Life In Your Twenties: An Ugly Truth

 

Unless you are a trust fund baby or a white, cishet male, life in your twenties is hard. If you are a white cishet male and I've offended you by saying this, well, sorry. Why don't you go run for senate and win and then abolish me to Antigua. You will probably be able to achieve that before I can finish this sentence, and actually I'd love to tan naked on a beach in Antigua. Please bring me a mojito.

There are so many things you'd think I would know by now, but don't. I absolutely loved my education and would not trade it for anything, but I wish I could have taken an elective called "WTF Is A Mortgage" instead of the required Human Geography. What is Human Geography? you might ask. Great question. I would like to direct that inquiry to my professor, who smoked recreational pot and rode a beach cruiser to work.

Until then, lets explore a comprehensive list of things I do not know, despite being 23 and what some may call "educated":

• Back taxes

• How to fill out a w-2

• Which leads to: what is a w-2?

• How to avoid using my email to sign up for websites that will spam me with thousands of emails advertising how to stop being such a fatass, courtesy of Dr. Oz  and some bullshit, batfart tinkle juice that is the new "miracle weight loss drug." 

• Panera is expensive, why are you still paying 7 dollars for a sandwich containing a whoopee cushion disguised as deli meat and an entire raw onion.

Fortunately, there are a few things I have learned:

• If you chew on a gumball until you give yourself TMJ you will forget how bored you are and your jaw will be so sore you'll stop talking and everyone will be happy.

• Just because someone leaves an untouched, completely full drink on the bar, doesn't mean you should take it. It should not have taken me two separate occasions to learn this lesson. 

• Incidentally, do not leave a half-full bottle of champagne if my immediate presence if you're planning on drinking it yourself and don't want to wipe grilled cheese crumbs from my face at 4 am. 

• Friends are worth more than rubies

• I am assuming a ruby cost approximately 5,000,000 gobstoppers

Now, if you'll join me in signing a petition for the creators of ABC Family and the CW to stop casting glamorous twenty-year-olds in all their shows featuring highschoolers. High school is supposed to be a time for harvesting crop rotations of acne and mistakenly using a razor to trim your unibrow. Instead, hire me to play all of the roles. I already posses a wig that I stole from a frat house in college, so that takes care of one costume change. I'd also really like to be able to afford Panera again.

Valentine's For All You Bloody Savages Who Want To Swallow A Live Dove: The Final Chapter

The day is here. The polar vortex that swept the nation has truly arrived, dumping inches upon inches of cociane dust on all our homes and making it impossible for me to drive to the market and buy the new marshmallow oreos. This is the day of Valentine's. It is finally upon us.

For all of you who are planning on staring intently into the black, soulless bird eyes of your date across the table from you in search of the secret of Nihm, have fun. This is not for you. Here is the final installation of alternative valentines activities.

Week 3: No means no and yes also means no unless your name is Julie Andrews and I am now the Princess of Genovia

• Go out for a walk. Pack a N*SYNC Hit Clip and a Cliff bar. Never come home. 
•  Fly to Sochi. Assemble a "Cool Runnings" team of compatriots. No fewer than one must wear a high-top style of hair. All must be named "Ned." Compete in the Men's luge in a laundry basket. Nearly obtain success, but make sure your ruddy faced Caucasian competitor comes in first, as to not disrupt the order that Overlord Putin installed thousands of years ago. Win the hearts of millions worldwide. 
• Play a game of Red Rover with the British Monarchy. Make sure to run between Queen Elizabeth and Prince Harry. Break between their arms, clutching the Hope Diamond in your hands and snatching it from her wilted neck. Assemble a team of ex-patriot corgis to lead you from the palace grounds. Never look back.
• Be born a woman. Work twice as hard to get half as far in your field of choice. Spend a lifetime climbing a mountain of sexism, misogyny, and menstrual jokes. Finally make in to the top. Have a hobbit sized hole carved into your office door. Tell all the men they must enter through there, forcing them to crawl in on hands and knees. Drink an entire bottle of scotch and laugh a hearty laugh. 

Good luck. First one to resurrect John Candy and makeout with him wins a box of thin mints (MUST HAVE PROOF OR NO DICE). 

Valentine's For People Who Don't Like To Share Their Food, Part Deux

The day is neigh. Entire flocks of birds have fallen from the sky. Locusts, also known as, "Seahawks fans," have swarmed the streets. We saw a shirtless Anthony Kiedis, who may have also been Cher, perform squats during the Super Bowl halftime. Valentine's is almost here. But fear not, my friends. I have gathered another round of alternative activities for all you single guys and gals, or anyone who identifies greatly with Jafar from Aladdin. 

Week Two: Yes, I have been watching the airport scene from "Love Actually" on a loop and listening to The Fray. No, I am not sad.

