Not the kind of girl you marry is now the kind of girl you marry because she's rich

When I look back on all the shame binge drinking has brought upon my life, I want to crawl under my desk. Throwing up in the backseat of someone's car or peeing on a neighbor's doorstep always left me genuinely mortified the next day. And for weeks after would wear my drunken scarlet letters like they were going out of style. Needless to say, I suffer from relative self-loathing.

Sadly, I now see these hours of agony were wasted...because this was maybe the BIGGEST missed opportunity of my life!! Thanks to one person. Ke$ha. Her songs are so mind-blowingly stupid that I've been avoiding her lowest common denominator image for the last year. But out of boredom, I recently read an article about her. The fact is, this bitch is profiteering on every horrifying binge drinking episode that I have tried so hard to bury. I guess I really squandered one of life's great cashcow opportunities. Ladies! if you're going to be a drunken whore...capitalize.

Unfortunately, my time has passed. The hangovers are just too debilitating at 28.

Emergency Grandma Death

Currently, I am formulating an emergency excuse to get out of jury duty. Here are my top three choices, in no particular order...though I do wonder that 3 shouldn't come before 1:

1) My grandma died. I'm feeling sad about it?

2) A troll is eating my leg. This is not good. I may be dead by next week.

3) My grandma died again. Am I losing my mind, thereby making me an unsuitable juror? What's next, lightning striking one time in one place, and then striking again at a different time in the same place?

Diary of Poor Little Poor Girl : Entry #1

Moooooooooooooooooooooom, we're ALWAYS eating our own blisters because we can't afford actual food! I hate you!

Josh Duhamel...is super Into SciFi

Josh Duhamel is a huge geek! I know this because he married a creature from District 9. One of the prostitutes, to be specific. Does she look like she is perpetually covered in placenta to anyone else?

Bachelorettes

The friends I went to college with in Ohio are normal late twentysomethings, just like me. Except, you know, engaged and condo-owning. In my visit to Chicago this past weekend for Glenda's bachelorette party, I was the only one sans-sparkle. Within the next two months, they will all be wed. Invitations (she BETTER not be bringing a guest!, or: just fucking RSVP Dad!), seating arrangements, florists, photographers and gowns were the weekend's hot topics. I had zero to contribute (save, "Ladies, not to stress! This is only your first marriage."), but found the whole thing fascinating. Planning the nuts and bolts of a wedding is a highly chaotic and emotional process. Essentially it's as if you were on your period everyday of the year. Luckily, Glenda is a great friend who is marrying a great guy: Fernando Monterey. And a name like Glenda Monterey is the stuff made of spiced cinnamon beets and telenovelas.

On a side note, Glenda reminded me of two occasions in college when I was weird: 1) In my sorority state, I had a crush on a fraternity douche bag and we had arranged a study date at the library. I took two hours to do my hair and make-up, but wore sweatpants to look casual. Before I left, I chugged a Mike's Hard Lemonade to calm my nerves. Studying at this study date seemed out of the question. 2nd) A boy asked me out. I didn't seem very interested, as I agreed to meet him at the Bell Tower dining hall instead of going on a proper date. On top of that, I forced Glenda to come with me. Could I have been more of an asshole? Yes. I got a breadbowl for lunch. I ate half of it, and at the table, put the other half around my neck like a floatation device. I had all but erased these precious memories, so thank you.

lazy flesh (bones, schmones)

How is it possible that doing nothing makes you more tired than before you did nothing? In my unproven equation, there seems to be a bell curve with relaxation plotting left and degeneration plotting right. That pivotal crest of the bell curve's humpback where a simple couchrest devolves into the sensation of 20-hour jetlag and all-night cram sessions with no caffeine access. In the spirit of productivity, I've finally received patent approval on my design for comfortable furniture with internal radiators. After two hours of user resting time, your chaise lounge becomes a fiery convector; your bed a horizontal toaster. You will be motivated to move again after a tiny, double-pipe radiation system begins to burn your flesh through any 120v outlet! My rump is starting to roast...I have to get off this couch...Goodbye.

sluts & suds

Three days ago, I ate a pain chocolat. It was a French pastry, and I know this because I ate it in France (my logic). This was the end of a two-week sailing journey that changed everything...I am finally no longer a virgin. In reality that is not true, but I do feel as though the world is a bigger place (or is it smaller?).

Several things happened on this journey de la Cote d'Azur. On a sailboat, you begin to commune with the water, just as a jellyfish might. The same jellyfish that stung my thigh. This happened as my friend Laura and I painstakingly scrubbed algae off the hull of our sailboat (Captain's Orders). I won't mention that these orders were the result of me taking a twenty-minute shower the night before, depleting the crew's water supply. Despite the jelly sting, Laura and I came up with a million dollar idea: Sluts & Suds boat cleaning service. We have registered all of our necessary corporate trademarks, so don't bother. This idea is based on the hot girl carwash model and really has no downside in any economy. S&S boat cleaning may be a tough job, but after surviving the monsoon, is clearly doable.

During a night sail, I was awakened at 3am to a large bang. The ship had clearly hit the bottom of the ocean. This was impossible and a pretty dumb notion overall (my brain is perpetually out to sea, as they say). Anyway, it was hitting big daddy waves. Enormous waves that collided with our vessel like some death bumper-car session where you're allowed to go 90 mph. I lay in my bed sliding back and forth as the room undulated and the teak walls moaned something that sounded slightly like, "Aw, Christ." I told myself to resume sleeping. This became comedically difficult as the bucket-sized amount of water splashed onto my bed from the open ceiling hatch. I ran into my friend's room, whimpering into her bosom about our impending watery graves. She told me to let the waves lull me to sleep and blissfully ignore the red blinking cabin lights and gentle "cyclonic conditions alert" on the sea radar grid.

After surviving the storm, we were crabby, sleepless, crab-bitches. After some sustenance (a stick of butter and some espresso), we continued on to St. Tropez where we observed curious creatures. Beached whales! Upon further inspection, we ascertained them to be large humans sunbathing nude. As everyone knows, this group is "never the one you want to see" unclothed (why do these men shave everything?). It seemed impossibly cruel that this section of beach was also the main snorkelling area. Not the sort of sea-life one wants to observe in detail.

We learned that Australians refer to red-heads as "gingers", pronounced "ghing-er". That sometimes guitarists can play better breathing through a snorkel. That the name for Sponge Bob in French is "Bob le Ponge" ("Squarepants" has no meaningful translation). Finally, Laura made the astute observation that "Wish You Were Here" postcards are best replaced by "Suck It" postcards. After all, you're in paradise. Screw everyone else.