AIN’T NO THANG, JACKIE.

Summer is coming. It always does. And every time it comes I am horrified because I feel I’m never ~~bathing suit ready~~. And every year I say to myself, “Fuck you summer, you will not best me, I have a yoga mat.” And every year it bests me. Except.

Last May I went to Bloggers in Sin City, a conference for bloggers (shut up) that changed my life. I’m not one to join a big group of people I don’t know and have never met. But my mom said, “You have to do this” and I thought to myself, bitch please who acts like they have to be dragged to Las Vegas for a weekend? I am so glad I went.

I wrote a post about how I was freaking out about being seen in a bathing suit, because pool lounging was imminent. But when I got there I saw that everyone was in the pool and having fun and simply did not give a single fuck and it made me want to have fun too and also not give any fucks, not even half of a fuck. So I put on my lady swimming trunks (too afraid to go full bikini) and finally got in the pool.

Today I was looking back at the photos from that trip and fuck, I WAS SKINNY. I WAS SKINNY AND I DIDN’T EVEN REALIZE IT BECAUSE I WAS TOO BUSY BEING AN IDIOT. That’s just so typical, isn’t it? To think you’re fat and then look back and say, “I wish I were as ‘fat’ now as I was then.” To quote Nora Ephron (or what I remember of what she said), “If I knew now what I knew then I would tell myself to wear a bikini throughout all of my twenties.” And the thing is, unless it’s killing you, there is nothing wrong with being fat. It’s all about your attitude. And your mind. And my mind is poisoned.

(Even now I’m looking at that photo of me with wax JFK and I’m thinking, “I know my arm is skinnier than that, why does it look so big?”)

So the thing is now, I am sad because I have actual legit stomach issues and it is never flat. Not bikini ready. On Sunday at 5:30 AM I woke up to run to the toilet to throw up. And it came out of my nose as well and I almost choked to death and died. And I realized, “I should definitely get this checked out. I should take better care of myself. I should eat well all the time, and not succumb to comfort foods.” Like just now I ate 6 milano cookies and realized it was 420 calories. That’s like a meal. And it wasn’t worth it at all. Ain’t that some shit? Yeah, so my body is legit fucked up, it’s not just in my mind anymore. My stomach hurts frequently (once I had to sit under my desk and rock myself back and forth) and I have to dress like a pregnant woman so that nothing constricts my mid section. Is this not the most sexy fucking thing you’ve ever read on my blog?

My point is this: ladies and lads, you get more awesome every day. If you don’t like yourself today, then like yourself tomorrow. The only person that you have to look like is you. There is no size or weight that you have to be. You do not need to lose weight. That is a myth. What you need is to be happy and confident. If more women were happy and confident with their bodies then maybe we wouldn’t have to photoshop the fuck out of everything.

Oh hay just posing at a fast food BBQ joint, no big deal. Instagram @apocalypstick

This going to sound like the musings of an incredibly stoned person, who is in bed eating Trader Joe’s snack mix while watching “Breaking Bad” but having to constantly rewind because they’re ironically too high to understand it, but I swear I am not stoned. Currently.

Life is so very weird. For example, I now both drink and enjoy iced coffee. You get what I’m saying? Big news. Life is weird, it’s like, one minute you’re the hottest bestest newest thing and the next minute you’re fat and bald and starring in a remake of The Taking of Pelham 1 2 3. You know? The weird thing about life is that things don’t seem to change day by day. You wake up and think, I have to do this same stuff again. But when you think really far back, there was a time when you weren’t doing that stuff. Somehow everything changed. And look at your friends, what are they up to? One minute they’re there, the next minute they’re gone, or sick, or incredibly famous. Usually all three, if you live in LA. Life is weird.

A lot has changed for me within the past year. A complete turn around. I even look different physically, in that I have never looked more like Mick Jagger in my life. And my stomach is constantly upset. I think it’s because beneath my skin is a fine layer of stress. Someone suggested I meditate. Sit in a chair and set a timer for 10 minutes and just sit there and breathe. I’m sorry, sir, but no. I can’t sit in a chair for 10 minutes and do nothing. I’ll just be thinking about the timer going off. I’ll start with one minute. Even that seems really hard. Heating up Hot Pockets in the microwaves seems to take hours.

I should eat less Hot Pockets.

I just want to know what’s going to happen. Where will I be next year? Actually, no, that’s too far ahead. Where will I be next month? Can someone spoiler alert my life? I don’t have time for this shit. I don’t want the journey, I want the destination. Fuck the journey, the journey sucks. No one on the Oregon Trail was like, “This is so awesome how we’re running out of food and dying of dysentery, it’s all gonna go downhill once we get there.”

