Mr. Big has left his wallet

I used up an entire day watching "Sex and the City" season one.

I say "used up" instead of "wasted" simply because I feel I did not "waste" a day. I used it wisely.

I have a tremendous urge to go shopping after my date with Carrie, Miranda, Samantha and Charlotte. I also have a tremendous urge to have a buttload (no pun intended) of sex. But alas, priorities are priorites and I'd rather invest my time and effort in something that will stay with me until I am ready to toss it aside. And that is fashion.

And who knows? Maybe my debt will pay off when I meet a Mr. Big of my own.

The Naked Chef

After rolling out of bed at 11:00, I went out into the living room to join my dad, who, after getting out of the hospital, is on "couch rest," was watching the Food Network, as usual.

It was a new show today. Not our usual "Paula's Home Cooking," that we ritualistically watch, hungrily, as we poke at our own homemade runny poached eggs and boring jellied toast. Nope. This show was called "Everyday Italian," with Chef Giada De Laurentiis. Now I'm not sure if any of you have ever tuned into this or not, but lets just say that this show has alot of pizzaz.

Today she was making a vegetable casserole. Complete with zucchini, red peppers, tomatoes, sweet potatoes and squash. She cut up each vegetable with such grace, while enticing the mostly male viewers (I'm assuming) with such adjectives as, "Firm, juicy, plump, succulent..." Her skin tight black shirt clinging to her like Saran Wrap. She was indeed scantily clad. Her breasts were bulging like two giant honeydews, as were my dad's eyes. Her hair messied at the top of her head, dark strands grazing her cheeks. Her skin dewy and pink, from the "heat" of the kitchen.

It was certainly an uncomfortable situation. 

If it wasn't for my runny eggs I bet I could be that succulent too.

Oh MY GOD! THERE'S PUNCH!

I sit here and I stare at the empty screen. I wonder silently as I type what will unravel, what will become of this little white box on the screen. Will I offend someone who does not approve of me? Will I ramble on about songs I hate? Or will I simply say nothing in 1,000 words or less? Let's see.

I met a girl named Alyssa. Alyssa had the talent to silence everyone in the room using only her voice to lull them, as they ate their free pizza and drank thier free punch. (Oh my God! There's Punch!) She sang a capella songs from the Rennaissance Fair and I was mesmerized.

And my friend, Steve, the poet with the guitar. Sang while another boy held a microphone up to his acoustic guitar (it was not plugged in.) And again, I was dazzled by the peaceful coexistence I was amidst.

Anthony, (BFF) fabulous pianist that he is. Nobody softens up Manson better than you, while still getting the whole rage thing down. Nice.

Annie. The cutest girl I ever met. So short, she made me, the midget that I am, feel like I was towering over her. Even though we were sitting.

And The Comedian. Who will remain nameless for the simple fact that he may conduct a search being the cocky bastard that he is, and find this. I hit on a comedian and got a date. What can I say? I'm that good. He met his match.

Two muffins were in the oven. One turned to the other and said, "Boy, it's getting awfully warm in here." The other turned around in horror, "Holy Shit! A talking muffin!"

Turn it vertical, grab that punch...chillin with my bitches in the hall. G'night.

Daydreamin'

Again I sit.

And again I dream.

I dream of what I can be.

What can I be? I ask myself.

I can be anything. I tell myself.

Do I believe this?

Not one bit.

Till then...

much love.

 

Black Hawk Down

I get angry.

And jealous. Jealous and angry.

Angry, jealous and envious.

Nervous. Anxious.

Stressed.

Then I get infuriated. Downright pissed.

So I get angry, jealous, envious, nervous, anxious, stressed, infuriated and downright pissed.

Welcome to my miniature food chain. Only problem is, I'm the one eats me and I'm the one gets eaten. It's not a good day to be a Marissa.

The cobbler always wears the worst shoes

Me and BFF's  current project is very time consuming.

We often stay up late at night, drained, weaving through lists upon lists of statistics we have gathered.

That's right, we are making a list. A list of songs that should be wiped off the face of the earth. And another list for artists with the same affliction.

