Apathetic Workplace

I'm sitting here at work, as I have been all week, restless and bored. My boss is enjoying her lackadaisical week free of grievances, requests, and microwaveable lunches. Mind you, there is barrier between me and the visiting complainants who look at me and see that I'm busily pushing paper, filling out forms, and writing letters to some important person high up on the corporate ladder. This unnoticeable barrier allows the truth to be concealed, which is that without tasks to do, I can now finish my script, read a book for pleasure, and stalk hot celebrities for pictures I will use to drool over at night when I am spending an evening making a sandwich for dinner and watching a DVD of the Kids in the Hall. Well, if that wasn't a run-on sentence, I don't know what is. My skin is behaving like a breeding ground for pain. Whenever I go on a road trip, my skin freaks out and starts to rebel by forming little pockets of pain, reddish in appearance and full of hormonal surprises. Alas, I've come to the conclusion that I need to go back on the pill as my last resort attempt to control my hormones that are causing this little eruption of acne that was brought on by the road trip. It must've been the air in LA that I was ubiquitously exposed to.

Sigh...my appointment is 2 weeks away. They said I'm due for a pap smear. I guess this would be helpful to discover if I have any illnesses lurking around down there. Although, seeing as I'm a born again virgin, the possibility of an outbreak is pretty slim. I shudder at the thought of that cold clamp being inserted inside me, giving me chills down my arms and through my back. But it's okay. I guess it's worth it if that's what it takes to get that magic pill that will wipe my face clean of this annoying connect-the-dot face that I'm currently building. All I need is a marker. I guess that's fair because then, I'll have an activity to occupy myself at work.

Funkdafied

I am in such a perpetual funk. I'm supposed to be hastily packing away but instead, I waste my entire lazy weekend online surfing for NKOTB reunion hints. I'm starving for news and am constantly anticipating an announcement that may never arrive. My birthday's coming up and instead of turning an ominous 31 years old, I've somehow managed to flip the numbers and am actually 30 going on 13. Has my life really been reduced to such a comical fling of a fantasy that I am unaware of when I will wake up and cease to daydream? I listen to me ridicule myself to the point of no return and I find that I haven't the slightest willpower to fight procrastination. My period is annoying me and I refuse to make the effort to gather my belongings for my journey to another living space.

I don't care. It's just a place to sleep for me. I don't plan on getting any new unused furniture that I will only regret buying because I will only end up overdrafting on my debit card and complain about the unreturnable fatboy I wasn't able to afford in the first place. But do I have to meet any type of false standards of what a "cool" room should look like? Would anyone else care if I started collecting NKOTB posters again and plastering them all over my walls as a pseudo-wallpaper? Did I really just write that? No worries. I won't collect any posters of Joey McIntyre and you won't find his face on the back of my door like you would have in 1990 but I promise you this: if the posters found themselves on my doorstep without any effort on my part, you will be sure they will find a home on my wallspace, guaranteed.

Shit, my period is really bothering me. It didn't used to. I used to get these angry cramps that would make a stabbing in my throbbing uterus sound like a good idea. But after taking ortho for years, they went away. Now that I've stopped, the cramps are slowly creeping back, like a bad locked-out memory that's been triggered by a traumatic experience. In this case, depression or stress seems to be the ultimate culprit. I feel the need to get out of the house but it's so dreadfully cold inside my house that it must be even worse outside and it causes me to wear multiple layers, resulting in a horrendous outfit no one would ever compliment.

And who are you to judge?

Okay, I just need to address this really quickly. I've been reading up on the buzz about New Kids on the Block reunion and when people comment on the articles, it is from both good and foul mouth individuals. To the foul-mouth individuals, I just have a question. What the fuck is your problem? I don't understand why you can't let people have their enjoyment. The NKOTB meant something different to a lot of people. Now that they've decided to reunite, I don't see any reason to put them down about it. If a band like Sting broked up and got back together, would people really be talkin shit like this? Making comments that they will never make it? As if you're somebody special who is valid enough to make such a comment like that??! And what the hell is up with people commenting that they're not exactly "Kids" anymore and that they should change their name to Old Men on the Block? Hello!? What about Kid Rock? Or that movie The Heartbreak Kid? Or Kid n Play? I don't hear anyone saying they should change THEIR name. Cretins.