Kids, help.

http://instagr.am/p/fOkZe/

Good news, everyone! I suck at everything! I want to cry and throw things and scream and laugh all at the same time, but I can’t. And you know why? Because I suck!

I usually talk about how even when things suck you have to find a way out because the more you say and believe they suck, the more they will.

SUCK SUCK SUCK EVERYTHING SUCKS I DON’T CARE, COME AT ME UNIVERSE. WITH YOUR MAGIC SUNSETS. I DARE YOU. Throw a sunset in my face, see if I give a fuck. I don’t. Spoiler alert GONE because I just said it. I DON’T GIVE A FUUUUU

How many times have I written that it’s okay to feel bad and it’s okay to suck as long as you realize it and then you can rise above it? So why can’t I? I am terrible at taking my own advice.

It’s so much easier to suck at everything than to try hard at anything.

The frightening truth is that I am not happy or okay with who I am, and I may never be. I was drifting along, like a plastic bag in the LA River, when I felt hate and loathing slowly pulse throughout my veins. For myself. People are like, “Shut up so many people would love to have your life” and I’m like, “So what who cares” and they’re like “You’re acting like a child” and I’m like “Nu uh I’m an adult” and then my mom hangs up the phone.

WILL SOMEONE HOLD ME?

I keep trying to work on my book. I take one step forward and two vodka shots back. It’s hard! It’s hard you guys! And what’s the point, anyway? Who cares? “I would rather watch somebody buy their underwear than read a book they wrote.” – Andy Warhol (true story).

There are so many people out there who are so much better than I am. And by better, I mean famous.

Guys life is hard. These are worse than White Girl Problems. These are Apocalypstick Problems. Or even Uncle Almie Problems.

Why do you suck?

Photo of my friend Chelsea as Edie taken by Lisa.

I do, sometimes. (I’m quoting Katy Perry who sings, “Do you ever feel like a plastic bag drifting through the wind wanting to start again?”). I cringed at first with this simple “American Beauty” inspired lyric, but now when I’m feeling down all I have to say is, “I feel like a plastic bag” and my friends just get it.

Things are pretty much super in my life right now, so of course I wish it was different.

You want a rocket ship and then you get a rocket ship and suddenly you panic and think, no I don’t want this fucking rocket ship I want a boat. It’s something like that. It’s the feeling you get when everything is going right.

Contrary to what you’d think, it rarely feels good to feel right.

It’s like, this is not my beautiful house. This is not my beautiful wife. How did I get here? Where are my keys? I lost my phone.

The easiest thing to do in this situation is to take a deep breath and say, happily, “I don’t give a fuck.” Look at your watch and realize that it’s I Don’t Care O’clock. It’s freeing. I’ve also found that it actually really helps to listen to the Katy Perry song (“Firework”). When I’m stuck in traffic on the drive home I blast it 4 times in a row. My drive home is an hour and a half. If anyone wants to make me a mix and post it/has a mix already made, please link me. It would make my days. It’s in bold because it’s really important.

So what’s my problem? If everything is so good why does it feel so weird?

I wonder who would go to my funeral if I died. Legit dead. Water skiing accident. I don’t know how to water ski, hence the death. It kind of bums me out that I don’t have a boyfriend or husband who would show up to mourn. I know, I know, this is lame-ass or even ass-lame. No one I’ve ever dated would show up either. I don’t even know how they would hear about it. I guess my friends know that if I’ve gone a few days without tweeting, something’s wrong. I think I need to fake my death and then right when everyone has shown up and is very sad, I would pop out of a cake. Are there cakes at funerals? I want a cake at mine. Just wheel out a big fake cake instead of a casket and I’ll just pop out smiling like Debbie Reynolds. And then I wonder, will people actually be relieved to see that I’m not dead? Or would someone think, “Damn, so close”? I need a mortal enemy. All good bloggers have a mortal enemy. There are people on YouTube who tell me I’m ugly, does that count? Then there are people on Vyou who insist that I am a man and that I should, “Punch myself in the dick.” Let me tell you, internets, if I had a dick first thing I would do is punch it, just for giggles. Just to see what happens.

So anyway, I’m dead and I wonder, how long would that novelty last? I think people are finally over Heath Ledger’s death and he was a legit celeb. My death would make people sad for…I don’t even know if I could wrangle a month. Sure, my family would be sad, but my family is sad anyway. I just want a boyfriend to cry in the rain, chasing a cat, tearing his shirt off, screaming for me. I think I deserve that much.

