godfatherambs

Someone needs to tell my whore of a former stepmother, but still stepmother until divorce proceedings begin, that she needs to stop going around and having babies and giving them my father's last name. 

They are not, nor will they ever be, his children, so just stupid trying to connect them in in some way you stupid whore. 

Gah. 

It has not been a good week. 

I saw Revolutionary Road tonight. 

I found the preview to be misleading (at least from my perspective), but in a good way, seeing as the ending totally blew my fucking mind. 

Two people shouldn't be so damn angry and sexy onscreen together, especially while coming across so real. I can't remember the last time a movie made me laugh, gasp, cringe, hold my breath, and cry within a matter of minutes. 

My stomach is still in knots. 

That should have been some kind of foreshadowing to the night’s events, as well as the hangover that came this morning.

I’m not sure when or how or why I’ve become this way. I always told myself I would never be one of those types of girls (crying, lying, being spiteful for the sake of things, and acting completely stupid while being aware that I am in fact completely stupid and I knew that going in, thus swearing not to be stupid), which I realize is a cliché declaration, just as is thinking that I wouldn’t actually end up like this.

I’m swearing off boys.

I’d swear off beers too, but I like them too much. They are good company and never run out if you get enough and are often refreshing. Sure, they may make your tummy hurt the morning after, but never your heart, and that’s all that really matters.  

I've always thought birthdays were sort of dumb. Sure, the milestones are great - turning five (I have no idea why, but that birthday stands out. I have to figure this out.), sixteen, eighteen, and twenty-one. 

Today, I am just reminded that I am two years away from being twenty-five and a third of my way through life and I'm sort of failing. 

That's not fun folks, not at all. 

You'd think this would put a swift kick in my ass to do things or make changes, but I'm still pretty blah about it all. Self-pity is a stupid thing to have. 

When I was a kid, I used to throw birthday parties for my dog. Newspaper hats and wrapped presents at this old beat up wooden table that sat in the corner of the kitchen. Those were pretty tight, but then she died, so there were no more parties. 

*sigh*

When I was a kid, my grandma had this tradition of taking me to the mall so we could have dinner at Ruby Tuesday's, except before dinner, I got to go to the toy store and pick out anything I wanted. ANYTHING. Seriously, dude. It was difficult. The only gift that stands out was the Barbie salon thing where you could cut the doll's hair off and then it had velcro reattachments. I cut all the hair off before dinner was over and then I decided the velcro made her look dumb. Talk about a bust gift. 

The food was good though I think. It's hard to remember. Eventually Ruby Tuesday's closed and went away as did my grandma, and now when I think of birthday's I think of those dinners and how my grandma always ate the fajitas on those sizzling plates. 

I don't really remember birthdays as I grew up. My former whore of a stepmother loved to go to places like Applebees or TGI Fridays - the stupidest places that would sing and humiliate the living shit out of you. Sometimes I think she did it on purpose because she knew how much I hated it. I'm so glad she's gone. Well, sort of. Whores like that never go away though, do they? 

I think the worst I ever had was when Sabrina threw me a Mardi Gras themed birthday and Morgan got drunk and fell through a living room window of her parent's house. Yeah, it sucked pretty hard. Sabrina was so mad and kicked everyone out by like nine thirty. No worries about Morgan though. The stupid drunk was just fine. 

Last year, I drank a lot of different beers and maybe even danced. I tend to dance a lot when I have too many beers. I've almost fallen into speakers. It's not a pretty sight. After all the beers, I ate a birthday cake with an alligator on it between sucking at guitar hero. What a first impression I probably made on those people. And then I went home and went to bed. 

It was almost one of the best birthdays ever. 

And now, we're at this one. 

I vegged out with my aunts and watching terrible television. Lifetime plays Wife Swap twice a day now and it's entirely too stupid and entertaining to be on TV. Someone cancel it, please. We ate Big Macs and brownies and cake and laughed way too much. It was one of those weird moments where you think, aw, we can have fun when we're not hating one another like stupid whores. 

But mostly I spent the day waiting for my dad to call. Last year at this time, he and I weren't even speaking, and he forgot my birthday until Sissy called and reminded him. He never called and by nine I gave in and called him myself. He rambled on and on about work and stressful things that made me stress out and annoyed because I just wanted to hear, "Happy Birthday!" 

Yes, I am selfish that way. 

So right before he hangs up, he mentions going to dinner tomorrow and meeting his new girlfriend, whom he's been keeping to himself all secretively. And I finally give in and I'm all what the fuck, aren't you going to say happy birthday? He says - are you ready for it? - Your birthday isn't until tomorrow. 

Burn, pops. Burn real good. 

Except then he said it and he actually sang and he talked more about dinner tomorrow, and I tried to pretend it was just fine, but really, I don't understand how you forget the day your only biological child was born. Even if it's by a day. I know him and what he does for work and I know that he only wrote the date about fifty times today. 

Seriously, what the fuck?

Gah. 

Instead of all that, I'll just think about the birthday party I had last weekend with Riley and how we wore crowns and wore jewels and blew horns for hours and hours on end. How she was more excited about my birthday than I was and how she will have made it memorable. Nothing beats having a three-year-old climb into my lap, sing happy birthday, ask to blow out my candles, and then tell me she loves me. 

Of course, she did make me watch Thomas the Train afterwards, but that's forgivable. 

