No seriously, read it, it’s worth it. He curses, I promise, just do it, alright?
I read it three times. And I’ll probably reread it again. I have no clue what David Wong looks like, but I think we can all agree that the term HASIAN just rang loud and clear in all of our heads. Allegedly his real name is Jason Pargin, but unless he’s a Hinge I’d prefer to preserve his attractiveness in my eyes.
Anyway, it’s not often that the opinions of others legitimately make me reconsider how I live my life.
“If you continue to bleach your hair blonde it will be dry and fried and look terrible,” said my hairdresser of 15 years.
“Duly noted,” I replied, and a year and four more home-highlighting sessions later, I finally decided to bring it back to my roots. I think my split ends are currently holding a family reunion on one strand of hair. WORTH IT.
The point is, Wong/Pargin’s piece really got to me and made me realize that every inspirational quote on Pinterest is bullshit. I don’t want to let things be, John and Paul; I want to make them be. And the only way you make things be is by cutting out the animal by-product in the dog food that is Life and getting down to the biz. When this blog is a published book and you’re all receiving Bentley’s from me for Christmas (or Hanukkah!), then I will reveal the ways in which I have decided to internally change myself. But it takes a village to raise a child, and I need help. So here’s what you all need to do for me in the New Year:
Side note: this does not get you out of buying me a birthday present. Nice try.
Tell me how you really feel: Just recently someone told me that they were tired of my “snobby, judgmental outlook.” Way to hit the nail on the fucking head, babycakes, and thank you. Why has no one else ever had the balls to tell me that I’m a shithead? It’s not news to me, people! I’m just forgetful, and it’s nice to be reminded. I didn’t even get mad when they said it; I’ve actually never had more respect for that person in my entire life. Wanna take me on a date? “We should hang out sometime” is getting you nowhere. “What movie do you want to watch?” “I don’t care.” = We will be sitting here deciding longer than the actual movie takes to watch. I hate hate hate when people beat around the bush, so just come out with it so we can get this road on the show.
Tell me how I really feel: When going through a particularly difficult time this past year, I had several great friends who coddled me and wrapped me in blankets and scooped me up in hugs and told me everything was going to be okay while I cried and wiped snot in their hair. Then their shift was done, and the scene was over, and everything was okay again. Problem was, things were not okay again. On a day that was especially not okay, a certain great friend asked me how I was feeling, and, channeling my inner 15-year-old emo kid, I responded along the lines of, “I don’t even know anymore.” No hesitation, he replies, “I do. You’re depressed.” And wouldn’t you know it; I realized I was a walking Cymbalta commercial. This did not sit well with me, and forced me to work on getting obnoxiously happy again. While the rest of my friends had brushed the unknotted section of my hair completely smooth, he took one go at the knot and then shaved my whole head. So when I’m complaining about customers and their coupons and someone replies with the token I-haven’t-been-listening phrase, “That’s crazy,” what I’d really like them to tell me is, “You feel like a failure because you don’t have a real job yet and you graduated eight months ago.” Hit me with your best shot and fire away – I genuinely appreciate the honesty.
|Miraculously, they still like me after this|
Tell me when I look stupid: I am not afraid to try new things with my clothes. Sometimes, this works to my advantage better than others. One night earlier this year, I emerged from my room wearing a short skirt and thigh-high socks while applying red lipstick, thinking I was pulling something off. My roommate quickly informed me that I was most definitely not and that I should change. “Fuck it, I like it, let’s go,” I said. Luckily, people had cameras that night, and the pictures revealed that she was right: I looked ridiculous; like, 10-inches-too-short-to-pull-off-thigh-highs ridiculous. Another time, I had been invited on a pseudo-date to go go-karting and then out to the bars. I dressed for the bars, not the go-karting, resulting in my 4-inch heel getting stuck beneath the gas pedal as I spun out in an embarrassing display of why-did-I-ask-this-girl-out. Point is: if I look like an idiot, help a sista out and let me know. This only applies to clothing, though. I’m completely aware of when I’m acting a fool at every other point in the day.
Tell me whatcha want, whatcha really really want: (You knew that was coming.) Comment on my effing blog posts and tell me what you think about them. I’m sitting here thinking I’m hilarious and clever and wonderful and like, really pretty, and I’d like to know whether or not anyone agrees (especially about the pretty part. Why won’t you love meeee). I’ve got ideas fo dayz but that only helps when people actually want to read about them, and I’m more open to suggestions than Lindsay Lohan’s nostrils. I know all you avid Russian and German readers have something interesting to talk about, so let’s hear it!
Bottom line: 2013 should be the year of brutal honesty. Don’t spare my feelings because, lesbihonest, I don’t think I even have them anymore. Things don’t happen from everyone folding their hands in their lap and politely asking a person not to say “douchebag” at the dinner table, so let’s throw some bows and get all up in each other’s grillz. Dig?