. They classily respond with, “Na girl, you look good from the back.” First off, proper english you idiots, start using it. I decided its better to simply remove myself from the situation rather then start a small riot in the stairwell, classy not trashy, so I continue to near sprint down the stairs. Next thing I know Bro #1 is sashaying down the stair railings on his hands egged on by Bro #2 and 3. Seriously? Just as I decide I need to pop out onto a random floor to get away from this, Bro #1 in drunken delirium loses his balance and tumbles forward … onto me. We both hit the floor of a public parking garage, who knows what made contact with my body, and he is literally laying on top of me, moaning. Is this real life? It took me nearly a full minute to push too-drunk-to-move Bro #1 off of me. Then I ran like the wind. I have to wonder if the parking attendants have hidden cameras and got to enjoy this entire encounter.
Then as I was leaving later that afternoon before the real madness started two wonderful moments happened. Firstly, someone tried to pee on my leg as I was making my exit. Secondly, someone’s Dad chucked a half-smoked joint onto my car as I was driving by because a police cruiser was coming down the street. Seriously, Sir? You’re over the age of 40 – it’s not really socially acceptable for you to be smoking a joint in the middle of the day, Party Gras or no Party Gras, and it most certainly not cool to chuck it at unsuspecting innocent citizens. Let’s face it, with my life it’s a sheer miracle that officer didn’t actually see this go down and arrest me.
And that sums up my life for the past month. Now you know the ending to this current season of Punk’d! Spoiler Alert! Because really, that has to be the explanation…right? Please, just tell me it is.