Nothing says “I can’t figure out whether I’m hung over or whether I'm still drunk” like me stumbling into work 20 minutes late, carrying a paper bag full of Drunky McBreakfastmeal with grease sauce from McDonald’s, crashing into my desk and tragically dropping my ginormous Diet Coke on the floor.

Mmmmmm, my Drunky McBreakfastmeal. So perfectly artificially preservatively disgustingly tasty that I almost cried. So, so fucking good. I almost never eat from McDonald’s, and I think it’s literally been about ten years since I’ve had one of their breakfasts, but I had an unmistakable craving today, and … Mmmmmmmmm.

Of course, now my body has no idea what to do with this foreign, pseudofood substance. Since I ingested it, my bacon/egg McMuffin with cheese and hash brown (those mysteriously sculpty hash browns are SO CRISPYFRIED POTATOSHREDDY GOOD, disturbingly beautiful amber color notwithstanding), settled at the pit of my stomach in a horrocious,** festering wad of artery-clogging congealation, and refuses to move other than to emit small volcanic blurbles of protest. It’s its own life force. Drunky McBreakfast meal must’ve eaten something really nasty before entering my stomach, and I’m getting punished for it.

Good, though. So good. What an appropriate adjective, is “good.” Good. Blandy McModifier.

Maybe I’m still a little drunk.

And, um, yeah. About that.

So, I kind of feel like a tool after writing my last entry. Sorry I acted like the drunk twit-girl at a party who insists on subjecting her listening audience to every insignificant aspect of her insignificant love life in effort to make things appear more significant, even though no one really pays attention after the intro line of “So, I’ve been seeing this guy.”

Sorry I got all dumb and loud and self-righteous and insisted on representing the One Universal Truth. Sorry I went on ad nauseam about teeny dumb timelines and details, all the while trying to gloss over it with transparent claims that it was SO not a big deal, which it isn’t, but you know, it’s just super-lame and immature and passive-aggressive to call attention to something and then pretend not to care about it. And I haven’t been funny or smart or anything but verbose lately, and it’s been bugging me and I’m sorry.

This is totally the sheepish phone call you make the morning following a really great or really sketchy party to apologize for whatever jackassery you blurrily recall having indulged in the night before.

I’m sorry I broke your couch, I didn’t mean to vomit in the washing machine, I shouldn’t have borrowed your shoes without your permission, and I swear I didn’t know that one guy was your boyfriend or that the other guy was your dad. Sorry.

See, I know there’s probably no need to apologize, but I feel like I’ve been really annoying lately. For no particular reason I’ve been feeling strangely vulnerable, and I think that one of my reactions to that is to over-rationalize everydamnthing and make answers and fill in blanks when there are none. So everything I say just comes out sounding snooty and bombastic, and it’s annoying and immature and I’m sorry. Lordy. Whew.

And while I’m at it, I’m sorry for the obnoxious self-references and all. My, aren’t I bloggy today? Welcome to my pointless and post-modern house of mirrors.***

Since we’re already in Meta-Meta Land, and since it’s somehow appropriate here amid the over-compensatory and obviously neurotic mess of identity wonkiness I’m exhibiting today, HERE ARE SOME ONLINE QUIZ-TYPE RESULTS! (Much love to The Big Klugowski for the links to all this crap.)

I don’t usually do this, because I hardly think it constitutes an entry, but these ones are fun and relevant because they tell me exactly who I am. And I found the quizzes on the internet, so the results are to be completely trusted. (I’m sorry. That joke is even more tired than those damned Martha Stewart prison jokes.)

Heavens. You know, that’s not too far off, for the most part. I mean, he’s maybe just slightly off about my phallus, but he’s spot-on where my anus is concerned. And it’s nice to see that my genitals are so progressive and constructive. I should award my labia with little protest signs and hardhats.

My vagina is Rosie the Riveter!

That is my new favorite sentence, ever!

I think that “Latency Period” should be renamed, like, “Cranial Complex” or something, just to maintain parallel structure with the rest of the open-space-and-anatomy-related neuroses. I mean, nobody really knows what “latency period” is, anyway. But maybe it’s not such a good idea to put one’s skull in the same camp as one’s anus.

“I am Sigmund, und I love orifices.”

I know, Siggy. Oh, how I’ve missed you. EXCEPT THAT I HAVEN’T. I have sort of a blind prejudice against Freud, and it’s totally irrational. I’m sure he’d have something to say about that, if he wasn’t so busy being dead.

