Monday, October 24, 2016

Why Caring About What People think of you is as Productive as Playing Darts in the Dark

The other day I got adult acne downloaded an app called "Unfollowgram" which tracks and identifies the dickheads people who unfollow you on Instagram.  My heart sunk when I saw that several worms people I barely know had jumped ship.  What the fuck?  I thought to myself as I spiraled headfirst down a slippery slope of despair and into a cesspool of nagging, hypothetical questions.  Did I post something offensive? Am I annoying?  Do I post too much?  Do people hate me?  I promptly unfollowed all of them back and made a mental note to snub them if I ever ran into them which is about as likely as Donald Trump respecting women given that most of my unfollowers don't live in my city.  Letting people so insignificant to my life/happiness cause me even 5 seconds of despair is more insane than Amanda Bynes circa 2013.

Then, I sobbed thought to myself:  Who cares?  Why am I getting adult acne worked up?  So what, someone was cleaning out their friend list and I didn't make the cut. Does this affect my life?  Does it affect my job?  My family?  My friends?   The world?  Even now as I read my intro paragraph I find myself cringing at the level of childishness I allowed myself to sink to. Vowing to snub a near-stranger because they chose not see my pictures on social media? That's a new low.

We all have that one person who we admire above all.  For me, that person is my Dad, whose name is Si. Sometimes, in various situations I'll think to myself: What Would Si Do?  I did this in this instance and the answer I came up with?  He'd never be rattled by an app called unfollowgram, that's for fucking sure.

But there I was, letting this ridiculous app effect my day and HOLY SHIT I NEED TO STEP AWAY FROM MY PHONE AND GET A LIFE.

The most important lesson I continue to learn as I grow older is that adult acne is a very real thing people in general don't think about me as much as I think they do.  They really, really don't.   I'm writing this as a reminder to myself and to my people - STOP CARING WHAT PEOPLE THINK ABOUT YOU.

Here's why:

People are thinking of themselves most of the time.
Let's say you're talking to a coworker.  We'll call her Tabitha.  You and Tabby are in a meeting and you notice she is scowling in your general direction.  You think to yourself: Tabby hates me because I forgot to add the attachment to an email I sent her earlier.  She thinks I'm stupid and careless and she's going to mention the blunder to my boss, then I'll be fired and have to move in with my parents. What's actually happening is: Tabby is scowling because she's suffering from a UTI she got from banging her dickhead tinder boyfriend and she's not looking at you, dipshit - she's looking at the clock and counting down the minutes until she can bolt from the meeting and slurp up a gallon of cranberry juice to ease the burning sensation.

Thinking about what another person thinks of you is as productive trying to give an Over The Pants Handy under Niagara Falls 
Trying to dissect how another person might perceive you robs you of the present moment.  I struggle every day to establish a marriage between the present moment and my mind.  The only times I really let my mind run rampant without any hesitation is when I'm writing and need to imagine the future or pull from the past to create content.  But in general, I've grown terrifically tired of the residual effects of overthinking. When I find myself speculating about what Darryl Dipshit thinks of me I am essentially leaving the shallow end of contentment and control and diving into the deep end of worry and uncertainty. Staying present (most of the time) is wildly essential to my sanity.  I'm sure it is to yours, too.

Letting people's opinion of you effect you can be stunting/paralyzing
Let's take a look at successful people: Steve Jobs, for example (RIP).  You think he gave a rats ass what people thought of him?  Same with people like Beyonce and Ghandi.  That's how they all became so successful - they didn't care.

If I got too much in my head about what people thought of me I wouldn't be able to write this entire fucking blog, because - let's face it: I am putting it allll out there for everyone to see.  It would be absolutely crippling for me to pay too much attention to what Doreen from Accounting thinks of what I have to say on Toe Pick, assuming she reads it.

Not everyone is going to like you
I do not consider myself to be what some would say (for lack of a better word) "normal".  I'm an acquired taste.  We all are - we are all made up of different parts, that's what denotes individuality. I know there are 2 people out there who don't like me.  I'm not comfortable with that. All that matters is that I like me AND SHIT OUT COMES TONY ROBBINS AGAIN.  I think about it like this: does the fact that Silly Sally Sitting Sideways on the Sidewalk Selling Seashells by the Seashore thinks I'm weird effect my life at all?  Nope.  That's Stupid Sally's problem, not mine.  Moving right along.

Life is so short - think about chocolate cake, not Glenn
This is something I think a lot of females have problems with: over thinking about an ex or someone who is doesn't reciprocate romantic feelings.  This is literally the biggest waste of time.  Lying in bed thinking about someone who is not thinking about you and is likely banging another person is so extremely tragic.  When this happens, it is pertinent to shift your focus to something wildly random.  Think about dildos, Fidel Castro, monkeys, global warming, Donald Trump's toddler hands, OJ Simpson's guilt, Ross Perot's ears and why he never once considered pinning them, where tollbooth workers park their cars (SEROIUSLY, is there a fucking parking lot on the side of the highway? Or are they airlifted in and out of their booths?), how snakes mate (they already are a penis so WHAT THE FUCK, HOW DOES IT WORK!?), butt plugs (seriously, are those really a thing and what is their purpose?), or whatever else your warped little mind chooses to think of.  (BTW, your are welx for the suggestions and insight to the inner workings of my brain).

In conclusion, always remember that the most important relationship you have is the one with your vibrator yourself, so fuck what other people think, seriously.

