Depths of My Soul

I don’t know how so many people go straight from high school to undergraduate school and then from undergraduate school right into grad school. Not to mention the freaks who decide to get PhDs right out of undergraduate school or an MA program. That’s almost all of your 20s! Ack! Hell, I don’t know how people go to undergrad for a fifth year. I’m one of the few people I know who’s graduating in four years, and I’m going out of my goddamned mind trying to finish this last one – and it’s only the first semester! I think to myself several times per day, ‘fuck 18th century French literature, I’m going to become a stripper!’ Then I think back to my recent, disastrous attempt at creating Porn Star Nails (long, shiny and square painted with really obvious white tips) and realize I’m not cut out for all that bleaching and waxing and filing.

Then I think, because I’m already on the subject of pubic hair and my desire not to have to wax it off, that there are millions of products on the market designed to remove pubic hair, but none that I know of dedicated to its upkeep. I’m fairly certain regular shampoo and conditioner probably aren’t good things to smush around near your private area, meaning someone needs to invent something hypoallergenic and…I don’t know, genital-safe.

So, you read it here first, folks. I’m quitting school to dedicate myself to pubic hair entrepreneurshipness.

Now the big question is, what I should call my product? Pubeshoo? WiryNoMore? Pubisoft?

Also, comment with your suggestions as to what I should be for Halloween. The choices are: Wonderwoman, a Mexican soap opera star, Jennifer Tilly’s character from Bound (I have someone willing to be my Gina Gershon, which will make it slightly less confusing and random) or George Sand. I’m leaning toward George Sand because it would allow me to buy and use a cigarette holder, vest and poufy 19th century man’s shirt.

I await your responses, oh faithful readers of the Internets!

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I’m going to admit something that, these days, is unfashionable.

I watch television.

I watch it, I like it, I have cable, and not just for the History channel or BBC World News.

I like to watch trashy reality shows on VH1. I like cooking shows. I could probably give you a detailed list of every Food Network personality. I like stupid shows aimed at women like all those ridiculous makeover shows that I know, intellectually, are dumb and condescending, but no one’s watching me in my little studio apartment, so what the hell.

Anytime a group of 20-30 year olds get together, someone, at some point in time will declare, proudly, how little television they watch:

“I haven’t even turned *on* my TV in weeks!”

“Oooh, you have cable…wow”

“I haven’t had a TV since I was a freshman!”

“Sorry, you know, I really don’t keep up with that stuff anymore. I didn’t watch that. In fact, I never watch TV.”

I don’t know how much more of this self-important tripe I can take. Why don’t people just say what they mean? Because when I hear shit like that, I know what people are really saying is, ‘I am above popular culture, and therefore superior to you. Also, my time is so massively important that the world would come to a screaching halt if I sat down to enjoy a soccer game or an episode of Good Eats.’

Television is no better or worse for your brain than reading or looking at photographs or paintings or absorbing any other kind of media. The whole ‘TV rots your brain’ myth has come about because it’s the most ubiquitous form of entertainment, and fun and leisure makes puritanical Americans nervous, even though they crave it more than anyone. If you read novels written before the 1940s or so, you’ll see characters saying the same things to their children about reading novels.

I’m not saying that my morbid fascination with Breaking Bonaduce is admirable or a sign of great intellectual rigor on my part, and there’s nothing wrong with not liking television or not being able to afford one or whatever, but don’t act like you’re above it. The box is also a mirror, and frankly I think it’s irresponsible not to look into it once in awhile, even if you don’t always like what you see.

P.S. I am a copy editor.

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Why can’t people just shutthefuckup once in awhile? Everyone’s on their cell phones on the bus, yelling into the receiver as if we all want to hear about how their boyfriend is ‘triflin,” or they’re on it in the fucking grocery store, talking to their bougie, castrated husband about what kind of English muffins he wants.

In the staff meeting for the school paper I work for, people kept talking while the editor was trying to talk. Just carrying on their own goddamn conversations. Hello? Are we in the third grade? Have we not figured out that meetings, while boring and tedious, go a lot faster when everyone focuses and speaks one at a time?

The worst, though, is the library. I can no longer study in the FREAKING LIBRARY.

I thought I could at least count on getting some peace in the library, but apparently not. I’m in favor of bringing back the old-fashioned, elderly, cranky librarian who shushed people all the time, because the tattooed twentysomethings currently employed by my school library aren’t cutting it.

Also, Ossie Davis totally should have won for best guest actor in a drama on the Emmys. Boo.

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I am obsessed with the E reality show “The Girls Next Door.” It is strangely mesmerizing, in large part because the people filming/editing the show have a great sense of humor. It’s this strange combination of advertisement and spoof of the Playboy brand/mansion/etc.

I would like a stable of blonde women and a mansion when I grow up. And a large collection of silk pajamas.

So far all I’ve got is a pair of cotton boxers from the Gap and a girlfriend with purple hair.

Hmm.

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I am the evil love nurse and I love to party. I love to party all the time, party all the time. Party all the time.

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