SELFABSORBED.ME

My Sober Mind and My Drunk Mind

have a conversation:

Sober Mind: Wow this bar kinda of sucks, it's not very crowded, there isn't even anyone here that is that good looking..

Drunk Mind: What are you talking about lady?! I just passed three hotties on my way to the bar!

SM: Um are you talking about the two French Canadians wearing Wayne's World t Shirts and their mom?

DM: YES HELLO! WAKE UP! GRAB A PENIS!

SM: grab a what..ok stop, seriously stop, put your hands down, I don’t think throwing your hands up in the air in a fit of joy is going to get you anyone…no no, stop dancing, I don’t think there is a dance floor here...

DM: But they are playin my music!

SM: They are playing Rod Stewart.

DM Exactly.

SM: (sigh)

DM: And what are you talking about Ladymarmalade?! There’s a dance floor right here, and I can tell that hot guy is looking at me from across the room... he wants THIS...

SM: That is a lesbian.

DM: Think I should go dance with him?

SM: ahh, no, that is definitely a lesbian.

DM: A thespian? I fucking love actors! I am going to make my way over there…are you coming with me?

SM: Coming with you where? You are sitting on the floor. You can’t sit on the floor you know…

DM: Floor shmore I’m just takin a nap, just a little damn nap, no one will notice me under this stool…

SM: You cant sleep under this stool, and that dude at the bar asked if you could stop petting his leg.

DM: hmmm interesting thought... then what will I lay my head on?

SM: How about we go home?

DM: Ahh yes, let’s go home, but first let me grab the hottie in the corner and bring him with us...

SM: the lesbian?

DM: ahh yes, that will do.

I have a problem. A problem that follows me everywhere I go. To subways and malls, bars and movie theaters. It’s called, ‘Tall Girl’. Now I am not sure how she does it exactly, like some sort of friggin David Copperfield in heels, but Tall Girl always knows my whereabouts. She insists on standing next to me everywhere, I look over my shoulder at the bars and of course there is Tall Girl... I turn to my left on the Subway and there she is again... Damnit Tall Girl, stay away from me! You’re friggin makin me look bad!

I would be able wear some flats and revel in shoes that don’t cause me to walk around looking like a drunk rabbit if it wasn’t for Tall Girl. For the love of SWEET JESUS Tall Girl, why do you make me feel so incomplete? Why do you insist on standing next to me making me look like a 12 year old who just figured out how to button her training bra? Or worse yet when you wear your heels why do I get to look like a midget about to be rejected from the Duck Tales Roller Coaster Ride at Six Flags?

So here is the story of how I was almost hit by a bus. It’s a pretty exciting story if I must say so myself.

The story begins, I was leaving a bar one night. I walked into the middle of the street.

And a bus almost hit me.

No joke, it skimmed the side of my face. And almost hit me.

Now the best part about this entire story is how often my friends like to retell it.

It always starts off the same:

Some Asshole Friend- “Hey, do you guys remember when Kim almost got hit by a bus?”

Me- “Umm, can we not tell this story again?”

And there is always at least one douche in the group who hasn’t heard the story yet and insists on hearing it. And conversation will always inevitably start and end in the Exact. Same. Fashion.

“Wait, what happened?!”

“She walked out in the street…and a bus almost hit her.”

“Oh . Wow. (long pause) So ..should we get lunch at the falafel place or the place with the smelly olives?”

mmmm, smelly balls

Because I have become convinced over time that Jon LaJoie and I should get married and I believe we should start a ‘NYCPonderings Chick + Jon LaJoie = Marriage' petition. …although I don’t think I enjoy his last name so much and I would not want to take it over if/when married. However, maybe we could also petition him to change it to something cooler like ‘Balboa’…or ‘Schwarzenegger’ or … maybe just '"ShmaShmortzenegger".

Jon LaJoie "Sunday Afternoon"

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.

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.