Last night, I finally caught an episode of the new Conan. I realize the fact that I haven’t made a better effort to watch it is a mortal sin. But I honestly didn’t know what time it came on, or what channel—shoot me, because I don’t have DVR. I’m like the only person that doesn’t because that’s just how lazy I am…I don’t want to make a trip to the cable company and get a proper box.
But anyway, last night was a typical night of a white single female. I ran errands, came home, heated up some leftovers, and plopped my ass on the couch to watch 25 Years of Sexy, a special on People Magazine’s Sexiest Man Alive issue. And yeah, there are times when I love being single. But, as you all know, times when I really get down about it.
In these times, I usually turn to Gizzy, because she won’t judge me and she will listen to me cry, then tell me to buck up and realize that we’ve got it made. I made a promise that I would be honest with you readers, so I will say that having the disgusting trashy cheating bastard ex call and text me, has taken a bit of a toll on me.
In my past experiences with breakups and exes, I’ve found thinking about the bad things that happened often make me feel better. But in this instance, they make me feel worse (as do thinking about the good times). It’s almost like I get mad at myself for falling for someone who was such a jerk off. Anyone feel me?
I will say, with the holidays approaching, my case of the lonelies such even worse. I am excited for Turkey day, as I get to see my friends—Gizzy and Buttons. But Christmas, ugh. Last Christmas I spent with the disgusting trashy cheating bastard ex and his family. And it was fun. BOOOOOOO!
The light at the end of the tunnel (and I can’t believe I’m saying this) will be New Year’s Eve, since Gizzy and I are planning a fun night of drunken festivities (this means you have to buy your flight right meow, Gizzy, or else I’m gonna have to kill myself on Dec. 31). In the meantime, let’s take a looksy into my grocery cart from last night, shall we?
We have a case of 24 cans of cat food, a bottle of red, wheat bread, and a bag of coffee. If that cart doesn’t scream single girl, then I don’t know what does. Am I the only one who thinks this is funny? Because normally my cart looks like I’m a mother of 4, but not last night.
In other news, I’m addicted to ice. Seriously. And no, I’m not anemic. And yes, I’ve heard that means I’m sexually frustrated. although it’s been a solid month since I’ve gotten laid, fooled around, kissed anyone, or visited the vibrator, I don’t think that’s it. Even when I was getting laid on the regular, I was snacking on ice.
It’s been going on for a good four months. I blame it on stress. But it’s starting to get a little embarrassing. I crave it. I will get a glass, fill it with ice from my freezer, put a little bit of water in it, and wait for them to melt a little, so I can crunch them all down.
I’ve even started ranking different ice I enjoy. In my freezer, it makes the half-moon shaped ice. Which isn’t my favorite. Which is why I let it melt before I crunch. Crushed ice and the ice chips, of course, rank among my fave. And those clear, hollow cubes are pretty good, too.
I know, you are probably bored reading this, or think I’m crazy, but this is my real life, folks! It’s becoming a problem, because I do it in public, which I’m sure makes those around me cringe. I crunch when I’m on the phone.
When I see the ice sitting in a glass, I spy the piece I want. Then I get it just right and gulp it into my mouth, and CRUNCH. I’ve discovered the food joints around town that have crushed ice, and that’s all I want, a large cup of crushed ice.
What’s even better? The drink the ice is sitting in. I love to crunch on ice that’s soaked up some orange juice. Last weekend I enjoyed some bloody mary ice. I’m thinking I just need to freeze coffee and maybe a few pureed dinners and crunch on them.
I’ve been aware of my problem for months, but last weekend it reached its peak. I was out with my friends, and we walked by a snow cone booth. Oh. My. God. I had visions of stuffing my face with SHAVED ice. Just plain, shaved ice. Wow. I almost stopped, but I figured my friends would cut me off and take me to rehab if I did so.
You know what sounds good right about now?
I want to bring up one more thing before I go: iTunes “big” announcement Tuesday. The Beatles. The fucking Beatles. I’m gonna say it, I’m not afraid to say it—I don’t like The Beatles. Not at all. Nope. Not doing it. There, I said (i read it, I stole my mama’s credit, I’m cool I’m hot, sock me in the stomach three more times). So yeah, I was freaking DISAPPOINTED when I saw that on the sight.
Fatso was having a debate in the hallway with my boss: “which is better, The Beatles or The Rolling Stones?”
THEY BOTH SUCK! I said. AND I’M DISAPPOINTED THAT WAS APPLES BIG ANNOUNCEMENT!!!! I WANTED SOMETHING BETTER. WAY BETTER.
“What’d you expect?” he asked me. “A cure for cancer??”
“That you’d be dead.”