SELFABSORBED.ME

“Mom..do you mean AOL?"

• It frightens me now that Facebook has a suggestion box called , “People you MAY know.”..how the hell does Facebook know I might know these people? ...Listen to me Mr. Facebook, you don’t know nothin' about who I MIGHT know.

• I am bothered by Itunes now making suggestions as to what artist or song I am looking for. The minute I start typing in the search box it makes guesses for me, such as when I typed in “AM” it started flashing, did you MEAN Amy Winehouse? America’s Next Top Model? Amy Adams? America?...How about you stop damn rushing me ITunes? What, you got plans or something to do so you feel like rushing me? You got some big Itunes orgy to attend to after this that? Or some Itunes Tupperware party you're late for? Stop friggen rushing me, I don’t like humans completing my sentences, let alone computer programs with 7.0 frames.

• Why does Kaza keep coming back to me like a bad ex boyfriend? I know it does bad things to my hard drive, infecting it with viruses I cannot rid of, so why do I keep going back? I keep deleting it, telling Kaza to just stay away from me, but sure enough months later , I can't seem to find the new Britney single and I know Kaza has it, I can just feel it, I know getting back with it will only give me yet another virus I cant get rid of, but I always tell myself, just one night, I will just do it for one night and then never again. Fuck you Kaza! Fuck you and you’re huge…umm…song selection!

• Why is MySpace the most ghetto website on the web?MySpace is like that trashy friend you keep around just to make you feel better about yourself..."well hey life isn't so bad, Krystal just got pregant by her cousin!" Myspace is for everyone who never went to school, works as a hairdresser and strips on the weekends GhettoSpace has become so old news I had to delete mine. I couldn’t even stand to get comments anymore, people would comment on my page and I would get angry just looking at them, all I could think was “comments are so 2006!” And why do people who are in relationships write on each other's pages? "Hey George too bad you couldn’t get it up last night, but I really am impressed with your HTML skills!”

Look at these liars right here, all bullshitters disguised as long division

For as long as I can remember I have had a problem with numbers. The problem of course being that they are too “exact”. I don’t like to live in a world of exactness; I like to live in a world of grayness. I like to think some things look like they have semi- a lot of calories, or might possibly be too expensive, or are somewhat over budget. I don’t like to live in the world where 80 cents under at Bank of America is known to me as a 35 dollar charge. That world is bullshit.

Some of the scariest numbers of all being; my bank account statement… the scale… and of course the cost of living. (*cough* the amount of people you’ve slept with *cough*)

For starters, I don’t believe what numbers tell me. I choose to believe instead that the numbers are lying and in fact have gotten themselves mixed up along the way. I don’t think I have ever jumped on my scale before without weighing something else first just to PROVE that my scale is wrong. I will stare at it, take a Vogue magazine and throw it on top... 3lbs it read! Now I know Vogue has been looking a little hefty these days, but 3lbs, that is horseshit! So then, I deem my scale to be an outright liar and move the calibration at the bottom so it is about 20lbs under the 0lb mark...that way I figure it may actually give an accurate reading. See how I am tricking the numbers to actually do their job correctly? You want to know how much I weigh? Somewhere between 100lbs and 200lbs. You want to know how many people I’ve slept with? Somewhere between 3 and 300 people. Is that exact enough for you? Because that is the world I live in sista sally and it is a vast sprawling land of GRAY.

This goes the same for my bank statement. You know how some people get real jittery and have to throw up before they go out on stage? Well that’s exactly what happens to me right before I read my bank statement. And even then, I normally assume it to be lying to me. Every time I check my account balance I go in with the knowledge that it is probably wrong and someone, somewhere along the lines has way overcharged me for something! I will sit and scrutinize every charge, every cent, every time my card was swiped for 85 cent Trident winterfresh. And damnit if they charged me for two Tridents I will find out!

Much in the way most women consider all men to be liars, I consider all numbers to be liars. In fact, if it was up to me, I would do away with all numbers all together. Let’s start putting price tags on things that say, “Way Over Your Budget”, or “Not Unless You Marry Rich”…THEN I would be able to understand the costs much better. Or when I hop on the scale I don’t want a digital reading, what I want is for my scale to shout out, “YOU ARE A HANDFUL OF M&M'S AND ONE MORE LAZY DAY AWAY FROM THE GYM, FROM BEING A FAT ASS!” Then, I would finally understand my scale.

Even regarding time I do not enjoy numbers. I hate saying I will be there RIGHT at 9:00pm, because let’s be honest, who arrives at places right at 9:00pm? Well, except for maybe my dad and a few Navy Seals? Instead I like to say, “around this time”, or “close to this time”, or “if you’re lucky you will see me before the night is over and I am being wheel-barrowed down the street drunk in a turban” kinda time.

I don’t like giving out a number figure, too exact, too much pressure. And according to whose watch? And what clock? Which brings me all the back to the entire, Numbers Are Liars, theory which I have been promoting for YEARS.

Me and numbers, we are breaking up. It’s been coming for a long time now, and I think I am finally ready. I am just done with his games, his excuses, his “exactness”. It’s too much for me, I need something new. And I know it’s going to be hard, but numbers will survive without me, I think numbers even deserves better then me! It’s not numbers.. it’s me! But if that lying sac of divisions ever comes back again, I am going to tell his little numeric ass which Pythagorean theorem to shove it in.

