grievance: being spit on

So about 2 weeks ago, I was sitting outside of work having a cigarette. Right outside of my office's alcove-y thing/entrance, I turned left and sat on the bench-like thing (colored cyan and circled in red) inside the parking garage. Here I have provided you with a "drawing" so you can understand the physicality of this all:

So there I was, enjoying a mid-day cigarette on a warm, sunny afternoon when someone came around the bend from the weird alcove-y thing and straight around the corner, with a full mouth of water, and as he turned, he decided to spit all of this water out. And it just so happen to land ON me.

He felt really bad and all and tried to wipe me off, because I was legitimately covered in his saliva-laced Poland Spring, but I'd just like to know: A. who gargles on the street? and B. How does one become so unaware of his or her surroundings that he thinks he can whiplash 'round a corner and spit? Ew. I wonder if I have swine flu now.

-moon

Relatedly: I hope this blog gets me some awesome stalkers who love to spit.

grievance: the economy (the sequel)

A follow up to raging out at... the economy: I went to this pizza place near my office called "99 Cent Fresh Pizza" to buy 5 pizzas for something at work. Someone in my office had mentioned before that this has turned into a modern day bread line. And she was right. But the worst part about this, which prompted me to take a video, is that there was a dude on line counting CHANGE from his pocket to buy this pizza. Holy shit. This isn't even funny.



Well... I guess it's a little funny that I awkwardly videotaped it on my BlackBerry, hoping for no one to see. Whoops.

-moon

raging out at... looking unassuming

Why is it that, without fail, no matter how many empty seats there are on a bus, the next person to get on will always sit right next to me? I would always prefer no one sit next to me, but I can live with it on a crowded, rush hour day. But as I write this, there are approximately 20 open seats on the bus and of course some man eating a sandwich and speaking Spanish at 135 decibels on his cell phone is directly next to me squashing me into the window.

Screw off, bastards of public transportation.

-stars

raging out at... buying birthday gifts

Maybe it's just me, but why is it a million times more difficult to buy a man you're involved with a birthday present? Women are far simpler in at least this one respect. If you've been romantically involved for a long time, you're always safe with diamond earrings. If it's a relatively new relationship or she's a good friend you're hoping for more with, you can always order flowers or some gift basket of lotion and body products. Everywhere practically online delivers these things (in most cases, you can even pay extra if you wait until the actual day you need it). It requires no effort other than having an internet connection and a credit card number.

But not so much for men. Today I'm struggling because every single factor that could come into play to make gift-giving difficult has arisen. I know everyone is beyond excited for me to list all these factors, so please wait no more and allow me.

1. Confusing Ambiguous Relationship Status
I am sure at some point you've attempted to buy a gift for a person you're kinda sorta seeing but is definitely not your boyfriend/girlfriend but has seen you naked and still talks to you so you're not off the hook. Is that sentence confusing? Good, because that embodies exactly how confusing it is to buy this person something. You can't go overboard with the gift because then you look like you're reading more into things than are actually there. But if you're totally thoughtless, you may give off the vibe that you don't care. Fantastic. Does anyone know a website for thoughtful yet nonchalant and breezy gifts?

2. For The Guy/Gal Who Has Everything
It's been said time and again, but truly, what in the holy balls do you buy someone who has everything? Back in the day, it was always relatively simple to buy my broke ass part-time waiter college boyfriend something. There was always some video game or random item he desperately wanted but was too busy spending his 4 dollar paycheck on beer to buy. Not exactly romantic but always much appreciated when I picked it up for him. But as you get older and you start to date not-pothead-waiters, it's much more difficult. If you land yourself a good dude with a great job, you may have hit the life jackpot, but it's the whammy of gift giving - especially if you're anything like me and a good chunk of the American population and are broke as hell. I can see it now. "Hey rich boy, I reached into the depths of my brain and bank account and pulled out this Barnes and Noble gift card for $18.34. No need to thank me, you enjoying 2 and a half magazines is all the thanks I need." Ugh.

3. Not Knowing Someone Quite Well Enough
This actually is only a minor issue, but an issue none the less. Not knowing someone well enough eliminates gag gifts (who knows how they will react?) and tiny gifts that, while inexpensive, are something so perfect for the person that the cost is a non-issue.

4. Birthday On A Sunday
This really sets me off. Inevitably, when you wait until the last minute, you can still have something delivered. Unless, of course, the gift receiver in question's birthday lands on a Sunday. In that case, you're screwed. Nothing says "hey I hope maybe you and I turn into the real deal" better than a box of Snookie's Cookies that arrives a day too late. Outstanding, so now not only does my gift suck but it sucks belatedly.

Well, I should perhaps leave you all with that last one. It is Sunday, after all, and I still haven't bought a gift.

