New years blah blah resolutions blah blah. This year I will be better. People are always going around saying “it’s not a competition” but lets be real, Life is a competition. But it’s less about winning and losing as it is who’s ahead in the leader board [We’re all winners or didn’t you know? And would you like a lithium-laced muffin?]. It’s also about the criteria by which you judge women. For some it’s money, others it’s college admissions, others still shoes and sexual conquests. Think less all one big race to the finish line [death], more track and field, where some shot put and others high jump while points add up for teams. By whichever measure I have, I will be better this year.

The people who say that life isn’t a competition are the ones who are losing. If not because they also probably don’t care about “insignificant trivialities of the material world” like salaries, grades, status, appetizers, and dental hygiene, but because they’re so lost thinking it’s not a competition that their horse is balking in the starting gate.

This reminds me of a quote I once heard. “Life isn’t short, it’s the longest thing you ever do.” And if you get hit by a truck tomorrow, won’t you be glad you ate that churro?

Boys, men and undeveloped fetuses: this means you!

My butt is not your own personal Buddha. Don’t touch it. Don’t pinch, squeeze, or rub it, for luck or otherwise.

Obviously not all you male-folk do this; most just run in fear or apathy. But for some reason the rest of your clan feels the need to just grab on like a testy lobster on booties the likes of me and many other lady bits out there. We ain’t like it! (Unsolicited- which is a fine line. Err on the side of hands to yourself).

I don’t know why it is you think you can do this. Yeah, I guess it could be fun and an adventure, in the way that it’s fun and adventurous to stick a hairpin into an electric socket. [Well, I guess that’s the end goal…]. At the end of this butt-touching tunnel is not a narnia o booty bumping.

Certainly some contexts make more sense than others. Like the dance floor, I suppose, or at the bar and near the bedroom. But if we are strangers? If I wouldn’t shake your hand or give you a hug, why do you think it’s okay to start grabbin’ at “these lady lumps?” And I know the way I wasn’t looking/talking/smiling at you certainly wasn’t an invitation for you evaluate the firmness or roundness of my money maker. Maybe it’s because I’m a lady and so inherently less creepy, but I also don’t get why you men-boys like to do this. Does it make you excited like when I see a puppy and have to pet it? Are booties boys’ puppies? You have to get to know each one? Or is it like a compulsion, like when you’re at a restaurant and you see they have fois gras on the menu and you just love fois gras so you order it because, let’s be real, you’re not going to see a fois gras [booty] and not even try it! I guess I could get behind a booty-puppy or fois situation. But no.

It’s just not polite and it’s not yours or comfy. I don’t go around grabbing your wiener and saying “Ey baby boo.” So you shouldn’t either.

And since we’re already talking, why is it that none of you can get haircuts or dress shoes right? Well, any shoes really.

No matter how much you convince yourself you’re better than wallowing, how much your papa tells you that it’s the guy who lets you go who’s really losing out, nor how many times Chris Martin tells you “anyone who denies you must be out of their mind,” grammatically incorrect over your shitty iPod headphones. But I don’t have to tell you about how much rejection blows, now do I, Emily Dickinson? Wadsworth fucking you over was enough to send you into hyberbation-til-death mode.

It’s just like that time I didn’t get into that college but it still makes me feel like I got a 19 on the ACT. No offense. I didn’t even want to go there I just applied because my mom thought I’d be going to tea parties with Luda like every weekend, fucking your guides. Stanford’s the only place I wanted to go, it’s my Rushmore and now I’m sad cos I tried to go after some slutty Miss Cross.

But it worked out okay for you, right, Ems? I mean you wrote all those awesome poems and are super famous? Okay yeah I guess you died, depressed, before you got to enjoy that and it was kindof your dying wish for your sister to burn them all but… You’ve found success?

I think this is the lesson of rejection. Fuck the haters, Get melodramatic and write a shit ton of awesome poems that are as depressing as your cuckoldry, get money get paid, and wear only white even if it’s after labor day.

“I let my haters be my motivators,” I and that kid in the The Sitter trailer always say. And it’s true. Nothing ever gets a bitter, over-achieving, type A girl going like the sneaking threat that she may not actually be able to accomplish everything. This is why triple dog dares are so effective. [And why girls try to keep up with the guys, making vodka even more effective, but that’s another blog rant.]

This is why sometimes I make a point to piss some people off, ensuring certain rejection, which is basically the wind beneath my wings. For example this blog, where I [sometimes] write delightfully offensive and [always] terribly embarrassing things so that I know [hope] somewhere out there, a snarky little biscuit is cursing at her ‘puter, fuming with enmity for me. And this pleases me.
Maybe this is fucked up. Maybe it’s a passive aggressive defense mechanism. Like how I sometimes purposefully don’t recycle recyclables [dont kill me ye California liberals]. But at least I have personality.