Their music was what I turned to during some low points in my life and excuse my lame ass for appreciating their voices and making me feel cradled when I needed to cry cuz you know what? Sometimes, you just have to cry! Sometimes, you wish you were back in time, living the simple life, enjoying simple pleasures, ignoring the problems that are yet to come as a adult. I don't see what's wrong with having them be associated with a time when life was simpler for all of us 30 somethings who had their music to love. What's wrong with loving a band? Have you never loved a band or been to a concert and enjoyed yourself? What, are you too cool now, huh? I'm sorry for this retarded rant but I'm raving about the thought of going to their long-awaited concert (finally) after my mom refused to let me go as a teenager.

sigh...

All I'm saying is, we ALL need to get away from our cruel realities once in awhile. If you don't want to, just let the rest of us enjoy it and keep your dirty mouth shut!

Assholes.

NKOTB Reunion

Okay, you KNEW I had to talk about this. The web is all a buzz. I don't know what to say about this relic of a phenomenon. The infamous "Blockheads" come lurking out from their hiding places, seeking to find one another and recreate a long lost community. Yes, I admit it. I am certainly a part of this community and I have been wandering, aching, searching for my counterparts who have yet to reveal their true selves to my blatant identity as a New Kid fan. My circle of friends are aware of my past loves, current loves, and perhaps even my secret loves and no one has ever given me a reason to let it go.



So here I am, watching the newly created video that has just been put up on the web of http://www.nkotb.com/. I didn't expect much more than a skant paragraph of vague news about reunion. I didn't expect a short and sweet video clip, rewinding my emotional age to 16, giving me chilling goosebumps on my numbing cheeks, and watering my satiated eyes. It said, "They rose from the streets of Boston...To Become the biggest band in the world...They influenced a generation...They sold over 70 million albums and grossed more than one billion dollars...5 Multiplatinum albums, 10 Top 10 Singles, 5 Number One Singles...Then they walked away from it all...Millions of fans around the world await their return...Are you ready?"

Some may say this is pathetic, pitiful, annoying, retarded. But why? If the Beatles were to reunite, what would fans think of that? I'm sure Beatlemania would crawl out of its enclosed space and take over the middleaged world of underground pop. The negative criticism does not hinder me. I was 16 when I had this unconditional passion. My pink plastic NKOTB water bottle still sitting at my bedside table proves it. Without passion, we become a cold, cruel, heartless individual with no one to share their life with. We become my coworker.

From nkotb.com http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HG9IqibdUsI

I'm quite unrequited, thank you

I recently wrote this short play. The unrelenting topic of looovvvveeee. I cannot comprehend the exact reason why I chose to write about a topic that I obviously have no hint of a clue about but it's allright. I made it through. It took an anxious year but I finally got it done. This studio put on some play readings and while they read mine, I started to experience the inconvenient overemotional side of me when it came crawling out of its merciless hole. Because of this short play, I think my personality is being branded under the category "nerd" but no problem. I'm pretty proud to have that description attached to my resume. I was completely overwhelmed when a friend of mine asked if they could turn my script into a short film. I'm not sure if they will do it but they'll let me know. That was such an unexpected compliment.


I'm contemplating what my next script will be about. I think I'll try my hand at a little love-related dramedy. I know this topic is played out but I'm not ready to write about something amazing like "The life and times of a slow jam tape" or anything untouched like that. I'm sure that film would take up a lot of unnecessary money since there would be no doubt that I'd have to get a legal jargon-filled release form signed by has-been artists who will hoard after me for money like vultures. I think I will hesitantly pass.