-stars

rageful grievance: quitting... AND THEN BEING FIRED!!! (another moon and stars collaboration)

Moon/Stars: We have a little story to tell. We will tell it together.

Moon: So about seven and a half months ago, I got fired from my bartending job and was still very much in a place in my life where I NEEDED to have a bartending job to pay my bills. It was shocking and sudden and all of my connections fell through. I ended up getting a job at a smoking bar/hookah lounge on the lower east side via craigslist, whose name I will omit because this blog will indubitably be horrendous. I mean, stars, we do "do" pretty "weird" and "awful," no? Writing this together, our "doing horrendous" will be magnified, I think.
Moon: now you say something lol
Stars: lol sorry was getting a smoke
Moon: lmao that is crucial.
Moon: i'm actually going include that part lmao
Stars: We have absolutely been known to do weird, horrendous and disrespectful more often than not.
Moon: So, in any event, I spent a couple of months working at this bar. Making zero money (even when adjusting for the recession) but loving the crap out of all of my coworkers. Then my bestie, stars, moves back and needs a quick fix for money while scoping out jobs, so I brought her ass in and got her a job. What exactly did you get hired to do, stars?
Stars: Well, the bar in question started out dicey for me. I came in agreeing to do a handful of shifts checking patrons' IDs with the understanding that I would then be moved to cocktail waitress or bartend. The managers swore they just needed help for those few shifts. So despite my résumé making me qualified to have the majority of the staff there working under me, desperate for cash, I agreed.
Moon: So together we worked in this ridiculous place, making close to no money, but compensating for it by getting really ridiculously hammered and being rude to people.
Stars: Yeah, when working for little to no money (often I made barely more than what the commute to the place cost), we compensated by saving the money we would spend on a night out drinking. And were we awful to people? No question. But before anyone jumps to conclusions, the vibe of the place wasn't exactly "the customer is always right."
Moon: And you often punched people, no?
Stars: Yes, sometimes I punched people. In my defense, it was usually an accident... that does not mean I didn't find it hysterical.
Moon: I'm going to an open a bar CALLED "The Customer is Always Wrong."
Stars: I would go there every day because I am always wrong.
Moon: And I will hire you and their first exposure to the place will be you punching them at the door.
Stars: There's actually a bar in Asia where you can beat the holy hell out of the employees. This would be like that in reverse. It would get press.
Moon: I love that you know that. In any event, stars had been getting into several altercations-via-text a week with one of our managers. And he was losing them all.
Stars: Which I find laughable as the boss should never lose an argument, unless they were born without a pair. Is that too mean? Don't answer because I don't care.
Moon: You never care. In any event, they'd been kind of dicking stars around, giving her shifts, taking them back. And well... me... I have no defense. I just have no regard for rules whatsoever. We're not allowed to drink at work. I like to drink. You can see the incumbent conundrum.
Stars: Hey I found the link! http://www.chinadaily.com.cn/china/2006-08/07/content_658196.htm
Moon: You would.
Stars: No, I don't ever care nor did they give me a reason to change my usual behavior. On top of being jerked around for shifts, they also had me come in for unpaid bartending training only to inform me afterward that there were no available shifts. I don't like wasting my time nearly as much as moon likes drinking.
Moon: And I not as much as you. (That's completely extraneous for the story but felt it necessary to use that ridiculous sentence structure 'cause it's funny.)
Stars: I approve of inserting any inane sentence structure at any given moment. Approved.
Moon: Thank you for approval. Not that I care. So, getting back to what happened... a couple of months ago I got a REAL job (don't yell at me, bartenders) using my degree (Political Science) and stuck it out with the bartending for a bit to put a bit of a dent in my accrued college debt. This weekend, I decided I was far too burnt out and "over it," so I put up on Facebook that everyone should come visit me because it'd be one of my last bartending shifts. My manager saw this and pleaded with me to not quit because "everyone loves you" and offered me any shift I wanted, etc. (This is important because [well, I guess you already know due to the title of this] of what ended up happening.) But I essentially gave my "two weeks' notice." Stars, how did you handle giving in your two weeks'?