We spent numerous hours walking up and down the streets, knocking on doors, phoning random numbers in the phone book, harassing our professors at school and finally, the list has been born.

Hopefully, some of you out there in Journal Land can help us out by sending us some more appalling ballads, or even better, the bastards that sing them.

The Ultimate Shitty Song List:

1. "Dancing on the Cieling" by Lionel Richie, nominated by Anthony aka BFF

2. "Sometimes When We Touch," by Dan Hill, nominated by Yours Truly

3. "The Candy Man" by Sammy Davis, Jr., nominated by DH

4. "Maniac" by Hall and Oates, nominated by Froggiegirl205654

5. "Who Let The Dogs Out" by  Baha Men, nominated by Everyone!

6. "Macarena" by Los Del Rios, nominated again, by Everyone!

7. "Fun Fun Fun" by The Beach Boys, nominated by Rakiki27

8. "Mambo #5" by Lou Bega, nominated by Everyone Whose Ever Heard The Song.

And now for the Ultimate Shitty Singers List:

1. Michael Bolton

2. Barbra Streisand

3. Yanni

4. J-Lo

5. Sisqo

6. Lou Bega

7. Chumbawumba

8. Rush

 

And there you have it. The list will continuously be updated, since shitty songs will never stop being released.

Have a lovely day.

Pee Pee Makes You Lose

I saw the most absurd show on television yesterday.

As you probably already assumed, it was on FOX.

"Man versus Beast." The name says it all, although I must admit, at first, I was confused.

They had an orangutang hanging from a branch and across from him, was a gymnast hanging on a bar. Now, normally a gymnast can only hang there for about 1-2 minutes, but this guy had stamina. Even when that menace of an orangutang started swinging to try to break the gymnast's attention, the gymnast swung right back at him. Fortunately, the gymnast didn't have bladder control problems the way the orangutang did, which later got him disqualified for an "illegal move."

The gymnast lasted for 6 minutes.

Good thing he didn't have much to drink beforehand.

Balloon

It's time like these I can't really seem to wrap my mind around things.

The stress is getting to me, slowly, but I feel it creeping up and I know it's there. Ambiguity reigns.

I'm having a hard time dealing with the harshness that life is sending my way. Death looms over me as I wonder what it has in store for those succumbing to its iron hands. Again, my father has fallen ill.

My patience is running thin--almost too thin, for I cannot even bear the thoughts of those swaying my confidence, hindering my ability to confide in or to just plain talk to. Friends, I call them, friends.

My need to leave is growing and I find it near impossible to contain it within my boundaries. I'm going to burst soon and it's not going to be pretty.

 

Tossed Like A Salad

I've never had trouble making friends. It's keeping them that I find I'm not very good at. After amounts of time pass I find myself weaving them out, or vice versa, in some cases.

I was never very good at being "tossed aside" (not mentioning any names but I think you know who you are.) As you can see, this gives me much animosity which is the only time I allow myself to be malicious. And to give negative shoutouts to the "nameless." (fuck you, btw)

Anyhow...

My BFF Anthony and I are holding auditions this weekend for a third party to join us in our awesome friendship. The reason we are looking is simple; He's a homosexual and single and I'm a not-so-much homosexual and single, therefore we like to go out and do our guy hunting together, which, as you probably already have guessed, is very unsuccessful considering the absurd amounts of time we spend together, the two of us, thus all men assuming both of us are off limits, so to speak. We're tired of that, so, as I mentioned before, we're holding tryouts this weekend. Anyone interested just has to fit in the guidelines (listed below) and do an interesting trick or make us laugh. It's pretty simple really.

So, without further ado, here is the criteria to be granted initiation in the BFF club.

1. You must be open to being made fun of. Alot.

2. You must be gay, lesbian or bisexual. All others will be towed at the owners expense.

3. You must be good looking. Otherwise you won't fit in with us.

4. You must have a huge appetite, for all those nights we hit up every food chain in the big N.U.

5. You must have a huge wallet. See aforementioned.

6. You must love movies. If you don't, you're not for us. Keep looking. Perhaps there's some more of your kind somewhere else.