For those of you who have not read Chuck Klosterman, there is a theory he has that transcends most theories I have on life…and no I am not talking about my ‘men in Birkenstocks’ theories, although that comes close. The theory suggesting that women function better in society because they recognize they have a nemesis and an archnemesis. The nemesis most likely being their best friend (clearly) or someone who has been their best friend (pillow-fight mishap perhaps); and their archnemesis being the girl they have hated for many years (essentially someone better looking). As women we like to think, “Oh no Sally will be a nice girl and get along with everyone…” But the truth is, no matter how lady-like Sally is, deep down she is willing to kill one woman and have the other woman mangled by wolves… the one mangled and still surviving of course, being her nemesis.

My Nemesis is as predicted, one of my good friends. Or more so one of my ‘seemingly’ good friends. If you knew us closely you would know my deep seething hatred for her. Or possibly jealously. Let’s call my Nemeisis “Hessica”… or as I like to call her “The Bitch that ruined my 22nd Birthday” . Now “Hessica” is one of those girls who gets away with anything. She can be a full out prick everyday of her life, because she is one of 'those girls'. And by ‘those girls” I mean- she is “hot and selfish”…two traits I have long desired to attain through many years of hard work.

She does all the normal best friend things…tell me how to style my hair…questions my job changes…tells me my uterus will never support babies…the usual. And as much as I hate her , I secretly long to be Hessica, long to be carefree enough to say what’s on my mind, wear what I want, think what I want….And some nights I sit awake wondering what might happen if a taxi cab ran her over. But truth be told, I don’t want that cab to kill her…just to mangle her up a bit, maybe give her a funny wink or smile or something. Maybe just hit the side of her leg just hard enough for her face to plunge into the cement street and break that perfect tip of her nose. Without her though, I wouldn’t spend so much thought into the clothes I wear going out at night, or the way I style my hair, or my overall attitude. And when all is said and done, she makes me strive to be a better (looking) person.

My Archnemesis is quite the same, except when I sit in bed awake at night dreaming of the cab hitting her I dream of it actually running her over and over again. I then imagine standing at her funeral while people talk about now they never much liked her to begin with. My Archnemeis of course being the first girl to ever take a boyfriend from me. I actually watched her walking out of his apartment building at 4am ...and no, I was not camped out in a bush carrying an extra large purple flashlight bought from the LLBean camping section (pg 24)…JEEZ! Not only did the cunt take my boyfriend, but she got some great job and some amazing house and even bought a car. I haven’t thought about buying a car since the subway system was invented in the 1600’s. I haven’t driven one in the same amount of time either. And the most expensive investment I have made this yet was in a bottle of percoet.

However my archnemis makes me want a get better job…rent out a bigger apartment…learn how to punch a nice uppercut to her face.... Either way, I actually work harder to become a better person by outdoing her. And stay motivated. And when all is said and done; having her around makes me a better person.

And one day when I am married and carrying babies, I may not care about either of these women. I may not care about any woman at all. But most likely I will just have new women to loathe in my life. Evil women such as, “PTA Members” or “Choir Singers"...regardless they all will make me a better person, forcing me to wake up every morning stating, “Kim, you woke up today to outdo that bitch.” Which, as I believe, is also a quote said by someone named “Jesus”.
Just sayin.

Dear Christmas Cookbook Gift,

Wow it was such a surprise when I opened you. I was so excited at first looking at the packaging thinking I was finally getting a signed copy of 'Where I Came From'. But then I disocvered you, an entire book, filled with Betty Crocker's best.

Now I don't know who this Betty woman is. But I do know one thing. She seems like a pretty selfish bitch to me. Telling me all about having to make "torts" and "cakes" and "boiling water." Making me feel like I am the kind of woman who should invest my time and energy into things like "baking" . Well Betty, let me tell you, the more you try and tell me how to bake, the more I realize I am going to figure out exactly which book store you came from so I can return your red colored ass and get something more useful, such as a book on how to kill myself with rubber bands.

The problem is Betty, your instructional guides require me to do things that I refuse to do on a normal day, things such as 'go to the grocery store'... 'make lists'... 'be prepared'....I consider showing up to my ex boyfriend's house fully sedated on percocets, 'being prepared'.

I tried to make your lemon bunt cake only once and I was halfway through writing down 'lemon' when I realized, what am I doing? I bake the way Anna Nicole solves math equations in Heaven....pretty much never. And I refuse to feel pressure just because a woman named 'Betty' tells me to go do so. I don't even like the name Betty. I knew a Betty once and she was the biggest cunt I'd ever met. So excuse me Betty if I don't feel like ripping open your magical paper pages and discovering just one more thing I have failed at learning in life. You know who used to cook? Dinosaurs. Dinosaur wives used to cook along with people in the BC era and women with names like 'Pearl'. So if you don't mind Betty, I am going to go order myself a nice plate of California rolls from Haru, right after I go give you to some poor homeless kid of the street who needs a cook book way more than I.

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?