Maybe Christmas, he thought, doesn’t come from a store. Maybe Christmas, perhaps, means a little bit more.

August 8, 2011 § Leave a comment

Well let’s see. I’ve puked up in my mouth a bit twice already this morning, so I’m guessing it must be Monday. It strikes me as the type of Monday where I won’t be putting pants on, too. I guess I have a lot of things to talk about. See, I get these ideas for posts and I start writing them out in my head, only I’m usually either stoned or eating ice cream, or a combination of the two, so by the time I get back to my computer, they’re all but forgotten and replaced by playing a flash game. (Cake Mania, best game or best game)

So Lindsay (of Broke & Beautiful, The Demoiselles and Awakened Aesthetic blogging notoriety, look her up, she’s famous.) tells me that if I would only add a little current events to my blog, it could be something spectacular. Little does she know that I am lazy, and that I secretly use our conversations as starting points for the entries I make. Yes, Lindsay, I’ve used you. About a week ago, we got into one of those political discussions. In other words, one of those moments where it’s three am and I’m stoned, but I’ve already eaten a klondike bar and four cookies, so I’m looking to satisfy my need to rant and rave endlessly and talk about like, how the government sucks, man. I am not even trying to be facetious, I do say man an awful lot. The dulcet tones of AbFab couldn’t divert me away from my insatiable need, so I turned to Lindsay, in a G-chat okay, we’re long distance, to talk about the economy,(let’s not even go there) and how liberal ideals are really just common sense and why has it been for the entire history of America that liberals are ~crazy, extreme~ when it is the most basic human rights shit on the planet, and also how the American dream is a fucking joke because we can’t even get free healthcare or go to college or marry if we both have vaginas. I mean it’s the usual, shit, right?


By the end of our conversation, I was feeling pretty morose, and forlorn and all about ready to get the fuck out of this US nation, especially after that one bit where we were discussing the sheer preposterous nature of the fact that you are not allowed to choose what country you were born into, yet you are forced to be a member of its society and participate in its government, and cannot simply form your own Confederacy, am I somehow understanding Civil War sympathies right now? Anyway. I was starting to feel a bit hungry again, so as I walked downstairs to raid the kitchen and hope that my mom wouldn’t be awake and wanting to discuss the Real Housewives of New York (she was, and we did) — I started wondering about the American dream. I mean what the fuck was that kind of propaganda bullshit was that? What the hell was the appeal of America, where the free is only free if you’re white, upper middle class and a man? And I stumbled upon it. Right there in my kitchen.

I found some vanilla ice cream, and I found some Hershey syrup. Also a bag of vanilla wafers. I brought it upstairs, took a resin hit, and realized I had an idea. I used this vanilla wafers as spoons to scoop my ice cream and …. holy fuck. That was it. I had stumbled upon the american dream. Suddenly I was entirely content with the world and overwhelmed by pure deliciousness and peace. Maybe that’s what they’re referring to in the Constitution. Maybe that’s what we’re all about. Gluttonous as fuck desserts. This is the kind of shit they should be putting on t-shirts instead.


Sometimes, maybe even all the time, I forget to do things like update this.

July 21, 2011 § Leave a comment

I know, I know. Whatever, I suck. I’m a little spacey, you’ll get used to it. You’ll be pleased to know that I’ve been occupying my time really, really well (obviously) in the following extremely productive and responsible ways:*

1. I’ve had my face surgically altered to look like this:
Do you liiiiiike it?
Just kidding! I’ve been super addicted to doing face masks and peels because it makes my skin soft and I get an excuse to post the fun gifs I make and it makes my skin slightly less terrifying and then I don’t have to hide my face in shame when I go out in public. (Who are you kidding Brianna, you live on the internet, alone in your bed, drinking wine that’s only 8% alcohol out of a tiki glass). It’s a win for all, honestly.

2. Tweeting at and getting promptly ignored by D-list celebrities. Although the radio DJ from Power 105.1 (New York’s source for hip hop and R&B) is more like an F or G list celebrity. Come on dude, I just wanted to know the name of that song you played at 2 am on Sunday night, I’ve got more tumblr followers than you do Twitter followers, cut me a B-R-E-A-K. My best foray though, was with Pendleton Ward. Level with me here. Princess Bubblegum rules the Candy Kingdom, right? That means she’s made out of fucking bubblegum. We need an episode where she gets captured by a giant supervillian that accidentally swallows her and blows her into a giant bubble. Is that genius or what? He’s missing out on millions and I can’t say I didn’t warn him. I clearly need to get paid for giving people good ideas that they don’t listen to … or something.

3. Making about 12 billion of these for a quilt I’m almost done with:
Fascinating, Brianna, tell us more.

4. Becoming president of the official Winona Ryder Fan Club, because I’ve finally perfected looking exactly like her with the beautiful purchase of this all denim jumper:
Perfection costs only 3.99 at the Salvation Army, yo.