7. You must not talk about either of us behind our backs. You will be persecuted.

8. You must have stinky feet. Otherwise you'll just be disgusted by ours.

9. All bodily functions must be embraced as beauty. Even if it comes from the booty.

10. You must be able to speak of Jeffrey Dahmer without cringing.

Auditions will be sat 12-12:30 and Sun 3-3:10.

We don't expect many people so just show up so we feel better about ourselves.

The Observer Detach

The newspaper depresses me.

Why is it every page is filled with nothing but bad news? With headlines that are laced with fear?

And there's a tiny section in the back reserved for "Good News," in which they proceed to tell you who got accepted where, whose being shipped overseas (and that's good news?) who had a baby, whose getting married and so on and so forth etc.

Even the comics depress me.

The obituaries are the big thing in the paper around here. People come from miles around just to read them. Two pages reserved for the obits. Baby news? 1 inch by 1 inch. Just goes to show that we are losing population BIG TIME. C'mon Uticans, get reproducing! Show those dead people who owns the paper!

My Mini Rite of Passage

It is possible. I can go away for college. I can finally cut the umbilical cord that has legally bound me for 18 years and venture off into a brand new world just for me. A place with excitement and new and wonderful people and experiences. It's like a fallen tree in my path has been cleared and now I can see. Although it's foggy, I'll just squint and hope that I make the right decision.

And as for my parents, they can cry and boohoo all they want. If there's something I really want, I'm going to get it. And this dream is at my fingertips.

Awakened

I'm wondering if the entire weekend really happened at all. If it did, it was euphoric. If it didn't, it was the best dream I ever had.

 

Amtrak Anxiety

I've never been on a train before.

Only a roller coaster.

And here I am again.

Marissa, The Scotsman

http://memegen.deskslave.org/viewmeme.pl?un=couplandesque&meme=1068057362

Have a lovely weekend.

Love,

 The Scotsman

 

 

My Life, The Solar System

Things in my life are jumbled. I can't seem to wrap my mind around any of it.

Friends are shifting, like the planets orbit, I suppose.

I was asked on a date. On my bad hair day, nonetheless. Now here's a guy, equally brillliant seeming as he is beautiful, asked me on a date to go eat sushi. This tells me many things. It tells me, A.) He's classy (Sushi! That costs a few sheckles in this neck of the woods.) B.) Looks don't matter so much (I looked like crap.) But this could also mean, C.) He's going to rape me after we eat sushi and doesn't care what I look like. So that's the situation.

I've been enthralled with my poetry this last week. Both current and old. My newer stuff seems to be almost publishable. I was thinking of calling the collection of it, "Buy Me." Not.

New York stumbled upon a heat wave. The high today was a whopping 37 degrees and I wore a tank top. Outside. I shit you not. I bet I tanned a bit.

Wish me sanity, this Valentine's Day and I'll wish that your chlamydia stays in remission longer than usual.

Have a lovely day. And remember, no glove no love!

Play It Again, Marissa

Innnnnnteresting. Veddy veddy interesting.

I was propositioned.

Or, asked on a date, that is.

I still got it.

Oh yeah, Oh yeah.

OOOH! My Crack Is Exposed!

With my sister working the whole weekend, I'm finally allowed to update twice within a two day period. Awesome, no?

Alas it is Sunday. The day of rest. The day that ends the week (and I'm pretty sure most will agree) from hell.

My room is a disaster but I don't care. F that. More than likely my mother will get fed up with it tomorrow and clean it herself, which I don't really like too much, but really, this woman's boat must float. So be it.

I'm going on a hiatus this weekend. Friday to Sunday. Let the unleashing begin! I'm going to show Alfred what a good time is Marissa-style, complete with my own personal Mardi Gras and Girls Gone Wild combo.

Not.

I'll probably just walk around aimlessly, cigarette in mouth and reminisce of old times playing strip hangman in the art room. All while my snot freezes from the subzero temperatures. (I don't really know what subzero means.)

I've been sleeping on the floor. I'm sick of my bed. I'm sick of my room. I'm sick of this town.

