John Smith is...

If I never saw these ten things on a Facebook status again, I wouldn't be upset.


1) The Boyfriend Report.


"John Smith is...thinking about my boyfriend CONSTANTLY!!! <333 XOXOXOXO"


Every time you write something like this, you make it that much harder for me to be sympathetic when you're "HEART</3BROKEN :(((((((" two days later.


2) The Vague Expression of Passive Aggression


"John Smith is...wonders why in someone's darkest times I help them, but when things are going rough for me, that someone is no where to be seen!"


Gee, why don't you just tag the person you got in a fight with two hours ago. Are you hoping to make all your friends worry that you're mad at them? The comment section on these is even better:


Jane Doe: OMG, you're not mad at me, are you!?
John Smith: Oh no, hunny. OMG, I love you! Someone just doing something they shouldn't. Just someone.
Susie Johnson: It's not me, is it!?
John Smith: ROFL...no...someone else...


..It's just a process of elimination after this point.


3) The Inside Joke


"John Smith is...Koala Bears in the what what? Hahaha"


You know, they have this new thing where you can edit what groups of people see your status. Why not do that rather than make everyone other than the two peoples who know what the hell you're talking about read this and have their heads explode while they try to figure out how you came in contact with a koala bear and just what your "what what" is.


4) The Ode To Life


"John Smith is...Crazy pancakes after a fan-freaking-tastic party at Henry's! I love my liiiiife!"


I don't care.


5) The Cursed Life


"John Smith is..I just found out that I'm adopted and my real parents are Bavarian gypsies! FML!"


FML = TMI...brah..


6) The Declaration Of Love To A Really Bad Pop Culture Phenomenon As If You're The Only Moron That Likes It


"John Smith is...BATMAN is AMAZING! Everyone should see it!"


I'm confused, are you talking to the four people that haven't seen it? Thank you for exposing us to this hidden gem. Aside from the record-breaking gross and the Oscar nominations, I never would have heard about it.  Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to go back under my rock and see if I have enough change for a movie ticket. Those cost a few nickels more now, right?


7) The Song Lyrics Dedicated To Whomever You Just Had Sex With


"John Smith is...And your body is/My Ferris wheel/I loved getting stuck/At the top ;)"


Just so we're clear, it's 2am, your soul mate of the week just blitzed you a "text ya tomorrow" line and bailed. This declaration of love, and/or orgasm, doesn't make your hookup any less trashy. 


8) The Compliment Fisher


"John Smith is...I'm the worst person ever. Someone just shoot me."


Am I the only one who sees statuses like this and wants to comment with, "Yeah, you really are. You should find a bottle of something, anything, and drink the whole thing. So glad you realized this without any of the rest of us having to tell you, what a load off!"


9) The Bar Tab


"John Smith is...Still soooo wasted from last night. Threw up on myself. Hahaha..who wants to go out tonight?"


If I wanted to know how your inevitable alcoholism was going, I'd ask. I'll just wait and catch ya on the new season of Intervention in a few years. 


10) The Awesome Vacation That Only You're On


"John Smith is...Watching a tropical sunset on a beautiful island in the Pacific. Life is glorious, isn't it?


Fuck you.






..I realize Facebook no longer defaults your status' to "John Smith is..", but I think it should. That was a good deal the old Zuckerberg had goin...along with the old format....Timeline..pfft.

Vagina jokes aren't funny. Period.

So I haven’t been writing  many blog posts because my computer broke, but this week I didn’t write any blog posts because I was too pissed off to write.

And what, you ask, happened to piss me off to such an extent?

Well, now, that’s the fun part. Because nothing happened. Nothing at all. Nada.

Unless you count THAT THING.

That thing that happens once a month. That thing that turns me, within seconds, into a stark raving mad specimen of humanity – a walking nutjob.

I’m fine. And then OMG I’M NOT.

That thing that makes me want to punch strangers in the throat for chewing too loudly, cry, scream, and eat all simple carbohydrates in a five-mile radius. That thing that makes me question the meaning of life while weeping at a car commercial and screaming at my roommate's son to STOP MAKING NOISE.

Oh yeah. You know what I’m talking about. They call it “PMS.”

For the record, I think that is the stupidest name IN THE WORLD for such a thing.

I have some better ones. More descriptive. Accurate.

Such as: “Pissed off, Maniacal and Starving” or “Pending Marital Separation” or “Psychotic, Melodramatic, and Seething,” or “Pardon My Satanic-nature.”

Those are just some ideas.

You think I’m kidding? You think I’m exaggerating? I’m not.

“Pre-menstrual Syndrome…” Bullshit. That sounds so innocuous, like it ain’t that big of a deal.

Well I’m here to speak for those of us women who TURN INTO MONSTERS for a few days each month and pretty much have no capacity to change it. I’m always slightly amazed my boyfriend hasn't broken up with me after this "special time".

Men, listen up. This shit applies to you too.

At any rate, check it out: once a month, about a week before my period, I’m sitting there minding my own business when all the sudden, out of freaking nowhere, drifts into my reality a dark, cold haze. It enters every cell of my skin, right through to my bones. I feel it sinking in, a discomfort. An irritation. Like a fly buzzing just outside my ear. I feel it course through my veins. An anxiety. An angst. And I want to break things.

When it hits my ears they become more sensitive. When it hits my brain it becomes confused, scattered, anxious. When it hits my eyes they begin to only see the shit that annoys me. They see only negative.

