- New Year's Eve was a ridiculously random night spent at a clifftop resort, an evening during which I rode PV Transit for the first time with a bunch of my hooligan suburbanite friends. Between the ~24 of us, we made about 57 bad decisions.
- Valentine's Day was spent with three of my best wing-men, movie-going and consuming wine and black noodles. The consumption of black noodles is a Valentine's Day tradition for single people in Korea; the consumption of wine on Valentine's Day is, well, a tradition for single people...everywhere. Moving on...
- Memorial Day was unfortunately spent fighting (rather emphatically, might I add) with my family on the strand in Hermosa Beach, an otherwise adorably bro-infested little coastal town.
- Independence Day: a group of us spontaneously decided to picnic and watch fireworks at Hollywood Bowl. This sounded like a great idea until we arrived and realized Barry Manilow was headlining. (Barry Mani-who?) An unacceptable blunder in this Information Age. Needless to say, the fireworks were lackluster.
- Labor Day consisted of a whole lot of laboring away in bed with a fever and cold sweats. The one day I'm allotted a reward for working what often feels like a thankless job, I get sick. Thanks, Universe!
- Halloween is a bust this year because of work and sitting duties. On this very same day in 2011, I was hand-sewing feathers onto a makeshift tutu, test-running creepy contact lenses, and packing for Vegas. This year, however, I find myself wrapping up my seventh consecutive 13-hour workday. Growing up bites. After resetting my expectations about holidays, I'm finding that I'm honestly more stoked for Election Day than I am for Halloween. What a mindtrip.
- As for Thanksgiving, it will be spent hauling my wheezing, asthmatic arse up the treacherous ascent to Machu Picchu and taking baby wipe showers. I'm definitely looking forward to what will be an epic trip, but right now I'm too scared of two very inevitable things: my physical unfitness and an insatiable longing for pumpkin pie a la mode.
- (Insert apology for not disclosing sooner that Negative Nancy was guest writing for this post.)
- So....where does this leave Christmas? (It's 56 days away, by the way. But who's counting? Definitely not I............) I will probably spend it again with my maverick family in tobacco odor-tinged opulence (aka Las Vegas), surrounded by massive hordes of Persians and Chinese folks in designer garb and with nary a branch of mistletoe nor a mug of eggnog in sight. 'Tis the season!
- Carl Kasell Autograph Pillow. NPR's "Wait Wait...Don't Tell Me" (aka "The Oddly Informative News Quiz" Show) is one of my life's greatest guilty pleasures. So much so that I was seriously considering attending a taping in Chicago when I was in town for a conference. By myself. Carl Kasell's voice is rumbling (yet modulated), warm and smooth -- like what slow bubbling, hot butter would sound like if transformed into a human voice. This pillow just takes my geek-out to a whole new level. I love it. Problem is, it's one of those things I want someone else to buy me. To buy it for myself seems...off. Believe it or not, my oddness has limitations.
- Rollerblading Partner. I take it back. There are no limitations. Last year I shamelessly invested two benjis in new blades, a carrying bag, and protective pads. I've been on the hunt for someone who is willing to rollerblade with me and teach me how to brake properly but no real luck yet. People have responded with comments such as "no way / that's social suicide / you're so lame" and "why would you want to do that / it's not even that fun / again, you're so lame." Are you kidding me? Have you forgotten the awesome feeling of the summer wind in your face as your feet glide across smooth surfaces? I understand that at least for guys it's not the coolest thing to be caught doing these days, but I thought we were past the age of caring what people thought! (...I'm kidding. That last statement was tainted with delusion.)
- Justin Beiber concert tickets. Now this one I know many of you guys can get down with -- especially considering his recent collaborations. The show will most likely be overpriced and teeming with screaming hormonal teenagers (screaming because they find themselves surrounded otherwise only by awkward, overgrown boys and thus have no choice but to fantasize about a distant ideal). But try as I might to fight off the infectious Beiber Fever, I know in my heart that I will have the time of my life. Maybe because there's still a screaming hormonal teenager in me somewhere. Or maybe because I'm still surrounded by awkward, overgrown boys and left with no choice but to fantasize about distant ideals. #SadButTrue
- Cuddle buddy. For watching long-arc tv dramas and eating rummy bears (gummy bears soaked in rum, naturally) while posted on a comfy couch together. I was introduced to this amazing pasttime not too long ago (but with the wrong candidate) and I am now a shameless lifelong fan. The catch here is that you are restricted to watching dramas, not enacting them. Sweet nothings are optional.
- Rap ghostwriting gig. Problem: The use of a rhyme scheme in poetry is now considered passé. So where else can I channel my love of end rhymes? Solution: ghostwrite verses for rappers! Half of the stuff they come up with is shite anyways. Employ me and I will elevate your craft to a perfect mix of veiled intellectual references, hints of undergroundsiness (blended with the ability to sell out whenever convenient, of course), humor, bombastic gloating, emotional vulnerability, and the occasional profanity/playful vulgarity. How do I know I can do this? Because I basically just described me in a nutshell. It's perfect because I have no desire to actually be a rapper. This arrangement allows for you to enjoy the flashy lifestyle perks as long as you funnel some of your earnings my way and give me VIP access to concerts galore. Win-win. I even came up with the pseudonym I want to work under: Prinsass. (Get it? Don't even try to tell me that name is not totally befitting.)
I think I'll stop there for now. You will be the first to know (whether you want to or not) if I think of any more.
Trust me, I'm normal at the end of the day. And I'll stop making Christmas wish lists when I turn a quarter century old. I promise.
Trust me, I'm normal at the end of the day. And I'll stop making Christmas wish lists when I turn a quarter century old. I promise.
