My life sometimes feels like it’s just a collection of hilarious WTF stories. Like I was born to be God’s Joe Pesci (what am I, God? A frickin clown ova here?!). One day when I’m just a sexy pile of bones (finally, my ideal weight!), my entire existence will be summed up between the pages of a coffee table book. Pull-out tabs, excerpts from my raver notebooks (yes I had those) and Facebook diatribes, blurry pictures taken from Blackberry cameras, and crazy and uncharacteristically pleasant notes I’ve written on birthday card envelopes coming down off drugs will all come together to carry on my spirit. (By the way, if my parents outlive me please don’t let them read it. Ever.)
This blog has been a long time coming. And yes, it’s quite late. Mostly because I’m lazy, but also because I was overthinking it. What should I write about? Who am I writing for? What kind of witty name am I going to use? Fuck it. I’ve been posting every thought I’ve had for like 5 years via Facebook statuses and now it’s time to offend you masochists in a format that allows me a limitless character count.
I started with my TTC Douche Guide (sort of like a bird watcher’s guide, but instead of blue jays and cardinals you can learn to identify public transit douchebags), but dat good good is gonna be the shit that makes you choke on your sammich, son. The shit I couldn’t make up if I tried. While I’m an insane Virgo who spends too much time inside her own head, I’m somehow also an intensely extroverted person. I talk to strangers all the time. I could probably name 10 people that I met in passing and have now known for years. Sheeeeeit, I’ll admit it; I’m a people collector. I love meeting new people and I love hearing their stories. I’m annoyingly curious and want to understand everything. EVERYTHING. This all leaves me open for some interesting experiences.
I place laughter very high on my list of priorities in life, somewhere in between music and breathing. While sometimes I’ve had experiences that weren’t so amazing as they happened, I have always enjoyed telling a good story, regardless of whether or not I am the butt of the joke (I often am).
Falling down a flight of stairs in a packed club in Manhattan that I was at with a guy I met in a different packed club in Manhattan earlier that year. Wandering through Hollywood with a male nurse – still in his scrubs – that I met on a train that afternoon. Being bestest friends with a Puerto Rican cowboy mailman I didn’t actually meet until, like, 6 years into the friendship. Going to an afterhours and getting fucked up with a girl whose boyfriend cheated on her with me years earlier (I didn’t know!). Wandering through the club district in Toronto with zombie make-up on my face, surrounded by people who had never heard of then-still-relatively-new Nuit Blanche. Going to six different Urban Outfitters across the five boroughs (ok, two boroughs) to find a Simpsons toy with a crazy New Yorker I met on Migente while trapped in a Dominican hotel room with my brother over Christmas break. Hitchhiking with a pizza delivery guy when I was 17 trying to get to a rave. Meeting some lone weirdo on vacation with his grandparents in line outside of Drai’s in Vegas who paid for bottle service, and would later be kicked out for pissing under the table we were at. Getting deported from the U.S. These are the types of situations I get myself into.
Just wait until I start writing about my dating life.