It’s been a long time, butterflies and bay windows. I’ve missed you. Well, I’ve missed the dirty emails (Actually, gross. No more treadmill action shots, please). An explanation for my world wide webular wastyface is forthcoming, but first, let’s talk text messausages…
I get a lot of tomfool text messages, especially as of late, what with spreading my number over the Internet like a goat spreads shit and all. One stranger recently told me that she (he?) drank four shots of vodka at work. Another stranger ask if I would officiate her gay wedding, which I probably would do if said communal bliss wasn’t happening the same weekend of my annual menstrual hut party. I’m currently in two texting relationships that are far more hopscotch than any homo-to-hominid romanicism I’ve had since that thing with the lady cop last summer. Unfortunately, my pillbox only holds 30 texts at once and I deleted a bunch of rubies from 512 Stranger, my most LTR virtual girlfriend, before recording them (many apologies, 512), but below are examples of recent pop rocks:
- Just got a kitten. Thinking of naming her tyra banks. I almost went with Oprah… Obviously she’s black. (828 Stranger)
- I was gonna go to work. Then I puked. Then I realized my kitty is noticeably bigger. And I don’t want to miss her youth. I will be a shitty welfare mom one day. (Also 828 Stranger)
- The unemployed do not have the joy of being surrounded by drawers with such labels as “trachea chopper,” nor do they have the opportunity to order herring sperm from a catalog. By the gallon. For reasons such as these, work can be pleasantly surprising. Or maybe you have these things at home. I don’t know. (812 Stranger)
Fun, right? My unlimited texting plan is getting mad kalistenics and sometimes I get answers to the important questions in life, like, is it ok to break up with someone for using AOL?, or, how about for using the term foodie? Also, how do you know if a dude is gay or if he’s Italian? There are also, natch, the dang-shooky-dirty texts that make me wonder why people don’t understand the concept of good, clean text messausaging fun. Rude.
But the worst t.m., the one that gave me heart palpitations like that time I mixed poppers and ketamine, didn’t come from an anonymous wwwer. No, it came for my very first landlord, a woman who’s house I lived in for the first nine months post-conception until rudely being evicted in the parking lot of a Mexican restaraunt: Mazog.
The text? Rding 20/20.
That’s right, wwwers, Mazog read my very public, very Googlable private diary. And although this really shouldn’t be that big a deal—after all, this a woman who told tried to convince my sister to spend a full day on that most democratic of public transit, the Greyhound, by saying, “It’ll be fun. You can pretend you’re poor.” But even though Mazog and Pazog are about as lowdown straightup combo of xx and xy one could want in a landlord, there was a not-so-small pool of urine at my feet when I found out that the innermost secrets of my public internet diary were being read by my MOTHER. I mean, I’m developmentally 19 years old. I’ve done some really dumb shit; mostly dumb rite of passage shit—getting arrested for skinny dipping in a water trap at the country club, for instance, then getting kicked out of the dorms the following week for making my room into an opium den/speakeasy. Nothing too terrible, but still not the shit I want my xx and xy donors to know about when writing their will. Kids have always lead double lives. The part of you that’s masked from your ma and pa under a sheen of business casual and dinner parties is what makes being human worth singer songwriters and popped collars. I consulted my doctor friend about this (ok, more astrologist than doctor. And more Miss Cleo than friend), and she showed me a scientastic paper about how when life expectancy was 15, six-year-olds hide their papyrus secrets under stone pillows. True story.
You can imagine how I felt. Exposed. Betrayed. And, mostly, terrified that my patrons/benefactors are going to cut me off the family plan if I don’t get my shit together. I considered retiring 20/20, but I already paid for the domain. Then I considered only posting lists of my good works (Thus far today: getting ranch with my cheese fries even though I’m terrified that the Brit Brit in me comes out merely by saying the words “ranch” and “cheese fries.” Meaning, I laid classism at the feet of french fries. Also, I didn’t call my most hated barista faggot under my breath this morning, despite the fact that he is definitely not Italian.) Instead, I’m going to man up. I’m going let my testes swing under these denim cutoffs. I going keep up this shit and ask Mazog to sign a binding contract stipulating that if she ever peeps this again, I’m getting Tori Amos’s face tattooed on my neck.