My favorite part of the Freud quiz is that one of the questions contains a typo, so that instead of “I am spontaneous,” it simply reads “I spontaneous.” RAH! I SPONTANEOUS! RAAAAHHHH!!!!

Right. I am a bubbling headmess which teems with possibilities for psychoanalysis, but who isn’t?

So, I decided to find out how to make a me-cocktail, starting with a simple request for a Luvatini.

How to make a luva

Ingredients: 5 parts friendliness 5 parts arrogance 1 part leadership

Method: Layer ingredients in a shot glass. Top it off with a sprinkle of wisdom and enjoy!

I tried it, and I must say, that aside from the sprinkling of wisdom, I wasn’t a fan. I think that arrogance and leadership are best served at or slightly above room temperature, and layering it with friendliness in a shot glass just messes with the contrasting flavors. It smacked of overly gung-ho retail manager, and tasted phony.

So I moved on to a Luvabeansopolitan.

How to make a luvabeans

Ingredients: 3 parts pride 5 parts ambition 5 parts

Method: Stir together in a glass tumbler with a salted rim. Add a little lovability if desired!

Oooohhh … behold the mysterious Luvabeansopolitan with its super-secret ingredient! 3 parts pride, 5 parts ambition, and 5 whole parts of (shhhhhh). Only I know what goes in that blank spot. Well, only I and Baby Jesus know.

I would sooner serve it in a classy stemmed glass than a tumbler, because a Luvabeansopolitan is meant to be daintily sipped, and I recommend you don’t forego the lovability, because the (shhhhhh) can be pretty overpowering.

But to find a simpler, and more user-friendly cocktail recipe, one which myself and the Baby Jesus can fully disclose, I decided to try for a Kellyrita.

How to make a kelly

Ingredients: 1 part friendliness 5 parts brilliance 3 parts joy

Method: Layer ingredients in a shot glass. Top it off with a sprinkle of wisdom and enjoy!

Username:

Personality cocktail
From Go-Quiz.com

Okay, but dude, where’s the lovability? Everybody hates me. It’s mighty difficult to relate to people when your brilliance so outweighs your friendliness. And that is why I drown my sorrows in Kellyritas.

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Don't Get It Wet, Keep It Out Of Bright Light, And Never Feed It After Midnight.

Around two o’clock this morning, I was walking home with a friend. He and I passed some dude on the sidewalk, and right after we walked by, we heard the guy say, “Damn! White girl got BACK!” (It’s true. I got back.) Then he said to my friend, “You take care of that. Hear?”

My ass, like my Drunky McBreakfastmeal, has it’s own life force and my friend is it’s personal assistant. That might be kind of awesome. Between my diva ass and my Rosie the Riveter vagina, I’ve got quite the feminine power squad going on below the navel.

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* I recently learned that the rowdy bar featured in the movie “About Last Night” was actually Kelly’s Pub in Chicago’s Lincoln Park. I so want to go there and buy one of the “Kelly’s Pub” sweatshirts they sell.

It’s too bad that “About Last Night” was such a godawful, stupid, boring movie, which was surprising in a way, since it was written by David “Fuckin’ Ruthie” Mamet of American Buffalo/Glengarry Glen Ross fame. It was dull as hell, and unfortunately starred the endlessly grating and vaguely disgusting Demi Moore, along with the long-since cryogenically frozen marionette, Rob Lowe.

Bad movie. Mickey Knox, from Brasov, Romania, agrees with me.

** I knew a guy who always used the word "horrocious," I think as some sort of combination of "atrocious" and "horrendous." It drove me a little crazy, because the guy was an ass, and I don't think he actually knew that "atrocious" and "horrendous" were existing words, neither was he aware that "horrocious" was not.

A friend of mine often uses "amogulation," maybe as some sort of combination of "conglomeration" and "amalgam." Again, I don't think that she knows it's not a word, but it doesn't bother me as much because she's so damned cute.

*** Popomohomi: pointless and post-modern house of mirrors. Popomohomi!

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~ Last Five Entries ~

Moths, and Relative Nonsense - 08.18.05

I Finally Have Internet Access in my Bedroom. But, No Ashtray. - 08.09.05

Here I Am - 08.02.05

One-Armed Paper Hanger Earns her Wings - 07.29.05

Sugar & Lemon - 07.28.05

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BUY JEN'S BOOK! BUY IT! DO IT!

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BUY DEAN'S BOOK, TOO! YOU KNOW YOU WANNA! SERIOUSLY.

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