After the last post, I was surprised to receive the bevy of emails and texts that confused Blog Malaise with forays into self-cutting, existential despair and/or maturity. Slow your roll, friends. No need to have this overwhelming pressure to become a better person. Let's not get ahead of ourselves.
Really, my most accurate metaphor was that it's been like a friendship that's no longer relevant and in those situations that person gets cut, not me. (FROM MY LIFE, people. Jeez.) I just wanted to point out that sometimes you don't want to muck around in all your old bullshit from the past couple years on virtual space. And this blog feels like Clover's primo bullshit garden, you know? Can't blame a gal for wanting to throw some weed killer on it every now and again.
But clearly me feeling feelings is an awkward moment for everyone, so let's snap that blog persona back firmly in place and carry on, shall we?
Melissa Lion, famous writer, astutely observed in the comments section of that post that whenever someone says they want to burn their blog in a giant online bonfire (I paraphrase), the next week they start posting twice a day. When I first read it I thought she wrote twice a week and I was nodding my head going "Yes, twice a week. That is probably what I am going to start doing again." Then I reread it. I get her metaphor, but bitch. Don't get crazy on me.
So I'm still here. That is until I decide that what I truly want is to write without people calling or emailing me ten minutes after every post, and then I will move some to some new URL and BE ANONYMOUS. I will be the Thomas Pynchon of bloggering. It will be hard because then I can't post gratuitous pictures of myself, but I will do it for The Craft. ::cough::
So while I'm still here talking about me and my stuff and my things, I'm going to attempt to post everyday this week about the some New Changes that are going on in an attempt to 2009-ify this shizz. I give me Monday and maybe Tuesday.
But the Fun New Thing that has NOT happened is my New Look. Fraken frak. Unfortunately yesterday's reality show makeover was part of a High Concept Styling Challenge. Soooo I looked ka-razy yesterday but this morning I look like, you know, myself again. Le sigh. (I don't think the show airs still August or September, but I will let you all know when it does.)
Can someone make my hair look like this? I WANT THIS HAIR LIKE A FAT KID WANTS BACON.
When I started blogging I didn't know what I was getting into.
My friend Bethany told me that I should start a blog because it would force me to write consistently and publish immediately. (As opposed to the elusive longer, larger project where imaginary deadlines are never met and the final product is only in your head. What's up, everything I've ever done but this blog.)
And it did. I loved having a blog. Then, as any blogger can testify, the blog takes over your life. You become compelled to post, comment on fifty other blogs everyday, make blog friends and talk about your blog in your real life so you can annoy and alienate all your non-blogger friends. It feels important and special.
I didn't realize I hated it, because deep down I didn't want to. I put in a lot of work and, in many ways, I'm proud of it. But I am hating this shit for real, yo, and no longer afraid to say it.
I am tired of roasting my life. I am tired of constant daily blog networking. I am tired of feeling like I should post or no one will read this anymore. I am tired of my blog persona making me feel like who I really am. And I am beyond tired of my mom calling me and telling me this blog makes her feel like she has no idea who I am.
I am filming an episode for a Reality Show this weekend. I've made it clear once or one hundred times here that I love me a show where someone gets eliminated at the end of it, so as you can imagine, I'm gleeful. It's kind of a makeover show, and while I don't need a makeover, I want one. BADLY.
I recently moved, I'm ready to begin a new phase of my career, three of my most reliable and fun friends are no longer day players (one got a serious boyfriend overnight and two disappointed and hurt me very much, together), and most of all I want a visual representation of the new person I am trying to become.
Hopefully after Saturday I can (and will want to) show photographic evidence of this new me. In my head, she is very hot.
I'm not bold enough to delete this entire blog, (in the same way I've always been too chicken to torch genuinely torchable journals), but I have needed a break to figure out why I feel so resentful of it, like a friend that is no longer relevant to my life, someone whose conversations irritate me because I am forced to speak from a place that's not me anymore.
I don't want to feel this way about this blog, and I've been avoiding it because I haven't been brave enough to say it. Not only do I need to feel fresh and clean once again about this blog, but also my life.