And when it hits my heart, my heart gets heavy. It becomes a thousand pounds. My emotions burst from it in quick flashes of pain and agony and existential contemplation. What IS the meaning of life? Why AM I here? WHY didn't that motherfucker tip me more than two dollars for a phenomenal haircut?

But mostly…WHY IS MY BEST FRIEND/ROOMMATE SO FUCKING ANNOYING?

Why am I cohabitating in the first place?

Why don't I make more money so I can afford a 1 bedroom with all the amenities?

Why don't I have kids?

Would I like my kids?

Why am I so fat?

I wish I were 18 again.

Why aren’t I 18?

I need a scone.

And there’s that FUCKING FLY.

SHUUUUUUT UP!

It’s never shutting up.

It’s here. “People Must Surrender,” because I’m fucking insane. For a few days, I am insane. Women who get PMS like me should get a break from their lives. We should get a handicapped parking spot. We should get special pills and massages and a camp or something with nothing but silent people, trees and hot tubs.

Why? Well, I’ll tell you why. Because once a month:

1. I am not responsible for the shit that comes out of my mouth. I don’t even know who the fuck is saying it but I KNOW IT AIN’T ME. That bitch is crazy.
2. I am not responsible for the shit I put into my mouth (Yes, I just said I am not responsible for the stuff going in or out of my mouth.)
3. I want to crawl in a hole and weep and die, though it’s unclear to me exactly why.
4. I cannot recall why anything in my life is the way it is and I’m pretty sure it’s ALL WRONG. (But there’s nothing you can do to fix it so don’t even try because it’s never getting better and that’s just the way it is you fucktard.)
5. I am no use to my boyfriend (because it’s all his fault).
6. I am no use to my friends (because they’re so irritating I can’t spend more than 5 minutes near them).
7. I am no use to my coworkers (because everyone's face is irritating me somehow).
8. I am bloated. And nobody likes that. But I can't drink water or get to the gym or do anything other than eat chocolate and caffeine because I'm comforting myself with food and beverage even though I'm going to regret it and I'm getting fatter by the fucking minute but OMG there's that FLY and IT WON'T STOP BUZZING

Dude. No really. Let’s start a PMS camp.

Some medical site describes the emotional PMS symptoms as follows: “tension, irritability, mood swings or crying spells, anxiety, depression.”

Summarization:

Fuck you.

You irritate me.

Please don't ever leave me.

My GOD why are you so annoying?

No wait, I'm sorry I'm such a bitch.

I want to move to Freemont, West Virginia.

Holy shit, I'm fucking hungry.

It’s good to be back. In more ways than one.

Family Reunions. Double the family, double the...not fun.

Every five years or so, usually in the summertime, some nutso aunt sees it customary to host a Family Reunion, where all of your extended family gather for an extended weekend. So to prepare you for the 1 in 5 chance that you must endure one of these abominable experiences, jump on in.

Now, everyone getting together may sound amazing in concept, but has the potential to go horribly awry in practice. The Family Reunion only happens once every five years for a reason. It's like the Family Olympics.  Even though the Olympics only happen every four years.

Look, just forget about the Olympics, okay?

The point is, you train for years to get to the point where you can be the best that you can be, so that when you see that hot second cousin of yours, even though you would never consummate your lust, you can make them seriously rationalize in their heads that making out with a second cousin wouldn't be nearly as bad as making out with a first cousin.

When we were younger, Family Reunions were great! They provided us the opportunity to bond with our cousins and meet that second cousin that one day we would have a totally inappropriate, but nonetheless hot, crush on. It was good, clean family fun.

Now that everyone's grown, but not old enough to have kids, and all the cousins are good friends and of drinking age, oh my God, do people get wasted.

Especially Nana.

And that's okay.

Yes, I just said it's okay to get wasted with family, which goes against my previous teachings, (Previous Teachings) but --listen carefully-- Family Reunions involve enough people and enough stress, that it would be wrong not to drink.

Unless you're an alcoholic. Then you most definitely should not drink. However, drinking adds to the experience.

For example, when your brother's perfect wife is taking pictures with her perfect kids, who are all wearing perfectly matching plaid outfits, you can act like you're at one of those interactive Sound of Music screenings where you get to drink and yell at the film. You can demand they all sing "So Long, Farewell", and when the children look confused and a bit frightened, and your brother gently suggests that you stop drinking, you can get up and start sprinting and pretending you're running to Switzerland.

Now to me, that's hilarious, only because The Sound of Music was one of my mother's favorite videos, and I watched it enough as a child that I have it memorized. To you, probably not so much. Brush up on your Julie Andrews days of yore, then we'll talk.

If you weren't drunk, you might not think it's amusing when your eighty-four-year-old uncle hits on your twenty-two-year-old daughter. With the benefits of alcohol, however, you find him humorously reminiscent. It sort-of reminds  you of when he hit on you when you were twenty-two, but it was a little more serious because he was only fifty-four and now he can blame it on Maker's Mark and being senile. No matter. It's nostalgic to see your little girl has grown up so fast. Your daughter, however, does not find this incident particularly funny or sentimental. But when her second cousin sees her great-uncle hitting on her, maybe he'll get jealous, so she'll deal with it.

God. What drives me extra banana sandwich is when you get that great-aunt that is asking all about what you're doing in life, but they ask your parents instead of you.

  I can field all sorts of questions from aunts, uncles, second aunts, third uncles twice removed, great aunts about what I'm doing with my life by myself.

This should be like a hay day for parents, cause they don't have to be constantly giving updates on their children. If someone asks how I'm doing, Mom and Dad, point to my general direction to where I'm smoking pot in a field, and go back to sipping your margarita.