5. Who am I kidding you attention span ran out about four paragraphs up. Tune in next time for some gratuitous pictures of stuff I’ve made that has already been posted on every social networking site in existence, and a deep, insightful reflection on why I draw so many pictures of cats in precarious situations.

* Honorable mentions include eating 12-25 jumbo marshmallows per day, taking naps less than 5 hours after I’ve woken up, and completing the entire first season of Degrassi in 3 days.

I’m really terrible at making friends.

June 14, 2011 § 2 Comments

It’s true.

For whatever reason, making friends is still about as awkward to me is the first boy/girl pool party I went to, where my top flipped upwards after jumping off the diving board and resulted in the entire fifth grade class getting a good look at my underdeveloped rack. Also later, I threw up Cheetos.

I have really terrible social anxiety, probably because I’m a dweeb, or maybe it’s because of that bully Amanda making fun of me for the entirety of elementary school because I was fat and couldn’t jump rope, I don’t know, I have a trunk filled with baggage, clearly. Every time I see someone cute/mildly interesting it will usually result in me mildly stalking (every single one of) their social networking sites, awkwardly peeking at them at parties until they look back at me and then pretend I wasn’t looking, and then sit in my room and be sad about how we’re not best friends forever. If I’m lucky, they will magically feel my I WANT TO BE YOUR FRIEND energy, and they’ll make some attempt to talk to me somewhere and I will basically stutter, “uh hi. um. do you like shoes? i like yours. i don’t know. i gotta go.” Typically when people react to me with any sort of compliment or spark of interest, I am too flabbergasted that they are actually talking to me, that I pretty much BLOW IT EVERY SINGLE TIME. I’m essentially admitting, right here, on the internet, that I’m a CREEP. AN AWKWARD CREEP.

I remember when I found out about the documentary “A Complete History of My Sexual Failures,” where this guy spends two hours trying to interview all of his exes and they either avoid him like the plague or tell him he’s an awkward sorry shlub and that they will hate him forever. Finally, a movie exactly about my life and why I was always the awkward JERK. VICTORY!!! ENLIGHTENMENT! But I guess it turned out that it wasn’t a documentary at all, merely a big massive joke that I was probably the punchline of in some form. That was probably one of the more disappointing moments in my life, second probably to the time I went to TCBY’s and the owner told me that he stopped making banana splits because it was a WASTE OF MONEY. Who killed your puppy, dude?

Anyway, the very rare moments where I choose to try and reach out to people like an actual human being mainly comprise of twelve seconds of bravery *Insert witty and charming quip that I spent at least fifteen minutes who am I kidding closer to an hour trying to word perfectly + admittance that I want to hang out/talk* (probably through the internet and not in person, because I am a champ) and days of agonizing and paralyzing fear. WHAT IF THEY THINK I’M DUMB. WHAT IF THEY THINK I’M HITTING ON THEM. WHAT IF I AM HITTING ON THEM. THEY ARE PROBABLY LAUGHING AT ME AND SHAKING THEIR HEADS IN PITY. WHY AM I SHOUTING. I just can’t take this kind of distress for the rest of my life.

There has got to be some kind of support group or something. (There is Brianna, it’s called SUCKING IT THE FUCK UP.) I guess there is the inevitable possibility of just obtaining a large amount of cats, but I’m allergic to them and they never love me enough. Maybe some chameleons, they seem pretty down to earth. YEAH ALRIGHT, it’ll be okay, just me and my chameleons playing hide & seek and watching Degrassi marathons.

kooler than kerouac, motivation by sum 41, i don’t really know what i’m talking about

June 10, 2011 § 2 Comments

Last night I got ripped and this conversation happened:

Me: Oh man, my ego must have exploded. I just tried reading A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius and I kept getting pissed because I kept thinking to myself, ‘wow, this guy writes a lot like me, except I write way, way better than him. What the fuck.” *
Boyfriend: Hahaha, from what I’ve read of what you’ve written, you’re really good at it! You should write more!
Me: Yeah, but, I have zero motivation or ambition or ideas.
Boyfriend: When we move across the country, you should write about it along the way!
Me: Yeah, but Kerouac already did that.
Boyfriend: Call it “Kooler than Kerouac”

Whenever I have a brilliant psychological breakthrough like this (I will let you know when I figure out exactly what the breakthrough was), I like to write notes about it in my phone. Partly because it makes me feel incredibly self-important and successful (I’m not) and partly because I genuinely forget about 97.2% of the ideas I have. I mean, a case study has never been done, but I am pretty sure it is somewhere around there. Have a peek into my brilliance:

“Motivation — Sum 41”
“Being a failure before you even try”
“What the fuck are you talking about ever, you are twenty”
“something about brain swelling” (I already forget what I meant by this. CLEARER NOTES, BRIANNA.)

