I guess that’s a phrase that teenagers and social media savvy adults say. And, presumably, your brand is sort of like your online identity that is superior to your real identity and you can use that brand to sell shit to people who think you’re actually a real human. That’s it, right?
Anyway, as it turns out, without having actually worked on it I already have a brand. And unintentionally I’ve been developing it continuously and recklessly for, like, my whole adult life.
My phone is so cracked that I can barely see anything on it. It’s like a little deconstructionist phone.
And the photo that potentially exemplifies me as a person the most:
In case you were wondering – that’s my diploma being used as a coaster for my Mickey’s. Also…my coffee table. Complete with a coffee cup filled with the crust of coffee from I don’t actually know how long ago.
The thing I like the best about You Life is how aggressively I can neglect it, and yet whenever I need You Life it’s always right there waiting for me. Like a Richard Marx song. I don’t know what this says about me, but I think it’s bad: both the deep appreciation of how much I adore the opportunity to neglect that which I love, and my knowledge of Richard Marx songs. (I could sing all the hits).
Along with my love of soft rock, which is no secret, it’s also no secret that I eat like a candy beast human landfill teeming with cookies and cream hazelnut spread (by Jif) .
I’m real gross. A few weeks ago, I texted my best friend letting him know that I had to pause over whether or not I was going to eat a chocolate glazed doughnut off of brick retaining wall near a car dealership. And this is not the first time I’ve had to ask for guidance about finding sweets on the ground
Considering my garbage status of trash human, it didn’t totally surprise me that someone (WHO HAS YET TO COME FORWARD AND WILL NOT OWN THIS) signed me up for Diabetes Self-Management. At first I thought this was weirdly accurate SPAM. But after further investigation this appears to be some sort of email blast that you have to sign up for which provides healthy eating tips and recipes. Either in an act of self-care I signed up for this while black out drunk (not impossible), or someone signed this up for me out of concern (less likely), or someone signed me up for this as a hilarious response to my terrible eating habits (most likely).
Along with my love of food that is mostly comprised of a triumph of food chemistry and the sugar industry, I am fucking WILD about salt. Ohhhhhhhhh motherfucker. I keep salt with me everywhere. I carry salt packets in my purse, and whenever I check anything that has a pocket there will be salt packets in there too, and I keep an individual canister of Morton’s salt at my desk at work.
As a result, I am unsurprised that along with a specter signing me up for diabetes care newsletters that salt has taken a more aggressive stance in my life and has started to email me directly. From now on, I look forward to continuing this correspondence with Salt.
Welcome Salt, join my inbox with the emails about my impending diabetes and how to manage it and my desk with a canister of you at the ready. It’s nice to take our relationship to the next level. And I look forward to being able to adore you and neglect you – just like I do to You Life and soft rock. My whole heart, mi amore.
I always kind of envisioned the tooth fairy as this babely femme that I had weird feelings about as a child. Like…do I like-like the tooth fairy? I fixated a lot on her as a child. Like…a lot.
I used to write her super intense letters, one time writing to her about how I wanted a cake topper of Cat-Woman (as portrayed by Michelle Pfeiffer in Batman Returns – her portraying Cat-Woman that is, not portraying a cake topper). The whole thing must have been super weird for my parents to read.
My belief in the tooth fairy was kind of destroyed by an episode of Dennis the Menace (the old school live action one, not the cartoon) where they talked about her not being real. I don’t remember being pissed or ashamed, but since those two things kind of typified my childhood (…and adulthood), I’m sure I was.
However, maybe Dennis got it wrong. Maybe the tooth fairy IS real. And maybe she is hanging out in and around West Philadelphia. Because when I walked out of my apartment the other morning, I was greeted with this:
As in, it was in front of my door. Having known a little bit about dentures (whatever, don’t judge my interests), I could immediately tell that this was a pretty expensive piece and therefore the owner – or the tooth fairy – would be very bummed about its disappearance. I snapped the above shot to see if I could zoom-in and see if there was a serial number on that jawn-er so I could contact someone (toothhhhhhhh fairy?).
Went to 7-11. Got some coffee and some shitty pizza. Walked back.
THE TEETH WERE FUCKING GONE.
Dude, if I hadn’t taken the photo I would be doubting their actuality. The trip to 7z couldn’t have taken more than 10 minutes, including the walk to and fro. Where did the teeth go? I didn’t even get my shining moment of saviorhood in an attempt to contact the tooth fairy (or owner) regarding their missing chompers.
But, if the coming and going of this pair of teethies means that the tooth fairy IS real AND visiting West Philadelphia…what’s up, pup? Youuuuuu wanna get a drink some time? Maybe discuss cake toppers?
What I’m saying is that I want to date the tooth fairy.
I’m turning 33 tomorrow (Rejoice!Rejoice! Emmanuel) and that fact is a true surprise to us all, especially my friends that have had a death poll on me since I was 22.
BUT I’M STILL HERE:
And as such I’m making difficult choices as I extend my birthday from one day (tomorrow, the year of our Lord and the start of my Jesus birthday, August 16th) to three days starting today. Such as, which ice cream sundae do I eat today?
And since 33 is gonna be the year where I petition for help in all the right places, I fielded out this decision to other people:
I’m a motherfucking Jesus-aged lady (almost) and I’m gonna order both fucking sundaes today.
While on the field for my job (my highly important job that I love, not at this place that keeps rejecting me from a job I didn’t want), I was waiting for the bus (because I don’t know how to drive) and saw this:
Nature is both surprising and awe-inspiring
And my bitter snarky mind immediately wanted to send joking text messages to the five people that will entertain my shenanigans.
I applied for a job, by the request of a person that works at the office, about five months ago. I got a call back and did one of those annoyingly long phone interviews – the ones where you have to hide in the corners of your actual job and whisper talk during a lunch break that goes for over an hour.
And I didn’t get it (I know. I’m shocked, too). They sent me a quick email letting me know. Such is life, such is war.
After suffering the rejection, I went about my life as normal and didn’t dwell on this humiliating defeat at all.
And I got a new job.
And life proceeded as normal.
And then I got ANOTHER email letting me know I didn’t get the job. As though, a month later, they felt the need to remind me just in case I didn’t get the message the first time.
That’s a nice feeling.
Two months pass.
AND I GET A THIRD FUCKING EMAIL LETTING ME KNOW I DIDN’T GET THE FUCKING JOB.
So, I decided to let them know that as much as I appreciate them incessantly informing me that they didn’t think I was the right candidate maybe they could stop sending me rejection emails.
Do I have a secret child that is wandering the earth looking for my parental approval? Juliet, know that mama is proud of you and that I appreciate your email.
That any child of mine would be good at math. Not only would they be good at math, but that they would be proactive enough to actively improve their math skills independently – like it’s something that they want.