So cross your fingers and hope that Saturday does the trick. As a girl, sadly, it probably will.
(Also, embarrassingly, the title of this post is not the first time I've quoted Jerry Maguire in the past twenty-four hours.)
So this whole geek thing turned out to not include a vlog, but I promise this is not the first time I will let you all down, so please just accept me for who I am, and let's all move on with the low expectations route firmly in place.
But I'd still like to address this: if you notice there is a nifty little emblem in the bottom of the left hand corner it says "Society for Geek Advancement". Really? Since when did geeks need help advancing? Do I need to spend more of my money on Apple products so a geek can leave the ghetto?
I am going to start a Society for Clover Advancement. I am also marginalized, suburban and have trouble getting laid. Please throw a party in my honor. I will also give out really good stickers.
(Of note: A popular question among the advancers of geekery was "What makes you a geek?" and apparently responding with "I have started hash tagging my texts." is not geeky, just sad. #idontcare #iblamekiala #societyforcloveradvancement
It's about time we had affirmative action for college educated, socially awkward people.
So where will the weekend find the Clover? Got any big plans that involve goats or Jews? Mine kind of got filled up when I wasn't looking. Oh, and I don't think I commented on that link you sent me, the eye candy assistant thing. That's fucking unbelievable, except that it's totally believable. Did you sign up?
Rivishly, Rivers
gina to Mark
no! i didn't. should i? i kind of thought if it's coming to that i would rather just be a whore.
right? clover
Mark Rivers to me
Yeah, I'm skeptical. You might find yourself chloroformed and shipped off to some Russian slave-whore prison. Though I've learned that such ideas sort of turns you on.
gina to Mark
yes, i am the kind of person that actively wishes to experience stockholm syndrome at least once in my life. what? like holding a girl captive doesn't turn you on.
do comedy nerds do any kidnapping and chaining in basements these days? maybe the one you set me up with will.
bam boom, clover
So, ladies and gents? How do you feel about eye candy assistants? Whore-y or fruitful vein in my employment search?
This was the week of The Geek. At least if you were on Twitter. Or in the world of New Media.
Or not. (#iamembarrassedtobetalkingaboutthis.)
And in honor of it I'm doing a vlog tomorrow. So yeah. Come back then.
I am posting this picture mostly because I am trying to show the people who follow me on Twitter (#pleasedontjudge) what I was talking about when I referenced my "clown nails" and how I thought painting each nail a different color would cheer me up when I had the afternoon sads yesterday.
Totally didn't!
But the invite to speak at the illustrious, national sensation Back Fence PDX sure did. (For those of you that don't know, Back Fence PDX is like The Moth but better, because the hottest bitches in all the lands run it. Everything is better when the hot bitches are runnin' shit.) The smart and delectable Melissa Lion and I have been in discussion about bringing the Cloveries to perform in the magnificent town of Portland (I've had a crush since high school), and I will let you all know in advance when I will be there so we can all make a weekend of it.
Also, last year Strauss got me into Matt and Kim and since then I have put "Yea Yeah" on every mixed CD I make for people. Today I saw their latest video and it makes me feel happy and sad and alive.
If there is a better metaphor for my life, I have not found it.
There comes a time in every girl blogger’s life where she takes it upon herself to get all up on her weblogspace and talk about Feminine Stuff. And no, not Feminine Stuff like we might refer to it in a women’s studies class, the one where we all agree Simone de Beauvoir was just as smart as her famous boyfriend dude, whats-his-tits, but the one where she talks about Lady Things, like time o’ the month and other such things that send the manpart-wielding readers running for the hills.
Fear not: this is only sort of one of those posts, boys. In fact you will probably like it because this is a post where ima just say it: Bitches be crazy.
I feel for you, manfriends. Woman can be more nuttier than a nutcake, and there’s nothing any of us can do about it. Really, we promise.
And I only feel compelled to write about it because I only recently rejoined this world. Because, you see, I was on the little joydrops known as birth control. Now some baby preventer mints only enhance the crazy juices flowing through the female endocrinals. BUT, if you get on the right little magic button, you become Woman 2.0. A more evolved and refined creature: permanently clear skin, a mere nod to a period, no painful, swelling body parts, no creepy emotional outbreaks, an inability to reproduce. Basically perfection.