At least for now. 

 I don’t know why I bother watching television.

Every couple I find myself invested in never makes it. I always try to remind myself that they are stupid fictional characters with overly angsty relationships whose only purpose is to get together, do the dirty, fall in love, sleep with someone else, and break up (in no particular order). And it just leaves me so sad inside.

For some reason, I always pick the two people who are destined to stay in one another’s orbit, but never end together because other relationships, stupid deaths, dead boyfriends, or danger. Or worse, I pick the unlikely two that will never get to share airtime or even have the chance at a hot fling, and it’s just fair.

Then I find myself willing them to be real. What? I know you do it too, so no pointing figures.

Like Daniel and Betty – Sure, this is the dumbest, most cliché fantasy of all time, but Daniel Meade is such a stupid playboy, and I think nerdy girl could give him a very satisfying roll in the sheets. Except it would totally ruin the entire premise of the show and force it to get cancelled. Not to mention they'd both regret it and cry. Or it would be entirely too contrived for them to even be in love and want one another. Nerdy girls are rarely that lucky. 

And I really, really wanted Rachel to bang Joey just once. Why? Because Ross was a stupid putz. A man’s greatest love should never be dinosaurs unless they are under five. Otherwise, it just speaks disaster. Joey was funny and Rachel was gorgeous and funny (not that Joey wasn’t attractive, but he was like special cute), and they were such adorable roommates and friends, and possibly even capable of wedded bliss.

Except probably not. Ross would have had a cow. Rachel would have cried and said his name at the altar. And Emma would have ended up so very confused about her fathers.

Oh, man! And another one – well, they don’t necessarily fit in the television genre, but if they don’t stop going around and blowing kisses and declaring their fucking love on Oprah, I just might die. You hear that Kate and Leo? You are fucking killing me with this cutesy, best friend affection, insanely hot chemistry, and attractive significant others. (Okay, Leo’s chick is banging, but Kate’s husband not so much. British bearded men are just not my thing.)  

I’m on to you two, so you better be have yourselves, or at least go be hot somewhere else, preferably behind closed doors.

Kate and Leo. What freaking whores? Who in the hell goes on Oprah and gushes over webcams? Don’t they know that’s for their IChats.

Anyway, that’s enough about the stupid couples that are never going to be because God hates me. He hates me so hard, and I can prove it in the couples that were (and sometimes failed.)

I think the only couple I ever truly invested myself in that survived was Pacey and Joey. I remember when DC first started and there being some blowjob joke in the early episodes. My friend’s parents wouldn't let them watch and my grandma was all whatever whore, just stay out of my face. And I fell in love with the stupid boy who had no hope for a future.

It took a lot of seasons and a lot of other loves (including some God awful sex with Dawson Leery) for those two whores to finally end up together.

I have to say, if there was ever a show who did a great finale, it was DC. The quintessential whore had a baby by an unknown father or something and then she died. Ha. They never kill the whores on show, so that was sort of fun. Their boobs and comments about sex are exhausting, so to have her die felt refreshing. And then they let the gay couple adopt her baby. And then Joey chose Pacey over Dawson and the lead character of the show ended up all alone. It was so very beautiful, even if it sucked for a few seasons.

At least those two made it to the end. They’re like the ones.

Jess and Rory didn’t make it because they had to try and do some sideshow with Milo, which never even fucking happened, so that ended up being really stupid. And Rory quit Yale and dated the asshole, while Jess was off doing magical things (probably with other girls) and publishing books. He gets sex and critical acclaim while all she got was to hop along the Obama campaign trail.

Snore.

Great fucking job fucking things up Amy Palladino. Great fucking job.

And the latest couple to take the ax is Chuck and Blair, something that I don’t know if I’ll ever get over. I keep reading all these quotes from the stupid fuck of a writer who’s like, “Oh my God, I know Chuck and Blair work for viewers, but she needs to go bang Nate one last time.”

Seriously, dude? SERIOUSLY?

Two people with insanely hot chemistry who are insanely in love and insanely fucked up – OF COURSE THAT WORKS, YOU DOUCHEBAG.

I don’t understand what goes through a writer’s mind. You put two people in one another’s orbit, make the viewers fall in love, rip them apart, and then force us to wait ten god damn years for them to reunite. (And no, we aren’t just talking about Gossip Girl anymore. Not even a little bit.) How the fuck do these people get television shows? What makes you think you can use deadbeat father’s and dangers and the mob as a way to avoid one of the most amazing pairings your headwriter could ever have.

Jason and Elizabeth should have been a legacy for that stupid soap opera, but instead, the only legacy Bob Guza will have is that he’s the one who ran one of the longest running soaps into the fucking shitter.

Tools.

All of them.

Bah.

I can’t wait ten years for Chuck and Blair. Even if they are endgame and the *it* couple on the show. I just refuse. And thankfully, the show probably won’t run that long, but I just don’t have it in me.

I wasted too much romantic energy on one faulty, wishy-washy, back and forth douchebag of a couple already.

And I will not do it again.  

God, Josh Schwartz, you better not make me do it again.

You just better not.

*wails*

I've had this for a while and have yet to write anything. Huma nagged and nagged, and sadly, if she told me to jump off a bridge I probably would. Of course I'd expect her to jump with me. 

Most days I feel like I have nothing to say, but I suppose that somewhere there is something. We'll see.