Stars: Unfortunately, in the case of dueling "notices," the Facebook status update ends up being the classier one.
Moon: Eh... what're ya gonna do?
Stars: This past weekend, I was relegated back to checking IDs after my oh-so-awesome promotion to checking coats. I know, I know, hold your applause. The bouncer I was working with was one I didn't know and a total dick from hell, let's not mince words. He seemed to want to instruct my every move, despite the fact that no one has ever needed a degree in ID Checking. I, of course, complained. My manager begged me to let him think that. I got upset and said I would do no such thing and he could consider this my notice.
Moon: So, while that was going on, I was pretty busy getting HAMMERED and hanging out with my friends... oh yes, that's right about 25 of my (our, actually) friends came in that night to celebrate our friend, Mike's, birthday. So not only was I drinking, and drinking boldly, but I was drinking on camera. And doing a lot of it. And taking a lot of breaks to give relationship counseling to (I swear to God) multiple friends.
Stars: Yes, you did have your hands full that night. I, on the other hand, was trapped in the hallway, missing my friend, Mike's, birthday despite having asked for the night off to enjoy my friend's day.
Moon: So... stars, you're really going to have to take it from here for a little while, because most of the rest of the night is a bit blurry for me. Thanks, Patron. ... and Jagermeister. ... and Jameson. Good ol' Jame-o.
Stars: Well, in all fairness, my sobriety was out the window pretty early on. But long story short, I quit more than once, then was offered moon's Saturday night "money making" shift if I would agree to stay.
Moon: "Money making." (Wry laugh.)
Stars: Seriously. Our post on the economy (raging out at... the economy) was written a day after pulling in cash during one of these big money shifts.
Moon: Touché.
Stars: Regardless, the night ended, though filled with animosity, with both moon and I both having been begged to stay and being promised all kinds of excess if we would not abandon the bar.
Stars: And with both of us having stood firm on our 2 weeks' notices.
Moon: N.B.: I walked out with less than a hundred dollars.
Stars: On a Saturday night?
Moon: On a Satur-goddamned-day night.
Stars: That's pathetic.
Moon: So, on Monday morning, while I was at work, I got a text from a friend who also happens to be one of the managers (however not the aforementioned manger with whom stars was waging war) saying essentially that I'd been FIRED due to drinking at work. FIRED. I'm sorry, but the whole "you can't fire me... I quit" aphorism? Yeah, like, that actually HAPPENED. I immediately shared this news with stars who thought, as did I, it to be the most hilarious thing that had ever happened. Especially because I had acted in no way different on that night than I had for the last seven months and by that I mean, well, ok, umm, I guess, err, I may have a mild drinking problem.
Stars: Ha! Yes, this is a point I hadn't thought of before. Despite our terrible behavior, it was no worse than anything we had done prior. I would even say, without revealing any more, that there were even certain horrible activities that I often partake in that I did not do this past weekend.
Moon: So, no one even technically "fired" me. I had to BBM (Blackberry Messenger message) my "manager" and I swear to the HOLY HEAVENS this is how the conversation went:
--
Moon: Hey, so should we get on with this?
Manager: ?
[Seriously with the question mark? C'mon.]
Moon: Aren't you supposed to, like, "fire" me?
Manager: Lol I kindof am, but I guess you already know that :)
[Seriously? A smiley face?]
--
This was all after he called you, though, no, stars?
Stars: Unbelievable. Yes, it was. The "manager" and I had a talk that went something like this:
--
Stars: Hey "manager," you called? What do you want?
Manager: Just want to let you know we are not going to be doing your shifts this week.
Stars: Great, so I am fired. Fabulous. When can I get my money?
--
I basically had to fire myself.
Moon: I got a good ol' "well, your shifts are covered from now on." I even said "DON'T YOU HAVE TO FIRE ME OR SOMETHING?" Nothing. ANNNNNND I'd already quit. You. CAN. NOT. make. this. shit. up.
Stars: I don't even think my wild imagination could have invented this. I was also told they were unhappy with "some other stuff." No mention of what said stuff was, just... stuff.
Moon: So, in conclusion... I quit and then I got fired. Is that a good summation of what happened to you? ... ON THE SAME DAY? ... FROM THE SAME PLACE?
Stars: Yep, that paragraph can be quoted VERBATIM for me. What the hell is wrong with these people?
Moon: It can't be us. We are way too awesome.