I was actually very similar to a bionic woman.
And, not to give y’all too much info about my bizsnatch, but I’ll be frank, Clover really does not have much of a need to be on year-round miracle pill action. I am more likely to spend the eve turning out a round table discussion with my ladiez about which dude we would pick if we had to get with one of the dudes from Daisy of Love (easier than it sounds!) than I am actively doing things where I would need to prevent a baby creature from taking residence in my womb region.
Yes, 2008’s anti-baby vitamin lifestyle was primarily because I enjoyed being untethered by things like “crying for no reason” and “emotional eating” and “blood”.
And then I had the brill plan to stop. If I deeply analyze this decision, it was pretty much some clever reverse psychology I was trying to pull with the universe, like, as soon as I stop taking this for no reason, I’ll be up to my eyeballs in Danny McBride!a nice, normal fella just perfect to take home to mom & dad. Okay, I was hoping for Danny McBride. So far this trick has only served to clown me further. Physically and emotionally.
And now for the past week or so, I am plagued by the following symptoms:
1) Ten extra pounds of ache, though no actual discernible weight gain.
2) The desire to consume anything but a vegetable
3) The Sads. Permanently.
4) Face-disfiguring chin pimples
5) Attempting to will myself into the Superhero Power of DEATH GAZE
6) Amped up hate towards most living things, the human baby creatures in particular (See: DEATH GAZE, recipients of)
Numero seis especialmente, since as I pen this on the airplane, THE MOST ANNOYING CHILD EVER WILL NOT STOP KICKING MY SEAT NOR SHUT UP. I heard the parents say that after we land in LA they are continuing on to Australia. LOL. Good luck with that, suckers.
This shizz is for the birds, people. I can tell you I am the opposite of interested in this phenomenon. I miss the old me, which I truly believe is the Real Me. I do not enjoy the psychos, nor relate to them for that matter. It feels foreign and confusing. Hold me, interfriends. Most of all, I do not like feeling like I am nothing more than a hard-wired set of biological information, cellulars screaming out in pain because I am operating on a program I did not choose to run on, one that says I should shoot something large and loud out of something small and dignified AND FINE JUST THE WAY IT IS.
Next month baby preventer mints are back on. Until then, I’ll just be here practicing my Superhero Power on the Seat Kicking Cretin behind me.
It's Cinco de Party Time and BWP and I are THIS CLOSE to blowing your mindregions with our fantastical blogaventure. Between these two glorious things, I am giddy in my cloverparts.
Here is a sneak peak at what's to come. Just to whet your 'tite.
Clover: I just drank a vodka drink and contemplated ending my life. I switched to tequila and within two sips I'm already texting you because I am filled with the jovials. Are the Mexicans magical or what?
I'm still at least half blaming the Twitters for the Blog Death '09 that's happening. Sometime between getting called "ADD" and "retarded", it dawned on me that my hybrid of "scattered" and "slow" was not charming anymore. And my presence on Twitter is NOT helping. I don't even read blogs anymore, much less comment on them prolifically and write on my actual blog. It makes feel so mentally dirty, people. And not in the way I like to be mentally dirty.
But despite this fact, I still know some damn smart people in this world. In fact, some exceptionally smart people still call me friend and (shockingly) think I'm reasonably intelligent. I can put up a solid façade. So this blog post is a tribute to them. Despite the fact they will probably just be embarrassed to be associated with me. OH WELL FOR YOU, FRIENDS.
So on Tuesday night I had dinner with a friend I hadn't seen in a while (read: two years), a writer I know, who I often just refer to as "The Smartest Person I Know" because he kind of is. During the course of that meal, I detailed my plight of texting and twittering, my all-around general commitment to Attention Span Murder and how I'm rocking a bad case of The Dumbs these days. He ordered me to read actual books again or he would stop talking to me altogether. (That's the kind of tough love I need, people.)
