SELFABSORBED.ME

WHY?

WHY?

-Why do personal trainers in gyms like to use made-up terms to confuse you? Terms like “cardiovascular”, “fitness” and “aerobic activity”. By using these terms they can convince you to stand in the middle of the gym on top of a neon plastic ball, doing crunches, while swinging a jump rope. Let’s call personal training what it really is…making you look like an asshole.

-Why do you always have one friend whom you can never explain what it is they do and the more you try to explain what they do, the more confused you get? “Oh yeah Mike works with computers at this company, he rewires things, I mean he uses wires, well there are wires in the computer and he touches them… I think he touches the wires…maybe he just has other people touch the wires…I don’t know, maybe he doesn’t even see the wires, maybe he is just in a backroom somewhere studying what the wires might look like, I don’t really know..” Until you are eventually like, “Yeah fuck it, I have no idea what Mike does.”

-Why it is that one friend can never find the place is it you are going to, no matter what you do to try and help them. Even if you MapQuest the place for them, draw a diagram, highlight the route, drive their car there yourself, put them in a wheelchair and wheel them right in front of the building, they will still sit there and go, “Umm… yeah I have no idea where this place is.”

-Why can I not cook any kind of food in the microwave at work, because it is inevitable that everyone is going to want to make a comment about it. People come out of their office to try and see who is cooking something the minute any type of smell is produced. Your co-workers feel the need of actually take guesses at what the smell is, until you finally have to be like, “Dude, it’s popcorn...”

------------------------------------------------
And finally, in case you missed it...

Anndddd she’s back.

Slightly tired. Mostly hungover. Mainly satisfied. Loved ever minute that I actually remember, I do know I ended up stealing Poland springs water bottles from someone’s limo and apparently pissed off a small delivery boy and two 411 operators. All in all I would say it was a success.

I would like to start off this week talking about one of the numerous things in life that keep me awake at night. Song lyrics. Sometimes I am not quote sure who is writing these songs, but I understand some of them about as much as I understand why my dad polishes the loafers he only wears indoors, but hey, some things are left only for Jesus to understand I guess.

Below are some lyrics that have kept me awake many nights.

R . Kelly - Ignition
“Can I get a toot toot and a beep beep...”
Wait, what? You want me to what? Beep? Toot? What? RK are you trying to be modest and not use the real words? Considering you ate out a girl’s ass and wrote a song about it? Really? I am not sure I know how to beep or toot... does the beep involve me being on my back with my arms tied to my sides?

Ashanti – Always On Time
“I’m not always there when you call, but I’m always on time…”
If you weren’t there to pick up the phone when he called, how the hell did you get there on time?

Mary J Blige - Be Without You
“Call the radio if you just cant be without your baby..”
I don’t even have the station's phone number and what station is this anyway? What if I am listening to a CD right now? Because if I call the radio station the receptionist will answer the phone and do what? Find my baby? How did I lose my baby to begin with? Are we talking about an actual baby here?

Whitney Houston- Your Love
"It would take an eternity to break us. Even the chains of Amistad couldn't hold us..."
The CHAINS OF AMISTAD? Seriously? Maybe we being a TAD dramatic here?

I own that dress

But back to my original thought, you should all know that Saturday night if you find me laying in a gated bush in the Meatpacking district, wearing some kind of glitter heels and a tierra, just know, I probably look better than last year.

Over the weekend at a lovely little place some people like to call, "New Jersey", at a wedding for my old college roommate, I did the unthinkable and actually dove in to catch the bouquet. According to one of the bridesmaids I apparently turned around and said something along the lines of, "Out of my way bitches," as I ran in to get it.

The irony of it is that marriage is not in the picture anytime soon for me. In actuality, as much as I date, I am starting to think as each year goes by I understand less and less about men. I used to know a lot about them, a few years back I remember thinking men were a breeze, a Final Exam in Division 101 when I had already aced Calculus. In second grade there was a boy named Tommy who used to follow me around on the playground. He was always trying to sit with me and talk to me, until one day he tried to cut me on the monkey bars and I had a big girl name Elsa go over and pull him off by the ankles until he finally let go and plunged face first into a pile of sand. Tommy didn't follow me around too much after that.

There is this scene in the movie Picture Perfect where Jennifer Aniston is standing in a marble bathroom yelling to her friend, "I don't get what went wrong...things were so simple for so long, I liked men, men liked me..but somewhere in the last year or so everything has just gotten so, screwed up..."

Every year I understood a little bit more than I do now, so essentially if I date myself all the way back to being a fetus I was in complete control right around embryo stage.

There are certain things I get such as; going out, talking to boys, going to dinners... then right after that is about when I get completely lost. It is as though after the first few dates suddenly I have wandered into some unknown desert where I am walking around holding a sandy map and a broken compass going, "wasn't I just on a main road about 2 blocks ago...?"

