Stupid ipad work I hate you so this is not about you

Twenty-something and clueless- the never before told story of a lost young girl experiencing a quarter-life crises in a hipster city post-college, and in throes with her parents, and still coping with her childhood, which makes relationships a burden especially when she still sleeps with her ex because she is scared to go over a month without sex and so is he…yes the most original piece of literature to ever surface in this post-modern, existential, deconstuctionist capitalistic, overly-scholared American world. I would be at the forefront of groundbreaking beyond-hippie-hipster visionaries everywhere, embracing this new vision to pull us into 2012, and bridging the gap between driveling confused trust fund babies from gen X and soccer moms caught shopping at Forever 21 during school hours. In one book I would encompass a global view of communist capitalism from my experiences teaching abroad in Korea, which is like China but smaller and less original, and I would then blunder gracefully into stories about being unemployed post-teaching and college, confused about the ex thing, and trying to get inexpensive massages but failing after backpacking SE Asia, and being spoiled and no wiser than a fortune cookie, because my India and eastern spirituality loving ex ruined any ideas of enlightenment for me. He also failed to keep my cat alive when I moved abroad, and he gave me herpes so I lost a relationship with the next boy I really liked, which took me two years to find after I realized I had to move on, but you know, I’m not resentful or anything…I’m just a lost twenty-something writing an original tale about being lost in Portland, the capital of Happy Hour, bad credit, crack coffee, and tight pants.

I am returning from a hour at a Vietnamese beauty parlor where I entered to get my eyebrows waxed, and exited with my whole face waxed and freshly painted nails. I also had a mediocre foot massage from a lady called either Thing or Ting, who had named her 22month old Italy because her husband, who had two years ago returned to Vietnam to find a wife and tow her back to the states with him, had a soft spot for Italians. Ting/Thing and I threw at each other several questions in broken English like a crippled interview between Autistic teenagers, when she looked deeply into my eyes and asked, “Do you like Cocaine?” That’s what it sounded like and I stared at her and then asked her to repeat herself about ten times, each time she repeated “Cocaine, Coke-do you like?” and I finally was about to accept that my neighborhood Vietnamese community was submersed in drug culture, and maybe relate in choppy English phrases my most impressive cocaine story when I snorted about 22 lines in one night and talked about Nietzsche with a friend and decided by sunrise I was a genius and then crawled up in a ball and wanted to die…but then she spelled it out. “C-O-O-K’. Do you like? Coking?” Oh, that’s not as interesting a story, but yes, I like it.

I just cooked. I returned home, cleaned the litter box and then made dinner, and I really wanted protein so I opened a can of refried beans with a vision of Mexican tortillas, but the beans, after being coked up with cheese, onion, peppers and garlic, just looked like a big pile of colorful shit. But it tastes good.

So I just wanted to recount these stories, because they are going into this famous book I’m going to write about the nothingness of being nothing and getting old and feeling like I need to meet someone, and that every guy I pass is a potential husband, even the balding ones, because at least I know they are less likely to leave me or cheat on me, and at 26, you know I have a crippled heart and can’t take any more of that misery, because life is hard, and I still work retail.

PS. My Mucocele has gone down. In case you don’t know what that is, because I had it one month before I actually found it out on Google, it is (and this is according to Wikipedia): a swelling of connective tissue consisting of collected mucin due to a ruptured salivary gland duct usually caused by local trauma, in the case of mucus extravasation phenomenon, and an obstructed salivary duct in the case of a mucus retention cyst. The mucocele is a bluish translucent color, and is more commonly found in children and young adults.” It’s basically a lip cyst, or polyp for a friendly term. And to gross you out thoroughly let me tell you that I didn’t want to see a doctor and try to figure out the whole PSU insurance thing, because I hate insurance, bills, taxes and all of that boring shit, so I poked and drained the polyp twice (heavy drainage of mucus-like saliva liquid the color of faded yellow wallpaper), the first time a week ago, the second a couple days ago. And with the natural remedies prescribed by such reputable sources as Simplestepsdental.com and lumpinmymouth.com, I dabbed the drained lump with alum spice, bags of Hibiscus tea, colloidal sliver drops, and sea salt. My lip went from Hattie McDaniels- Mammie size (a Gone with the Wind reference that would be lost on most of my generation, and shunned by older righteous citizens for its political incorrectness), looking like I was punched in the face, to looking pretty normal now. I am relieved. I have a freshly waxed face, freshly painted dark blue nails, a whole new week of classes, a pile of shit at my side getting cold and hoping to be picked up and ingested immediately after I finish this rant of nonsense, and to be accompanied by a 3 dollar bottle of Trader Joes wine called Pink, and an instant netflix movie, probably something hip and unique and sexy because I don’t get laid enough and really need to live vicariously through my unlimited instant netflix movies, because they are reliable and committed and always await me after a long day of selling expensive shit to Mac-snobs, or bobbing around campus trying to pretend I still care about college, even though I don’t feel like a student because my professor doesn’t even know what avarice is and misspelled gluttony!; and I’m dreaming about traveling again or doing something, anything, but this…snagging that husband. Have you read this children’s book about a baby bird trying to find its mom? I can’t remember the title, something like , “Hi are you my mom?” or “Where’s my mom?” and so that is me lately, “Hi, are you my husband?” Pathetic.
I don’t even like responsibility. Imagine me in a committed anything. I can’t even imagine a rental that is more committed than month to month. This world completely befuddles me.

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