When the balance shifts from self deprecating to self pity, I usually try to shut my mouth and Anne Frank in my attic room. But ol' Annie had a diary, so why shouldn't I write too? Granted, she wasn't wearing black eye liner and listening to My Chemical Romance (not really) and had bigger problems to worry about than not getting into the film industry and having a rather large vet bill. Nevertheless, my nails are painted black, I've got my skinny jeans on and have new and improved swooping bangs. So it's ready.... set... emo a go go!
Now, these so called "emo kids" are all about really deep poetry. You know, the kind you snap at after hearing it read aloud. I hate poetry. Unless, of course, it is by Shel Silverstein. Seriously, the Emily Dickinson unit in Honors English made me weep openly- and not because it was so moving. In place of a slit my wrists and stick my head in the oven poem, might I present to a haiku about the first situation that plagues my normal happy-go-lucky demeanor.
Oh, brown Cavalier
Why did your brake cable snap?
Goddamn, bill of doom
Yes, my 1999 Cavi gave out again. After we've been through so much together recently- erratic driving is totally OK when the police are busy with the Batman crazies. The emergency brake decided to dislodge itself from my car and pop out its underbelly like an alien baby. This shouldn't be too upsetting, but my life is a universal facepalm. When an opportunity presents itself, I inevitably screw it up. Case in point, interview for "Magnus Rex" aka "Dark Knight Rises. Yes, I actually got one. Did I get the job? Nope, I got a date... which never actually happened. (Aaaand face palm) The opportunity this time was tagging along with my uncle to the wonderful, exciting, alcoholic, not-Pittsburgh world of New Orleans. How did I screw it up? By doing what I thought was the sensible, noble thing and ask for the money he would have spent on me to put towards the vet bill. Where did the money go? Towards my car, which I am convinced would have never broken had I gone on the trip.
"Aladdin," I Dream of Jeannie and the short story "The Monkey's Paw" taught me be careful what you wish for because it might not turn out the way you intended. However, I am still hoping for a zombie apocalypse. Take that, W.W. Jacobs (thanks, wikipedia!). All I wanted was some time in Latrobe to relax. I got it. Five long, grueling day so if it. Without a car, I might add. I got some pretty, pretty pictures out of it though.
Then, in the long, dark tunnel of depression, a small flicker of light. A new, ridiculous celebrity meltdown. Matthew Fox punched a lady party bus driver. In Cleveland. Now, I'm not promoting woman beating or violence towards bus drivers, but the lady was clearly an Other. Or perhaps he was angry because the party on the bus consisted of more than five and he was not invited. Either way, he probably cried about it afterwards. Now, let's take this full circle, shall we?
Beat up by Lost's Jack
I'd feel like such a pussy
We have to go back!
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