Thanks to all those who have checked for a pulse in the last few days - got a little sidetracked with my piles of work and stuff. Seems I don't have a lot to say when I can barely breath under all the papers.
Okay, so while I have been holed up on Seward Street swimming in self-pity, child abuse cases, and bitch-ass reception sites that think it’s acceptable to charge $3000 just to rent the space between their four walls (three words – eat a dick), I have found myself taking time-outs to watch my new favorite brain-suck.
What is it?
Hold on…wait for it….
Real Housewives of Atlanta.
Not only is it uber-trashy (like watching 30-minute episodes of my high school life all over again, well… minus the millionaires and pro ball players….but with extra doses of hard-core bitches) but it is (gasp again!) reality tv at its FINEST.
Trust it, bitches.
This is IT.
And the biggest laugh of them all is the broke-ass fraud, Kim. She is essentially the only one on the show who does nothing for income (except apparently give it up to “big poppa” who in turn funds her lifestyle), she’s supposedly 29 but looks 59, drives a different luxury car each episode, thinks she can sing (but sounds freakishly like that karaoke video of me…if you didn’t find it, I’m not telling where it is), and basically spoils her children ROTTEN.
And she’s drunk starting at, oh, 8am.
Watch, cringe, laugh, love.
And then let's chat....
Is it rude and conceited to ask: Why is everyone else I graduated with aging so poorly?
I mean, I’m no spring chicken myself, but self-esteem boosters seem to be coming in the form of Friend Requests by fellow Class of 94-ers that are 5-10 years into a marriage with three babies strapped to their asses.
For a while I considered: Huh, maybe I look that old and gross too.
But I have since realized: No.
Thank you running, triathlon and (mostly) healthy living.
In fact, I am healthier and in far better shape then I was in high school, a far away time when I favored oversized sweaters and khakis (to hide a body I hated), ate Marlboro Lights for breakfast and dinner, took up bulimia as my sole extra curricular, and mostly walked with my head down, so as not to attract unwanted and often negative attention.
I mean, sure, there are many a day when I myself can't find a brush for my hair, but overall, I think I held it together fairly well (of course, this is relative to some of my cohorts, and NOT, for example, to Cindy Crawford - 'cause that's one ageless bitch, yeah? Yes, please!)
My personal gems are the profiles of those douche bag guys (that made my life HELL) who are now bald alcoholics – the ones where, at age 32, have their entire Photo application section dedicated to current pictures of themselves, still shit-faced, still with their high school friends, and always at some football game/on a boat/at wedding, just yukking it up, like it was graduation night 1994, and the Black Crowes were blaring from some background speaker.
Apparently, you CAN go home again, especially if you never left (your parents basement), and the bar closes at 4.
It's like a modern day version of a John Hughes "Where are they now?" movie - you know, the one where everyone starts out like the Emilio Estavez character in Breakfast Club, but ends up more like the Molly Ringwald's dad in Pretty in Pink?
Thank you Facebook – you have both eliminated my need to attend any other reunion EVER, and given me the solid knowledge that, should I decide to participate in such a function, I'd win a fat karma victory.