I decided to precariously hang an old Sony Hi8 HandyCam from a hook in my bedroom. It’s not exactly sturdy and it’s over my desk. I figured if it falls on my head while I’m working maybe I’ll think of something amazing. You know, like that one guy that had the apple fall on his head.
I went to my housemates to say, “Who was that guy? You know, the one that invented electricity by tying the key to the kite after he got the idea when that apple fell on his head? Was it Thomas Jefferson…. or Benjamin Franklin? …….Isaac Newton! That’s it!”
Both A and D said (almost simultaneously), “Are you kidding right now? You are so retarded.”
"That’s like, not even the right time frame."
"Oh my GOD, Mimi. Isaac Newton discovered the theory of relativity when the apple fell on his head. Gravity. Go write that down. You’re fucking retarded."
Just because they graduated from college they think they’re better than me. (A was a fucking fashion major no less. No offense, one love in case you’re reading this A).
And D. D fucking majored in SOCIOLOGY. That’s like majoring in hanging out with your friends and talking about stupid shit.
I might quit film school. There’s too much involved. Maybe I’ll go back to majoring in English. But I hate reading. Decisions, decisions.
My housemate just said to me (as I juggled three bowls of various vegan treats into the dining room), “If you drop your food you should eat it out of your boobs like a body shot. Then you could like, have salad running down your leg.”
Since I’m a comedian he thinks that he is too. (Only his ideas are “more like, visual” so he says).
To my stoner housemate I feel like he has unfortunately been viewing me as some elderly twenty-seven year old who might possibly have worked at Hooters when she was twenty, you know, because it pays so well, or even just a random head that was Photoshopped onto the body of a 17 year old for Maxim’s Hometown Hotties column (may that publication rest in peace).
I’m going to keep writing about the stuff he says to me because it’s been getting creepy lately.
Like when he said two weeks ago, “Next time you’re in the bath tub I’ll write a song about you.”
So, uh, I’m not sure really how to start this other than just stating that I am literally crazy. Like, clinically nuts. Bipolar, manic-depressive, what have you. No big deal, I take crazy pills when I feel like it. And, it’s loads of fun. LOADS. Here’s why.
Men love crazy bitches. I have reached a point in my life where I’ve realized it’s in my best interest to just let dudes know straight up, “Oh hey, see this little vial of pills in my bag. This is because I’m nuts”. This way when a bedside table is hurtling through the air over an argument about laundry or whether or not global warming is man-made I can say, “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
Recently I had a nice gentleman tell me that he loved my fiery eyes. “Aw, shucks,” I said. “I’m just bipolar, but thanks for noticing.”
My theory about why men love crazy women has to do with all of this rescue hero shit they watched as kids. Men are taught that when they see a woman in danger of being bat-shit insane and totally awesome it is their job to say, “Oh my God! Bitch needs my help! I must fuck the crazy out of her! Rescue Squadron GO!” like some kind of fucked up, co-dependant Power Ranger who thrives off of drama and mental illness.
But really you guys, nothing is funnier than mental illness. Nothing.
My friend Cory txtd me to see what I was up to so naturally I told him I was smoking drugs with my smelly housemate. (This is REALLY what I do on Saturday nights.)
So, I told Cor I was listening to Gnarls Barkley remixes with ol’ Smelly. Cory then said…..
Cory: That’s soccer mom music.
Me: Oh I know. I’m wearing loungey sweatpants from old navy and a hoodie and my hair is in a ponytail. I’m also thinking about giving myself a manicure. Soccer mom to the max.
Surprise, surprise! Under educated and unappreciative patrons of tacky seafood restaurants on Fisherman’s Wharf don’t want to hear me talk about how I spent my day getting high and rearranging all of the furniture in my house. The midwesterners didn’t want to hear about how excited I was to walk past the Boudin Bread Museum on my way to said tacky seafood restaurant/comedy club. (But really, a bread museum that smells like garlic, butter and warm sourdough when you’re a little stoney baloney is a VERY exciting thing.) The West Virginianians didn’t want to hear me talk about being on summer break from a prestigious art school where I am constantly told that my bone structure is that of a screen siren from the 1940’s. The ballet teacher and her steel working husband didn’t want to hear me tell them about how I don’t have any girlfriends due to the fact that these slutbags always seem to think I want to fuck their construction worker boyfriends.
In fairness, my set was lackluster but the joke about no one wanting to be the second best looking girl in a group of boring looking sluts got a much better response on Monday night. I swear that joke will eventually be a gem. When a group of potential date rapists set their sights on you and your ho-iest girlfriends you want to be the girl that makes them say, “Well. If I absolutely HAD to fuck one of them, I’d fuck her.” It’s true. That’s why every mediocre looking woman in the room laughs when I tell that “joke”.