Wait this cute guy just sat down next to me at Starbucks. That’s encouraging. Should I ask him if he would pretend to be sad when I died? Like exchange numbers so that when I die he shows up and tells everyone that he’s my secret lover? Would that work? I need a fake secret lover pact. But only with someone hot.

I think it’s pretty clear from the above exchange that I might be depressed as fuck. That or I just sit in front of the computer until I smell. But really, isn’t that the same thing?

People tell you that, “Time heals all wounds.” People tell you that, “It is better to have loved and lost than to never have loved at all.” People tell you that, “It’s always darkest before dawn.” These people are liars and assholes and should go to cliche rehab.

Let’s address their first groundbreaking, brilliant point. Time does not heal anything. Time just separates you from the thing that happened to where you are now. Sure, the pain may not feel as fresh, but it doesn’t erase the fact that the pain was there. All time does is enable you to trick yourself into thinking and believing that you’re fine, because it happened how ever many weeks/months/years ago and you’ve changed ever so much since then. And if time really did help you, fuck you, you liar.

Second: the whole it’s better to have loved and lost than to never have loved at all. There’s been rumors that there’s a drug out that erases memories. Real “Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind” shit but without the whimsical touch and Jon Brion soundtrack. If this drug exists I need it in me like, yesterday. I would erase it all. Like that. The good memories do not outweigh the bad. The damage is done. My good friend Abby said, “You know I realized I’ve never met your parents” and all I could think was, “Yeah let’s really get to know each others’ families so that when you leave me I can feel especially terrible and embarrassed. Because it’s not enough to have you go away, but I would love to break-up with your family as well. If a whole clan can reject me instead of one person, that would be awesome.” And this is just my great friend Abby! How the fuck am I supposed to trust someone who wants to have sex with me? And by the way, I am not having sex with anyone, that ship has sailed, or sunk actually. My sex drive is the Titanic, shit is just dead and buried. I didn’t even get a string quartet to play me off, goddamn.

Yes, it is always darkest before dawn. Literally. But after dawn comes, the darkness is still there, it’s just inside of you. So now you’re like a goddamn haunted house, wherever you go, the poltergeists follow. You are completely and totally fucked. Get all the exorcisms you want, but that demon knows, “LOL you’re mine, bitch” and it’s right. When you’re dark inside, there is no difference between day and night. Things that seem bad at night are just as bad in the morning. They’re waiting for you. It’s like having own personal Tyler Durden. Have fun, kids! Make some soap!!!!

Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go back to drinking wine and listening to Regina Spektor.

But the wine is pink!! I CAN STILL HAVE FUN.

Torn — Natalie Imbruglia

(Yeah, let’s do this shit right.)

Fuck you, guitar man. Fuck you for looking beautiful as you got on stage with your guitar. Sure, you were dressed like a bartender and before you got on stage I thought you worked here, but now it’s all different. Fuck you for singing and playing the guitar so well. I don’t even know if you’re playing it well or if your general attractiveness is just translating through everything, but fuck you anyway.

Fuck you for looking like a more grown-up version of my ex, who I hope has been attacked by bears and after the bears attacked him they left him for vultures and the vultures did what they could and then a shark joined in, it actually got up out of the ocean and hobbled over, and then the bears came back because they decided they weren’t done (you know how bears are). Fuck you for looking like him and doing a really great cover of a great classic rock song mixed with another great classic new wave song. Bitch.

Fuck you for that glimpse of wedding ring that I didn’t catch until your very last song. Fuck you for being married. Fuck everyone for being married.

Fuck everyone who has ever let me down. You will never make your way back. You’re on my list. There is no getting off of this list. All of the pizza parties in the world will never get you off of this list. Oh, you don’t care? You don’t care that you’re on this list, guitar man? Too bad. Because I am an amazing friend. Once you’re my friend I will remain loyal to you with a ferociousness that is both admirable and a little scary. I am generally a good person. I am kind, generous with money, will show up to your Facebook events, and I fuck like a champion. So fuck you, guitar man. Fuck all of the guitar men of the world. And fuck you, Prince. I don’t even have a reason, but fuck you.

How Dark Is Your Dark Side — His Name Is Alive

That’s not happiness to see me, is it? — Michael Douglas, A Perfect Murder

This year for Yom Kippur bitches better atone to ME. I am DONE. I am not atoning for SHIT. I am the Kanye West of the blogging world. Bitches should be HONORED to atone their sins to ME.

