There once was a girl who loved iced coffee so much and so obsessively that she dreamt of it and woke up saying its name. Before she knew it, she was drinking three a day: one grabbed from Pret A Manger en route to work, one at 10am from the deli downstairs, or Starbucks (coffee part 2), and one mid-afternoon fix for no good reason whatsover.
She preferred it VERY specifically: drowning, CLUTTERED with ice – about 70% ice, 30% actual coffee. She preferred it so she could consume the drink in it’s entirety during the walk back to work. She preferred it with skim milk and one splenda; she liked it so cold it burned her hands.
This girl loved iced coffee so terribly that one time, in Rome, when she could not find it and was tired of yelling FREGGO to confused Italian waiters – she purchased separately a large cup of ice and a 3 doppio’s. Stirring, shaking, waiting, she finally got her fix. French people starred. What the f*#k is wrong with Americans? ( I don’t know, the French. I really don’t know. It’s just who I am.)
One day, recently, she sat down to crunch the numbers of her tepid affair. Shocked, she was, at the result: 1,095 iced coffees a year. $2,190 on sweet cold Joe. Starring at the reality of these figures, she realized that she kind of wanted an iced coffee.
She checked the clock. 9pm.
So she put on pants and went to get it.
I am very proud of myself. I have sworn off drinking and taking pictures of myself. For real. My will power is a force to be reckoned with. Seriously. I’m not doing it anymore, At All.
Seriously, learn to Pop your thumbs / fingers in this way/ place. It kind of takes a few weeks of maiming yourself to get to the point where you can actually do it (personally, I gave myself bruises) – but oh, what sweet release.
If you don’t know this about me, please know that I can, and constantly do, pop my fingers in circa four places, as well as knees, elbows, back, and inner foot bone. Bring it, other pop monsters. I rule this court.
I promise to stop taking pictures of myself doing and holding up gross things and putting it in my blog. I promise.
Actually, nevermind, I don’t.
Alright, Bekah. Le jig is up. It is time to quit living lie things, and come forward, honestly, about your sad, post-graduate addictions. Do not glamorize your life; rather, tell the truth. Be honest about how things Now Are, and they way they will probably Continue to be, for quite some time.
I have a problem.
I am addicted, legally, infinitely, passionately, to television. This has never happened to me before. I pass it off as research, because if I ever want to write for TV, which I should (see exhibit my MASSIVE DEBT), then I should watch TV. A lot. This habit started off innocently. A little late night Ugly Betty here, a lot Family Guy there. But: it has turned into a full-fledged evening habit. Worse than fingernailing biting (which I still do); less bad then um. Heroin? Yeah. That’s right. I don’t do that.
Yeah, maybe I do. Obsessively, and a lot. Nearly like background music. And also:
which is this adorable new show about a girl (miss cutie mccute pants, who knew?) Christina Applegate, who used to be a royal mc bee(otch) and gets amnesia, and is now re-discovering herself, re-inventing her life. So stinking cute and legitimately humorous. This I like to watch in 30 minute increments before bed, balancing my mac on my Christmas gut.
Honestly- do you remember how good this show is? Honestly. Elizabeth got the DVDs, and we have a problem.
Well, I gotta go. I’m meeting Jared Leto in the boiler room. I think I’m going to tell him it hurts to look at him, or I might just pick a fight with my Mom or dye my hair.
Hi, friend. Hi. Hello, dancing dinosaurs, the apocalypse, and the appearance of friends from third grade as supporting characters who wear un-hat objects as hats. Hello, tornado dreams.
….Why? Just Why?
I don’t feel good.
I wish someone would butter me up some saltines, wetrag my forehead and tell me a story.
When we are Grown and have a Home, we may choose to fill said home with ‘knick knacks.’ These grow to be porcelian (or pewter) suggestions of our belief system, values, whims; reincarnations of once pets.
Our tendency being to collect little things we will Never Need, to fill some Void that shapeshifts from wooden rabbit to Russian tea doll, these collections grew SO vast that someone created a thing to put them in:
And inside, little Objects laden with sentiment, painted with quaint eyes and quiet lips, can be arranged. There they can sit, dust free, being knacky.
I officially lament all of the knick knacks I accumulated from Goodwill while in high school, having not yet found a Home to put them in.
Gooey breakfast sandwiches, homemade peanut butter sandwiches, garlicky green beans, Baby Back Ribs, warm yellow rice piles, roasted chicken things, dirty south cole slaw, butter biscuits smother in chocolate; very frozen Long island Iced Tea with plastic versions of fishlife floating inside of them. All of these things, into your gob they go.
Cheddar and Chive Mashed Potatoes, Country stuffing with Apples, Sasuage and Sage, Blocks and blocks of brie, Orange Cranberry Relish, big melty warm turkey chunks, Pumpkin Mouse, Chocolate Bourbon Pecan Pie.
Put all of these things in your mouth, because life is too short, and because I say so.
I’m ready to eat.
Walking by a random Baptist church in Kip’s Bay today, I saw this etched on a plaque:
‘Disturb us, Lord,
when we are too pleased with ourselves,
When our dreams have come true because
we dreamed too little,
when we arrived safely because
we sailed too close to the shore.’
- Sir Francis Drake
And I liked it.