HAPPY MONDAY, my friends!


Tuesday, October 18, 2016


2016 has been...for lack of a better word: normal. Aside from having left my job after 4 years in early June, nothing even mildly eventful has happened.  It's been a year of releasing things that haven't brought me pizza joy - I equated said job to a youth/pleasure/life vacuum and part of me thinks I was suffering from Stockholm Syndrome while I was there; the other part thinks I might just be watching too many Dateline episodes about brainwashed kidnap victims.  Who knows. Who cares.  I’m out!  That’s all that matters.

TV revivals of the OJ Simpson and JonBenet Ramsey cases drew me in and proved to be all-consuming. I can safely say I’m a self-proclaimed expert on both cases - a direct result of countless hours devoted to watching any relevant documentaries/interviews I could get my hands on. Coworkers, friends and family members have grown wildly irritated by my inability to refrain from pelting them with obscure, random facts on the subjects and I’d like to take this opportunity to formally apologize to them for my lengthy outbursts JUST KIDDING I LISTEN TO OTHER PEOPLE’S BULLSHIT ALL THE TIME, LIKE THE OTHER DAY WHEN MY FRIEND SPENT AN HOUR TELLING ME ABOUT HER BOYFRIEND’S DISDAIN FOR GRANOLA AND BOOT CUT JEANS, LET ME HAVE MY MOMENTS PEOPLE.  Sorry for yelling.

I also took a break from dating to focus on JonBenet Ramsey documentaries myself this year.  I sought to become happier by quitting my job and finding JonBenet Ramsey documentaries a new, more suitable one and in turn I figure I'll eventually find a mate because of the whole "no one can make you happy until you're happy with yourself" adage and OUT COMES MY INNER TONY ROBBINS AGAIN. Seriously, I haven't even had as much as a tiny crush in 2016 – in fact, I'm pretty sure my hymen has grown back and OH MY GOD I NEED TO WATCH WHAT I SAY, THIS IS A PUBE-LIC BLOG.  But this is all neither here nor there.

Lately I've tried to take online dating seriously - per the suggestion of every person I know in San Francisco.  I'm not sure about the rest of the country but dating apps in SF have become more endorsed than Air Jordans were back in '92.  As I fumbled to have anticlimactic conversations with guys on these apps I had a monumental breakthrough (sarcasm font): prank tindering is waaay more fulfilling and entertaining than real tindering is.  

Seriously, prank tindering has offered me reprieve from having to watch Vagisil and HPV vaccine commercials in between JBR and OJ documentaries.  It has made me laugh when I've wanted to cry about my discovery of how Haribo Gummi Bears are really made. Before you call me an evil sadist who gets pleasure from messing with unassuming male humanoids, I implore you to get a fucking sense of humor and stop being such a fun-absorbing tampon keep an open mind.  These pranks are all in good fun. 

My characters this round include: Debbie Downer, Donald Trump and last but not least, a cat-obsessed whack-job.  Enjoy.  (If you're reading this on your mobile device, please click on the below messages to enlarge them as they may be too small.  <if only that worked for other things>).







And, that's all I have.  Happy hump day!


Tuesday, October 11, 2016

A Thank You Letter to Donald Trump

Dear Donald Trump,

Thank you. 

Thank you for reminding me of the importance of bleaching/flossing my bottom teeth on the reg.

Thank you for helping me to recognize the fact that doing the duck face is about as cool as a pap smear.  Because of you I'll likely never do it again - maybe then my Instagram follower count won't be in constant jeopardy.  

                                  Displaying IMG_4303.JPG

Thank you for being the reason I saved 40 bucks after cancelling my spray tan appointment with “Cindi with an i”.  Without you, I would’ve continued to resemble a pumpkin - but seeing your image on the daily has knocked some serious sense into me.  Thanks, Don.

While we’re on the subject of hair: thank you for reminding me I need to deep condition and brush mine.

Thank you for (especially just now) reminding me that mocking other people for their appearance is sinking to your level – so in addition to saying thank you, I’ll also say I’m sorry for my aforementioned comments.  I’m better than that.

Thank you for renewing my admiration for my father; a man who would never deign to talk like you, to act like you, to discriminate against minorities like you, to disparage women like you, to set a tragic example for the children of America like you, to act as a reprehensible representative for all redneck racists and sexists like you.  Thank you, Donald – because of you I hugged my dad a little tighter when I saw him last weekend.

Thank you for reconfirming what I’ve known all along: men who’ve treated me like nothing more than a sperm receptacle will never have a place in my life or take up any more of my time.  Thanks making my resolve to find a man who is a good person a little stronger.

Thank you for reminding of the negative effects of cocaine – incessant sniffling and spouting out rampant, unintelligible drivel is never a good look.  I really do forget that sometimes, so thank you for the reminder!

Thank you for instilling in me the old adage: money doesn’t buy class, especially if it can’t even buy a mildly realistic toupee.

Thank you for making me even more grateful for the women in my life: you remember women, right? They’re the ones you objectify – you know, the ones whose pussies you think you’re entitled to grab?  Without the women in my life I’d be a pretty lost person – so, thank you – your barbaric locker room talk helped strengthen and solidify the respect I have for women.

Most of all, thank you for confirming for me that I’m not perfect; no one is.  I have a lot I need to work on – so do you. 

That may be the only thing we have in common, Donnie.