I'm really annoyed at my weight because it causes me to have a warped interpretation of my self-image, which is essentially the underlying message of my script in the first place. It takes me to dark, unpleasant places I have chosen to ignore but have now surfaced as a public comical satire for all to behold and jarring my self-consciousness to protect my vulnerability. It wasn't necessarily my so-called life on paper but rather, it was my so-called vices creeping out of my fingertips. I hated those eventless nights where I would sit in front of the blaring television and my idle laptop, straining my brain on what the next line will be. When I revisit this journey during the revision, I'll remind myself to take some expired store brand aspirin.

Spit Game

I don't know what's going on but lately, I've just been kinda phlegmy. Most every time I cough, I need to spit. And mind you, that is not ladylike, not in the least. But then again, who ever said I needed to be? So what if I cough? Don't you? And don't you also get that salty glob of goo bouncing on your tongue while you're driving? It makes me a bit nervous on the freeway because I get paranoid that once I roll my window down to eject the human slimeball, my speed combined with the wind will cause my salt goober to land against my driver side rear window, thus forth, freaking out whomever is sitting behind me looking out the window at the time. If it were me sitting back there, I'd be thankful that I left my window closed because I would be sleeping and if I left my window open, I would most likely have swallowed that potentially viral mucus because I might sleep with my mouth open.


I wonder who would feel more awful, the driver who spit, or the passenger who saw it spread across her window seat view, blurring their vision of how much of a percentage off their sale is at Ikea. What an indecent distraction from daydreaming. I'm gonna go with the passenger. I think the passenger would feel a sense of uncomfortable awkwardness, like when your underwear sticks to your crotch in public and you can't pull it out without anyone noticing so you just have to let it marinate.

This is only because 1) the driver probably doesn't know where their gift landed, and 2) the passenger might be a carpooler who doesn't even know the driver and would fail to react as a homie and say, "Oh my GOD! That's gross, man. Your spit just landed on my window." Nope. A carpooler would just ignore that it happened and once they get out of the car, they'd go to their office or pull out their cell phone, and tell everyone they know about the catastrophe that occurred this morning. It's not exactly the kind of conversation you want to be having while you're on a date.

If I were on a date at the local high-end wallet-slimming trendy hot spot, I would rather conversate about the proper way to pop a pimple than talk about swallowing someone else' liquid bacterial package. Although both conversations are quite distasteful, at least I can relate to disputing your friendly neighborhood T zone violation. If my date ever brought up spit, then I'm going to throw up shit.

Dear Fan

In response to the Hannah Montana Body Double scandal.

Dear (ex)fan of Hannah Montana/Miley Cyrus, I hear that you are "furious" that Miley Cyrus uses a body double in order to change from Hannah to Miley. I know how you feel and am terribly sorry that you feel cheated because you're right. You paid a lot of money to see a great show and the use of a body double is completely unheard of in the world of entertainment. Artists are supposed to be able to change faster than the speed of light as if by Superman's standards since they are all magicians.

I'm sure all of Hannah Montana's fans did not know that she is really Miley Cyrus and that wig can really fool everyone. Boy was I shocked. I could not tell that Hannah is actually Miley even though they have the same face. I am such a fool. I've done theater work and I know that transitions can be quite complicated and must be done as accurate and as quick as possible but within reason. Have you ever thought about going into theater? Maybe you shouldn't since you may not have those magical genes that you seem to believe entertainers possess. I'm actually quite flattered that you believe entertainers have such aptitude but I have to let you in on a little secret. The magic that they do? They actually just create illusions. "I" to the "L" to the "Lusions." But apparently, you are having "D" to the "E" to the "Lusions."

Take the trick of sawing a woman in half. Did you know that there is a body double in the second half of the box? The body double sticks their feet out while the top half sticks their head out and voila! They are separated as if by magic but they are really two people. Just like Miley's body double is merely a solution to a difficult transition that she uses to create an illusion for you. Are you surprised? Have you fallen and can't get up? There is no reason to get irate. Maybe sometimes, we play the role of the fool ourselves or perhaps, you have blessedly inherited the idiot gene from the Almighty. I'm sure it will skip a generation and your mutant children will possess magical genes and they can change clothes, put on wigs and makeup in 1 second by freezing time.

Yours Truly,

Miss Ava