What Your Tweet Says About You

95% of the tweets out there are pointless. John Doe had cereal for breakfast. Jane Doe hates that it’s raining outside..sad face. Uyen Nguyen really enjoys spending time with
her cat. Despite their trivial nature, such tweets rarely disturb me.

But, every now and then, a gem falls on my timeline and makes me cringe.

What this tweet makes me think:
“Dude, does this person have friends? I’m sure they must possess SOME real-life friends. But then, why crave affirmation so desperately? Oh my, there’s even a hashtag in there. That must be a call for help. Orphan, perhaps? Daddy issues? This poor, abandoned soul truly needs a divine tweetervention. Wait… does this person realize that the people most likely to see this tweet are already followers? Ahhhh, riddle solved. This person is an idiot.”

What this tweet doesn’t make me think:
“YES!! I will emphatically press that follow button right away!”

Slut Envy

In high school, I slutted it up. By graduation, I had (Ha! Did you really think I would tell you?) sexual partners to my credit By today’s standards, I was actually quite tame. But, back then and back in Vermont, sexual exploration of any variety deemed you a concubine.

Boys asked me to confirm rumors. Girls gave me dirty looks. Teachers regarded me as one of those tragic Lifetime movies involving a bright girl with endless possibilities, ultimately ruined by carnal pleasures. Oh dear. I pretended that the rumors didn’t hurt. But, they did.

During my first year at Syracuse University, I locked up my lotus flower and tucked the key inside textbooks.

As other girls headed to frat houses, I stayed in. As they partied, I studied. And as they performed the walk of shame the next day, I glanced disdainfully in their direction. I envied their tousled hair and ripped stockings. My jealousy turned into hatred. So, I called them names once whispered behind my back.

My prejudice against sluttification (I’m sure this will one day become a real word) got me high. I even got creative with my hate—using terms like harlot, trollop and venereal-disease incubator instead of simply “slut.”

Having been on both sides of the morality division, I can honestly say that “sluts” do have more fun. I be irate that females trample on the sexual aspirations of one another.

If a 25-year-old man boasts (and indeed, men boast) 20 sexual partners, we shrug and accept it as a normal occurrence. If a woman confessed the same, we make grand assumptions about her ethics. We question the elasticity of her vaginal canal.

Often, females are the worst perpetrators of slut-hating. Men might start a rumor, but women embed malicious additives to it and then broadcast it on every social media platform. “Promiscuous” morphs into “easy,” which becomes “whore,” which finally emerges as a tweet about some filthy strumpet who engaged in simultaneous lascivious activities with one dozen men plus a horse… or something to that nature.

Truthfully, all women yearn to exercise their reproductive organs. But, instead of congratulating those who can and do climax, we hate them. Enough, I say. Everyone deserves a nice, judgement-free, romp.

My Resolutions for 2012

At the start of every year, I make resolutions. Don’t judge, you all do it too. But 365 days later, I realize that I haven’t accomplished a damn thing. This year, I have a new strategy. I will make attainable goals. If this is indeed the last year for humankind, I want to go out a winner.

In 2012, I resolved to:

-Whine about not having money.
-Spend every extra dollar on frivolous purchases… Italian leather cat collar anyone?
-Whine about boys.
-Reject all men who show genuine interest while chasing vapid, unrealistically gorgeous men who pay no attention to mortal females like myself.
-Gossip about my friends.
-Spend too much time applying makeup and too little time flossing.
-Text “OMG” approximately 213,828,400,183,270,185 times.
-Text “lol,” “lmao” and “hahahaha” despite the fact that no laughter actually occurs.
-Choose Netflix over quality time with friends and family.
-Ignore calls and texts because I’m too lazy to move 10 feet to pick up the phone;
then, wholeheartedly swear that I never received any messages.
-”Forget” to shower every other weekend.
-Gain weight.
-Ignore my obesity and purchase apparel one size too small.
-Consider going for a jog every Saturday morning, but only execute this consideration
one time.
-Choose granny panties over sexy panties.
-Sacrifice the lives of many poultry animals to satisfy my craving for wings.

I think this list will make my ancestors proud.

Lay Stole the Identity of Lie

Every time someone tells me that they need to “lay down,” a cluster of molecules in my eardrums implode. I can no longer tolerate the indecencies being committed to the word “lie.”

Thanks to America’s wonderfully inadequate education system, “lie” is only associated with dishonesty. It’s time to give “lie” its due recognition.

Lie means to make oneself horizontal. I lie down. He lies down. They lie down.

Lay means to make an object horizontal. Let me reiterate, lay needs a direct object. I lay down a book. He lays down a book. They lay down the whips and chains that will soon be used in their masochistic ritual of erotica.

If you were to ever use “lay” to imply horizontal positioning, it must be in the past tense. Yesterday, I lay down after witnessing a friend massacre the English language.

 

What’s Your Definition of “On My Grind”?

I hear a lot of people say they’re out there being on their grind and working their asses off, but honestly I don’t see it. I be irate that the people who actually say this, are lazily on their “grind.”

I come from a background of real laborers. One side of my family raised pigs, butchered chickens for the town, laid bricks and foundations, were construction workers, etc. The other side raised beef and milk cattle, helped build dams, worked on printing presses, etc. The epitome of true workers. My parents raised me with the expectations of working hard for your money. Handouts don’t happen — well unless you’re lucky, but you shouldn’t expect them and you should maybe feel a tad guilty receiving them. So when I work, I put 120% effort into what I do– unless I’m extremely worn out or dealing with horrible people…and when I say horrible, I mean want to kick babies for some relief, horrible.