So his ominous threat has at least scared me into reading Neil Strauss's latest book, which I've had sitting around collecting dust the past month. It's a great read and I'm not just promoting it just because it's genuinely good, but because Strauss is a really good friend to me, and I appreciate that he put up with some serious drunken Clover antics this week. See? There is a pay-off after all. I blog about you when you love me unconditionally. Yes, debatable pay-off, but it's all I've got right now.
So Strauss became the latest victim/beneficiary of my Drunk Texting. (A hobby which I only grow more passionate about as the days go on.) After the writer dinner Tuesday, I was feeling smarter and energized by the encounter, so I went and visited my friend who tends bar nearby. It seemed too early to go home, and I wanted to share the posi vibes I had gotten with more than just the tivo-ed American Idol waiting for me at home. (Clover LOVES posi vibes and the sharing of them).
It turned out to not be my slickest move to date. Writer Friend had gotten us a bottle of wine to share and I was already "feelin' the flow" (as Kevin Nealon's character might say to Happy Gilmore in the eponymous film). Except this flow was drunkenness, and since it was a slow night at my friend's bar, he began pouring me champagne glass after champagne glass and I begrudgingly (read: enthusiastically) drank them all.
And because Strauss is how I know the Very Smart Writer Friend, I decided it was high time to begin enthusiastically drunk texting Strauss that Mutual Smart Writer Friend and I had FINALLY gotten together after a year of endlessly talking about getting together. There was general celebration that this feat finally occurred and then (I think) we began gossiping about people we know, projects Strauss is working on and how he was leaving for New York in a day, but we CLEARLY had to "catch up" on all of these things before he left, because in my drunken haze, these were the most important topics to be discussed on earth and had to be discussed THAT NIGHT.
Unfortunately when I turn on the drunk text charm, I am inexplicably articulate, lucid, even witty, and this is a problem. He could obviously not tell I was under the influence of "the spirits". Because I somehow convinced Strauss that I was in some sort of place to discuss anything. I left the bar, went to Strauss's and promptly passed out. Yes, I was a charming visitor.
When I woke up the next morning (confused to be at Strauss's [LOLZ, Clover]) I asked him if he was interviewing Judd Apatow for Rolling Stone. He looked at me like I was a Giant Moron, and I almost punched myself in the face remembering that he told me eight times last night it was for Maxim. Apparently the one thing I did enjoy doing was asking that question over and over.
Strauss had the interview that morning, but being the good friend he is, told me that he would finally teach me how to milk his goats (yes, he has goats) and while he prepped for his interview, he still found time to show me how to milk a goat. So I proceeded to spend my hangover straddling a goat trying to keep her from running away with the nonexistent power of my inner thighs and simultaneously keeping the baby goats from cracking open Strauss's skull while they jumped on his back as he milked their mom's teat. Hollywood living.
These are the actual goats if you want to see what I'm talking about:
So after my clothes got glamorously covered in goat hair and goat paw prints from the goat milking venture, we tried to go back inside and inexplicably all the doors back into the house were locked. Really, doors? What's your damage? Strauss smartly had me run after the goat caretaker who was already in her car (because I could not fathom a solution to this crisis), and luckily I caught her before she turned out onto the street, so she was able to click open the garage door for us.
But this was not before the goats squeezed out the fence gate behind me, and we then ran frantically around trying to wrangle in three frolicky, spastic goats before they ran out into the major thoroughfare right by his house.
If you think this is a fun way to spend a hangover you are wrong.
But I did learn that baby goats are surprisingly easy to pick up. Much easier than squirmy bunny rabbits, which is what I used to do at Ex's. The skill set I have developed living in rustic Los Angeles.
I've already forgotten the point of this blog because I am ADD, and it is much longer to construct than a text, but I think it was kind of a public apology for subjecting Strauss to severe Clover inebriation.
Um, I also pledge to blog more because I really miss it, and my brainsicle is atrophying more than it already is without it. Troof.
But all the talk of drunk texting is really just a lengthy preamble to inform you that Baking With Plath and I have a joint blog venture in the works and it will knock yer socks off. JUST YOU WAIT AND SEE.