Sometimes I just hate this city. Sometimes I just want to walk outside and just vomit everywhere. Sometimes I can’t be as positive about life as I was in my last post.

I just cannot believe that everything happens for a reason. I think this is something people say when something doesn’t work out for them. Life isn’t an episode of “Lost.” That person you saw at the airport is not going to become the love of your life 3 months later. Life is random and full of dead ends. Things don’t work out the way you think they will. So here’s where your choice comes in: you can accept that it didn’t work out as you thought it would and be okay with it or you can act like an asshole. I have chosen to act like an asshole.

When I was a little kid I thought I would be doing something very different than what I’m doing now. But in all honesty, when I was a little kid, I thought I would be Zorro. I thought that by now I would be running around in a cape with a sword. That didn’t happen. Am I pissed off that I’m not Zorro? Fuck yeah I’m pissed off I’m not Zorro! That’s bullshit! I SHOULD BE ZORRO, FUCK THIS.

I don’t want to be an adult! Except I like the part about drinking. That’s a great part of being an adult. Even though I’m an adult most people think I’m under 21. I got carded at my Nana’s 90th birthday party. The fuck?? And here’s the kicker: I was a year older than the bartender! What’s going on? And why didn’t I get carded today? SOMEONE FUCKING CARD ME.

AND NO, I WILL NOT JUST DANCE. IT IS NOT GOING TO BE OKAY. YOU LOST YOUR KEYS AND YOUR PHONE, WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU KNOW? YOU’RE DRUNK, GAGA! STOP TRYING TO GIVE ME LIFE ADVICE! YOU CAN’T EVEN REMEMBER THE NAME OF THIS CLUB!

So yeah, I’m done. If Bret Easton Ellis gets to walk around drunk while wearing sunglasses indoors, I should get to do that too. I have nice Polo Ralph Lauren sunglasses and mine are PRESCRIPTION, SO FUCK YOU BRET EASTON ELLIS. I still want to be your best friend though.

Hey, in order to be the voice of my generation, do I actually have to write something? Can’t I just tweet shit and be drunk? I think if Ernest Hemingway had twitter he would stop writing novels. Didn’t he think that the best thing he ever wrote was a six word short story? I REST MY PANTS.

Runaway — Kanye West

A few nights ago, I went to a house party with a dear redheaded friend. I love house parties. It’s the unexpected factor. Will there be good drinks? Will there be cute guys? Will this be the house party that you saw in the movies, the one where everyone had a good time and there’s fun indie music playing in the background and you all wound up jumping into a pool and then dancing in front of a huge fireplace? Who knows?!

This house party had none of those things. However, they did have food, which I will give them major, major props for. Then again, they also had minimal seating and a very loud band. Look, I’m an old person, I guess. I want to go to a party where I don’t have to drink cheap vodka out of a red plastic cup and where I don’t have to pretend to care about your stupid band that Pitchfork just loves. I want to have adult conversations and adult drinks. At least people are starting to dress better. Yikes, here I go. I’ve said it before, I’ll say it again: I am an old gay man trapped in a young woman’s body.

But that’s not important right now.

Most of the party was spent with the two of us talking solely to each other. I wasn’t in the mood to socialize with others. I was just in the mood to look good and pose. Which is basically what I did. I admit, I could have been nicer. But when a drunk girl practically collapses into your lap exclaiming, “WHOA, I did NOT see those steps there!” and cackles like Bette Midler without the charm, am I supposed to smile and agree? Or am I just a huge bitch?

Here’s where it went from awkward to straight up uncomfortable. My friend and I wandered into the living room and I saw in front of me a very attractive man. He was tall, had the profile of Adrien Brody, and the glasses of Don Draper, if Don Draper wore glasses. Basically I’m saying he was a handsome, well-dressed man. He looked oddly familiar. I was pretty sure that he wasn’t actually Adrien Brody, so why did he look so familiar? And then, like a sharp hiccup, it came to me.

This was my Facebook crush.

A long time ago, I went “boy shopping” on Facebook. I scanned friends and friends of friends for cute boys. I found one and I messaged him saying, “I don’t know you, but I think you’re cute.” He added me back. I looked at his photos, came to the conclusion that he had a girlfriend, and that was that. Eventually I landed a relationship of my own (which recently exploded, like the rockets’ red glare) and never thought of him again.

Until I saw him, in person, at this party.

“Oh no,” I thought. “The internet is here.”

