Tag Archives: warren motherfucking beatty

Diary: Halloween

10 Aug

I now hate Halloween after blowing my lunch hour buying a hair dryer for my Warren Beatty/ SHAMPOO costume and getting embroiled in a pre-Halloween day line at the Goodwill like it was 1939 and people were trying to get out of fucking Czechoslovakia, and it was caused by an elderly woman at the front disputing the price of a pair of underwear. No joke. Fighting for it like it was the last pair of high waisted rayon panties on earth and similarly her two dollars represented the very last American currency in existence. Or something. I should have just walked up and given her a buck, but you know, fuck helping people. Or I should have left. But I couldn’t risk it. I might never again have had an opportunity to purchase so perfect a replica of Warren Beatty’s hair dryer so cheaply again. When the world hands you an opportunity like that you have to fight for it, with every fiber of your being.

Diary: Back to the Pussy War

16 Jun

OK, now I am back to wanting an actual girlfriend.  Like, I want one.  I want to get married, settle down, have kids, etc etc. So I gotta find one now.  What a fucking pain in the ass.

I mean, seriously.  I have tried this.  We have been through this.  And I failed.  But apparently you are not allowed to simply fail– if you go through twenty years of trying to find a nice girl to get married to, and you come out of it beat up and exhausted and you just, you’d like to enjoy a couple months of just sitting on the porch with your cat and a nice room temperature glass of inexpensive pinot noir on a  Friday night instead of let’s go out to bars where girls used to go, look at the girls, and be too scared to talk to the girls—you can’t do it; some mechanism in your glands fires off after a few weeks of defeated but relaxing non-activity and says “OK, good halftime, let’s get back out there.” Continue reading

Diary 2/27/11: Going to the Oscars

10 May

So: going to the Oscars.  Going alone.  It’s awesome that I’m going but it fucking sucks that I’m going alone.  At first, I was pissed that, you know, if I could have had a date, I would have been able to pull some incredibly high caliber of ass.  But then I would have had to keep the party going, get us into Vanity Fair, or Madonna’s house, or whateverthefuck. Now I can just come home. But still– this crazy spectacle, tons of famous people… I mean, I’m glad I get to see it, but it will suck to have no one to lean over next to and whisper to. Maybe I’ll sit next to Hailee Steinfeld’s mom or something.  Some woman from Kansas who doesn’t know anybody there either.
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