Being naturally talented at writing is such a unique sort of suffering, for people who don’t have any actually serious real life problems anyway. Every idea I have just tends to frustrate and bore me halfway through having it and then I usually end up getting a snack or searching the internet for hours about “Where Sum 41 is now” or watching The Nanny instead. It is a pretty brilliant metaphor for my life so far. I’m twenty years old and I should be working to the grind, because that’s what those older and wiser tell me what to do, but I don’t know, I would just rather take a nap.

When I get these urges to write something worthy of recognition, I kind of stare listlessly at my screen, cheer “You can do it, you can do it, you can do it, how many times did you eat McDonald’s today” and then I realize that there is just nothing inspirational or unique or groundbreaking to say, ever. Fuck, Dave Eggers already totally stole my tangent style writing and I don’t know how many more books need to be published about socially awkward middle class white girls who stain all their t-shirts and say “um” a lot. Is self-deprecation charming, still??

It’s completely ludicrous and hilarious to feel like a failure at anything, let alone to feel like a failure at twenty. But that is the culture we live in, maaaaaaaaaaaaan. Cue a high rant about my disdain for society. But in all seriousness, life is one big running joke with itself that humans will ignore their OBVIOUS tools for success and comfortable living, while simultaneously taking all of the shit that just doesn’t matter way too seriously. I kind of just want to make it my goal to ignore that, inflate my ego some more, and write and create exactly what I feel even if it’s ridiculous or trivial or not good enough or I’m poor for the rest of my life, what the fuck ever. Everyone may always be better than me, and life will probably always shit on me and make me uncomfortable, but if I let any of that kick my ass, well, that won’t be any fun either. I don’t know. I don’t really know if I ever know what I’m talking about, does anyone want to go to a Sum 41 concert with me?

*It should be noted that I made this conclusion exactly two pages into the novel. I have no idea how brilliant of a novelist Dave Eggers actually is, and this is in no way a reflection of him as a person. I’m sure you’re very nice, Dave.

yeah, hi.

June 2, 2011 § 2 Comments

1. I cut my own bangs, my own jorts, and my own too-big-for-me t-shirts, but really, no one should allow me anywhere near a pair of scissors. Are my bangs straight across or at an angle, you can’t tell. Yes there is a long bit in the middle of my forehead. I like to call this look, “oh God what have you done?” This is essentially the same effect I have on jorts and t-shirts. I can only cut t-shirts into v-necks but the v is more like one that’s been squashed by a truck, and it always ends up showing my bra. My current jorts’ (jort’s?) left leg is about 1 inch longer than the right. I’m really cool.

2. I’m really cool and a great conversationalist. What I mean to say is that if you ever approach me in any forum ever, I will smile and say “eh-huh” which is kind of like a half mutter of agreeance and a half creepy giggle. I also forget at least 80% of the English language and stop sentences mid-thought and trail into space because I am usually acutely aware that my point has stopped having any meaning after the 3rd or 4th word I puke out. I am trying to think of a deeply rooted emotional cause for why I am such shlub, and I’d like to say that the beginning of my decline into social oblivion was when I turned six and my best friend Diana told me that we couldn’t be best friends anymore because I still played with Barbies and she didn’t like them anymore. And my brilliant and incensed retort was, “You’re just saying that ’cause you don’t have any cool stuff for your Barbies like I do!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!” Yep. Some time around there.

3. I am like your grandmother if she never stopped smoking pot. It’s true. I have partied maybe once this year (and I was probably sitting in a corner ripping a bong and not talking anyway), I have sensitive ~tummy~ issues (which I would like to discuss with you at length about), I usually fall asleep somewhere between ten and eleven (while watching The Nanny), my talent/main interest/thing I want to spend my life doing is crocheting for pete’s sake(my name is Brianna, but for Pete’s sake), I’m also practically legally blind and ginger ale is delicious, frankly. I also smoke a ton, which, well … wait, okay, it also makes me forgetful and susceptible to go off on senseless rants. So. Yeah, I am actually just an 87 year old woman whose bum has managed not to sag yet.

I am hoping for this blog to be another public forum where I can embarrass myself and make other people uncomfortable, I mean, I’m kidding, but hopefully you find me hilarious and flawless and perfect, or whatever. I’m mostly going to go off on rants, talk about the awkward shit that happens to me on a daily/hourly basis, and post my artwork here and other neat things like that.


  • Hi, I'm Brianna. My hobbies include: repeatedly poking myself in the thumb with a sewing needle, laying in bed and ignoring my phone calls, trying to be more like Fran Fine, discussing my bowel movements, feeling a kindred connection to Wiz Khalifa, attempting to make dinner without using cheese (I can't), forgetting what I'm saying while I'm still saying it, keeping candy within arms length of my bed, peeing 12 times an hour, and determining plotholes in every single tv show or movie I watch. If you're cool and together with more than a thirty second attention span and you actually enjoyed high school, this probably is not the blog for you.
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