• Find the address of the last person you made out with. Make them a mixed tape. Include a note that says, thinking of you. Fill the CD with 20 tracks of Cotton Eyed Joe.

• Steal someone’s credit information. Use it to order 5,000 Hawaiian shirts. Tell people it’s for a flash mob at a bank. Take all 5,000 participants to the bank. Put on Baha Men’s cult classic, “Who Let The Dogs Out.” Rob the bank. No one will be able identify you in the crowd. Move to Brazil.

• Liquidate all of your assets and purchase a floor length mink stole. Put on dark sunglasses and a feather boa. Dig a hole in a nearby park. Bury yourself alive. When you are discovered centuries from now, advanced civilizations will assume you were a Hollywood Starlet, or Baby Prince George’s wet-nurse. Enjoy your newfound celebrity in the afterlife.

• Find a rip in the space/time continuum. Go to the Arby’s in which Bill Murray is currently enjoying a sandwich. Stick your arm through the portal you just created, and steal a couple fries. Remove your arm. Say nothing.

 If all else fails, here's this. Listen for 48 hours straight until Rick Astley becomes an omnipresent and malevolent demi-god. Congrats! You'll never be lonely again!

Tune in next week for the final installation of Valentine's activities. Until then, don't get desperate and make out with Andy Milonakis "on a dare." Keep it together, for God's sake. 

Dream Team: Super Bowl Sunday

This time last year, we were honored with the greatest Beyonce concert of all time. It was so phenomenal, Earth said, “I can’t,” and shut off all the lights. This year, I heard a rumor Bruno Mars and the Red Hot Chipotle Peppers are trying to match her. It can’t be done. The Chili Peppers are great for moments like when I want to think about the time my high school boyfriend confiscated my iPod and downloaded every song they’ve ever done. Bruno Mars is only good for “Gorilla,” which is only good for sexual encounters. So really, never.

To occupy myself this year, I’ve decided to construct a fantasy team…of all the people who would exist in my dream life! Sound self-indulgent? It is. The fantastic part is that I don’t care.

So welcome, team of Meat-Men from one part of the country and team of Hot-Dogs in Helmets from another. Here is the 2014 line-up of the Ultimate Fantasy Team Franchise- Tiana’s World.

Dream Next Door Neighbor: Sunny Obama. She knocked over a little white girl at a charity event and became a viral video star. She shits in the yard. She probably has great snacks and sits on beanbag chairs. I love her.

Dream Best Friend: Michelle Obama’s arms.

Dream Grandpa (Paternal): George W. Bush. Such a mess. Such a painter. I want to rub his big acorn head. He would chuckle, hand me a nickel, and tell me to go buy myself some lollipops.

Dream Grandpa (Maternal): Tim Gunn. Sleek. Cool. Chic. Lots of hugs and body positivity. Catchphrases!

Dream Nemesis: Diane Keaton. We’d run into each other at a swanky LA restaurant. She’d say something snarky and then laugh with her rows of grey shark teeth. I’d tell her she looked great in her recurring role on Law and Order as “corpse.” She’d shove my face into Queen Latifah’s birthday cake. I’d push her so hard she'd fall back, clutching a nearby tablecloth in her bony Gollum hands and rip the dinnerware from a couple’s table. I'd then cackle my whole way to the police department where we are both booked for drunkenness and disorderly conduct.

Dream Car: A pack of wolves attached to a wagon.

Dream Boyfriend: Tom Hiddleston.

Dream Side Boo: The Bachelor, Juan Pablo, who saw me walking down the street during production and promptly quit.

Dream Reconciliation After Tom Catches Me With The Bachelor, Juan Pablo: Tom stands outside my bedroom window with a boom box like in a John Hughes film. He wears a leather coat and plays my dream Beyonce song.

Dream Beyonce Song: All of them. Tom stands outside my bedroom window for four days. I am very busy.

Dream Thing To Be Reincarnated As: The most loved thing on Earth; a pinterest board titled, “Pies, Cakes, And Cookies :)”.

Dream Elvis Impersonator: Elvis, who faked his own death so that he could live in my closet and read me Berenstain Bears books.

Dream Red Carpet Gown: Frasier Crane’s bathrobe.

Dream Lover: Genie from Aladdin or the voiceovers for Planet Earth.

Dream Exercise: None, because I perfected the science of cloning and body modification, so I have the head of myself with the appendages of a Victoria’s Secret model HAHA.

Dream Way To Wake Up: Tropical birds fly in through my window to remove the sheets from my genetically modified body. Beyonce, who is also living in my closet, immediately starts singing the line “I woke up like this,” and doesn’t stop until one of my male concubines, (they are all named “Penis”) hands me my angora fur slippers. I rise. The world takes a collective sigh of relief. 

Sounds plausible. Now, back to your above-ground pools filled with queso and various meats wrapped in Pillsbury crescent rolls. I've got work to do.