Now I realize. When I have the chance to update, I have nothing to say.

When I have nothing to say, I run with it.

Who knows when that'll happen again?

It's like seeing your mom sit on the floor and her blue corduroy pants splitting up the back. Face it. That's certainly never going to happen again.

It's times like these you wish you had a camera.

Have a lovely day and wish me some excitement to report.

 

Stop the ride I wanna get off!

Again I sit here. Feeling the way I do, but not knowing why. I woke up perfectly fine, went to sleep perfectly fine, rinse and repeat.

I went to my very own personalized torture chamber today. It was a jewelry store, complete with sweet man in hat buying an engagement ring and Elton John's "I Want Love" playing in the background. I wish someone just snuck rat poison into my eggs at IHOP this morning. It would've been easier. (By the way, if you go to IHOP and order the International Breakfast, do not, I repeat, do NOT get the Swedish Crepes. It was like eating a wet sock.)

My life isn't a roller coaster. It's a ferris wheel. It just keeps going around and around in these circles and all I can say is "stop the ride I wanna get off!"

I'm feeling so [insert adjective that describes WHY ON EARTH someone would actually listen to Madonna on thier own free will] that I'm actually listening to Madonna. Normally, she makes me grit my teeth but today I've given that up on account that I'm way too depressed to even move. It's on a loop and I'm screwed until the guy who runs the ride gets back from getting a slush puppy and falafel. Damn Carnivals.

And to agree with Elton, I too, want love.

But it's impossible.

Buy a Pepsi, download the song and get the hell off of this ferris wheel.

5 Men Who Changed My Life

In the course of my short little life, there has been 5 men that have changed my life.

The first was Superman. Well, as I knew him. Dean Cain. I was in 4th grade and watched "Lois and Clark" religiously.

The second being Leonardo Dicaprio. At the ripe age of 10, I fell in love and it was with him. Even my mother wanted to marry him. At the time I didn't think it was so creepy, but when I think about it now it sends chills up and down my spine. I still get a little tingle down in the southern region when I think about him.

Next, Howie Dorough from the Backstreet Boys. I shamefully admit, that I was a teenybopper. I loved him for 2 whole years and even saw him in concert once. Of course, I cried and cried. This embarrasses me an absurd amount. But I must say, I still adore him. He's a beautiful hunk of man. And he's my height!

Fourth, is Jon Bon Jovi. This one isn't exactly over yet, either. I don't think it ever will be. I've loved him since 1985, when I was born. I heard his beautiful voice practically everyday for years, since my brother was an aspiring Richie Sambora. I'm an aspiring Dorthea Bon Jovi.

And finally, my new guilty pleasure. Josh Groban! Yes, that is right, I LOVE HIM! I'm not afraid to admit it, either!

Sorry if any of you boys out there are distraught that you did not make my list. Work harder at being a sex symbol and I will gladly revise.

And Seannnny, you were a very close #5. But not quite.

Why I Love Head

No, no, no. Not head head, just Head.

Head is the nickname of my friend Justin.

A little history of Head: The bestest person I ever met on my 3 year journey in high school. (No offense Seany)

Reading through his journal: http://www.deadjournal.com/users/masterkueller made me realize jut how much him and I have in common.

He wants marriage. I want marriage. We are both frantically trying to find it in each little unlit crevice, but are unsuccessful. We have good intentions, but silently we sabotage ourselves again and again with these somewhat toxic relationships.

Like Justin, I worry about not finding someone. Finding "the one" was always a man or woman without a face in our master plan, but now that our plan as at our fingertips with impending adulthood, we are worried that "the one" will never make their grand entrance. And if they do, they won't fit in to our concrete mold of how our lives are going to be.

That's how idealistic I am.

I am not naiive, however, I know by believing the aforementioned to be true, I actually am. I'm not sure I truly believe that but somewhere deep inside I really doubt the fact that anything will happen that way. My master plan hasn't been going accordingly for about 18 years now, why start now?

And as we wake up day after day, searching, we lose hope each night as we close our eyes to sleep.

And it's at these times, I cry.

Have a lovely night.