June 14, 2011 § 2 Comments
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.
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.
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.
SO UM HI.