My last relationship, less than a year ago, was with a boy named John who tried to take me home to meet his mom and dad...after we had been dating for one week. John actually wanted to have a "real relationship" and do things like...talk about our feelings...the kinda crap that makes my stomach churn. I remember he almost cried when we rented the movie 'Serendipity" together, I still get nauseous just thinking about it.

And yet on the other hand when I date guys who only show interest in seeing what kind of comforter and sheets I own, I cant help but think I am at a loss. How did I end up on this road? Where is the middle ground? Why can't I get rest somewhere on the divider? I like men, men like me, but in the last year or so everything has just gotten so, screwed up...now if I could only find my way out of this desert...

This is exactly how I feel about baseball too

Last year when all the world seemed calm and serene and Britney Spears still had an ounce of dignity left, I myself spent a fall season learning some important lessons about a little thing I like to call "sports"...now being that I live with all women and think eating cookie dough at 3am while crying during a cotton commercial is normal, sports in essence is never really a big topic...that is of course, until a couple of us went and did the unthinkable last year and got boyfriends. The minute you get a boyfriend you suddenly realize not understanding sports is like not understanding how to unzip Levi's high waisted black Jeans...you don't really want to know, but eventually you are just forced into it.

I had wandered down the street into a little sports bar where there was a sea of team jerseys everywhere and men with arms outstretched in the air, waving them frantically at the TV screen. It was so packed if my seat got pushed any closer to the bar I would officially have been able to rest my boobs on top comfortably. It was an enchanted day of baseball and I was revealing in all its glory next to hundreds of men who were drunk and spilling beer all over themselves…it was a magical moment.

I yelled just like how they yelled, I booed how they booed, clapped when they clapped...peed how they...wait, what?...Essentially, I had no fucking idea what was going on.

I remember earlier in the summer being at my friend Jeff’s apartment, watching the Yankees and trying to play this little game I like to call 'pretend like you know what is actually going on'.

They flashed Chris Ray’s profile across the screen and I began yelling, “Go Chris! Yeah yeah yeah!” I could see my friend Jeff staring at me as though I had just cut off his left testicle. “KIM…Do you LIKE the Orioles??” (Umm, who? what? Oreos? Yeah I like Oreos why?) What was I supposed to tell him? I was cheering just for the sake of cheering? Because I thought it was the right moment to scream something?
Our conversation went something like:

“KIM, why are you cheering for Chris Ray, stop cheering for Chris, you don’t even know what the fuck you’re cheering about and he is not even a Yankee.”

“Well fine, if you put it that way, then fine I won't cheer anymore, I just thought that…”

“How about you cheer for the Yankees, Kim?? How about that one? Can you just follow the color of the uniforms? Is that too much to ask? Kim, the Yankees have on the uniforms that say NEW YORK…can you follow that?”

Now I wait for the cheer. I see a game going on and I sit there thinking.. wait for it…wait for it…wait for it… and then as the bar beings to roar all of a sudden I am screaming, yelling and throwing my shoes at the TV just like everyone else… people throw shoes, right?

Last weekend I made the fatale mistake of renting, ‘The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants’, thinking it was going to be ‘cute’. About an hour into it I felt like if I endured anymore estrogen my ovaries would explode, as my uterus tried to commit suicide off the edge of my fallopian tubes.

One day, in a magical land called, "Neiman Marcus", there lived a little girl named Cynthia. And in this magical land, Cynthia was allowed to purchase 200 dollar tank tops, drink champagne and berate minimum wage sales employees, all without anyone judging her.

The last time I visited a well known WJ, or whore-joint as it is known to the Bible followers, I was halfway through my Corona when I looked around and thought, “Wow, I look pretty…mature…for this crowd.” Every girl in there was wearing her sorority t-shirt and daring her Delta-Gamma-UV-Ray sisters to hop on the bar with her to perform that dance routine they learned to Christina Agulera’s Diiirty. All I could think was, “You will never be able to dance in those shoes! You need good comfort shoes… with insoles like mine! And why are your jeans so tight! Those are some damn tight jeans ladies!”

I used to live in an apartment on 80th street that was about the size of a cubical and my roommate Molly’s and my bedroom were separated by essentially a sheet of poster board. Lifestyles of the rich and famous for sure. Molly had a boyfriend at the time who was a merchant marine who used to come over to our place and turn on the Discovery channel and watch shows about ships…and water…and things made with screws and metal…it was all very upsetting for me.

Walking up my apartment's treacherous two flights of stairs last night with my roommate, I went on what can only be called a typical ‘Kim Tyrant’, or ‘Temper Tantrum’ for the Harvard graduates out there. I was yelling all the way up the stairs about something that has bothered me since the dawn of time, and that dawn of time clearly being October 29th, 1981 when I was born. Hello people, pay attention here.