I didn’t introduce myself. I don’t think he noticed me. Probably because I tried my hardest to become one with the wall. But it was a shame. There he was, cuter in person, with a (most likely) girlfriend in tow, and I was doing my best to pretend like we didn’t have access to each others’ newsfeeds. Not like I’m assuming he even checked my Facebook profile. Which brings me to another “I am secretly an old person” eye roll: when did the Internet go from being a convenient way to meet people to a new way to make people feel awkward?

I whispered to my friend the whole messy scenario. We then escaped outside. Where I ran into ANOTHER guy I was friends with on Facebook but not in “real life.” We ignored each other. Or rather, I ignored him, while he probably took no notice of me and if he did, had no idea who I was. The Internet is here, and it’s a real thing, and it’s freaking me out. I do not like what this beast has unleashed upon my generation. Like we don’t have enough problems (hello, fucked up economy, nice to see you again).

As usual, I blame the internet for everything. Always.

We’ve Been Had — The Walkmen

I’m near-sighted but tonight, as I’m trying to work on my book (and I swear this isn’t an excuse), things are a little blurry. Is it possible I’m also far-sighted? Or am I going blind? I AM GOING TO BE SO FUCKING PISSED OFF IF I GO BLIND.

It’s these damn big pupils of mine. For some reason, they’re larger than most peoples’. I’m pretty sure of this. One time I went to the eye doctor and he leaned in and said, “You have beautiful pupils.” And I said something like, “Oh…heh, uh, okay, thanks.” And he said, “They’re very large.” And I couldn’t even say, “Eyes up here, buddy” because that’s exactly where they were.

Don’t people who have large pupils have a better chance of going blind or something? I will be so angry if that happens. But on the plus side, I’ll take up smoking! I’ve always said, if I ever get an incurable disease, I’m just going to say, fuck it, whatever, and start smoking. It’s Manhattan, who gives a fuck? I’m also going to drink a lot too, but like, unabashedly. The great thing about that is I’ll never have to worry about being a designated driver. For a couple of reasons.

No, seriously, I don’t know how people do it. Once I interviewed a man for my documentary on Marilyn Monroe fans (that seems like it was in another life) and he was blind and I wish I was still in touch with him but I lost his address and I stupidly asked him if he had email and he said no, because, he’s blind. I mean he didn’t say that, he was kind and said that the technology for web surfing for the vision impaired wasn’t up to snuff yet. It was like on American Idol when Secrest held up his hand for the blind dude to high five or when George W. Bush waved to Stevie Wonder. Coincidentally, Ryan Secrest and George W. Bush really defined my later high school years, in their own special ways. Anyway, I was interviewing this guy for my documentary and we started talking about his life and I didn’t want to ask him, “Why are you blind, what happened?” because he mentioned when he was a kid he could see, but I didn’t want to put him on the spot and you can’t just ask people why they’re blind. So I asked him about work, fishing around to see if maybe it was a work-related injury. I know, I’m horrible! He told us about work, it was a perfectly normal desk job. He asked, “Is there anything else?” and I stared at my friend Erika and it’s like I was saying with my mind, “Ask him when he went blind” and I could almost hear Erika saying back, “That’s so awkward, you ask him” “No, you” and there was a strange halted pause and Erika finally just asked him something else.

I’m a vain person. I like putting on make up and spending money on hair products, and essentially, you know, not being blind. I worry that no one would want me anymore. That my friends would stop calling. They would probably keep texting, though, and I’d have to ask my mom to read the texts aloud to me. Because my generation hates talking on the phone. This is the internet’s curse.

Two nights ago I was in a hurry to drive over to my bestie’s house and so I quickly smeared face moisturizer on, focusing under my eyes, because Proactiv dried out my skin and now I’m worried if I scratch my cheek I’m going to cause a DAMN FIRE, and I put on lots of mascara and other essentials and drove off. I put on the air conditioning, as I tend to do, and on the drive over I felt my eyes starting to sting. Before long they were tearing, and burning, and I had to pull over. Thankfully I decided not to take Mulholland on the way there. When I pulled over and saw my red eyes, mascara running down, I realized that my moisturizer had sun screen in it and I essentially used it like eye cream and the cool breeze blowing into my face caused it to seep into my eyes. Then I realized I’m an idiot. Then I bought eye cream at Costco. But that happened today, and it’s another story. Except it’s not really story, it’s me wanting to buy $80 Chanel eye cream at Costco and my mom convincing me to get Olay.

My point to this stupid story is, what if I’m causing my own blindness? But don’t we all, in some metaphorical way, make ourselves blind? We never want to see what might hurt us. We make ourselves deaf, too, not wanting to hear what might hurt us. We do this to ourselves. …No? Yeah, I tried.

The Logical Song — Supertramp