This is a picture of us from that very night with a caption (via stars) about how no one dares to say a word to us:


-moon/stars

raging out at... commuter nightmares

Yes, living in one of the U.S. metropolises whose residents commute to and from their destinations via public transportation can be considered a luxury. During my years in the sunny metropolis of Los Angeles, I can't tell you how many times I cursed the heavens, begging for a subway as I sat on the 405 picnicking on the hood of my car. Or how often I threw my car insurance bill in the trash and pretended that I instead would be using the PATH train to head on over to the paparazzi haven of Wilshire and Robertson.

Well, I take all those pleadings with God and delusional transportation desires back. Every last one. I've been back in my formerly-beloved NY exactly 3 months today and I'm over it. I would sell all the wondrous pizza and bagels and 4am bar debacles to have my old (often stolen) Nissan Altima back.

In the three months since I've been back, in addition to the pushing and shoving and generally foul body odor of other commuters, I have run into every one of the 5 commuters I despise. (Now here comes the part where I describe each and tell you just why they're a disgrace to humankind.)

#5 The Horrific PDA Couple
Let me state for the record that other than the occasional drunk lapdance I give a friend, I'm generally pretty opposed to PDA on a whole. I can live with your hand-holding and occasional smooching (unless I'm in a tumultuous boyfriend catastrophe of my own... in which case, those people can go to hell), but beyond that is a travesty and a bit of a nightmare. En route to some lower east side dive bar last week, my new roommate C and I were subjected to an absolutely vulgar display. On a very crowded PATH, the girl who may-or-may-not-have-taken-ecstasy was giving her boyfriend/fuck buddy/guy she just met a very blatant handjob. No one wants to see that. And plus, handjobs shouldn't be given over the age of 15. They're embarrassing. They're the Dungeons and Dragons of sexual acts.

#4 Friends Who Elect to Sit a Few Seats Away From Each Other
Now frankly, I don't care if you don't want to sit next to your buddy on the train. I need a break from some of my pain-in-the-ass friends sometimes, too. But do not elect to sit a distance apart when there are seats available next to each other and then scream a conversation about how the girl your brah' screwed last night may or may not have been cross-eyed. I will tell you what. I sat there and stared at said brah' and I can tell you she most definitely had to have been cross-eyed and also unbelievably blackout drunk.

#3 iPod Bastards
Headphones were made for a reason... so everyone else in the world doesn't have to sit and suffer through your playlist of various Miley Cyrus music, gangsta rap and bachata tunes in a language I do not speak. And without fail, I always end up next to these people at an obscene hour. Last week, I was next to bachata girl who was not only blaring the music but shimmying in her seat at 4am when I was hammered and trying my best not to put the remnants of a margarita all over her lap. Or this morning, some charmer listening to all kinds of Ride or Die when I had woken up at the obscene (for me) hour of 7am. I want these people to die.

#2 Psycho Man in Suit Who Is Whacking Off
Let me address the attire anger first by saying I do not enjoy anyone who likes to whack off on a train I am in, regardless of what they happen to be wearing. A few weeks back, in the midst of basically the worst week of my life, I was on a train heading to the fabulous and fun doctor, so clearly I am already joyful. On a moderately crowded train, I notice a man out of the corner of my eye with his hand down his pants. I silently prayed that he was just making a really public reorganization of his package situation. Yeah, not so much. Slowly but surely, this well dressed man unzipped his clearly expensive designer pants and went to FULL ON BUSINESS with his mini designer wang. I almost vomited and definitely teared up a little. And if you're exhibiting this behavior while wearing designer duds, I am definitely sure you are a serial killer. And I don't think I'm alone in not wanting to share a train with a goddamn serial killer.

#1 (And I have just decided these are in no particular order as I hate whackoff man the worst)
Bastards Who Will Not Move When It Is Your Stop
The subway makes multiple stops. This isn't a surprise. Nothing (again, besides whackoff man) angers me more than these people. On many occasions, I have had to forcibly shove people out of the way so I can get off at my goddamn stop . There have even been times when I have missed my stop because of people's inability to get the hell out of my way. I know it pains you greatly to let go of your germ-infested metal pole for even a second, but let me the hell off when it's my turn! I don't want to be around any of you nightmare commuters for one second more than I have to.

In closing... fuck the hell off, subway and PATH train.

-stars

grievance: people not being able to handle daylight savings time

This is not going to be long, but it's been a full 24 hours since I became annoyed/upset by this and I'm still annoyed/upset by this. Yesterday I received an absolute INFLUX of friends messaging me about how they were "wah, so tired," and annoyed that they'd lost an hour of sleep due to setting the clocks an hour forward.

I bartended Saturday night and THAT is in fact when the clocks were turned forward. I lost an hour of work, so I know. And I also work during the days Monday-Friday, so I'm also concerned with my circadian rhythm. But I'm sorry... D.S.T. has been observed for as long as... well, I don't know, but I'm sure you can "wikipedia" it. And it IS what it freakin' IS.

The reason I'm so annoyed is because it's one hour of sleep. One night. And it's not even on Sunday night. It's technically on Saturday night/Sunday morning. So while you may be a little disconbobulated on Sunday day, there's no way that you're actually losing an hour of sleep on Sunday night. And the reason it's so abhorrent that people complain about this is because having it get dark at night at 5:00 pm is INCREDIBLY depressing. Leaving your office and not being able to see daylight is not good for the soul. It's one of the things that makes winter so damned depressing.

When this starts, it's also the sign the spring and summer are coming. And that is so WONDERFUL. Especially with the depressive states everyone has been in all year due to economic recession/depression/awfulness. Are people so far gone into depression land that they can't just deal with one hour's loss? So annoying. Be an adult, crybabies. Unless it's "your party." Then you can "cry if [you] want to." Ahhh... the 80s.

-moon

P.S. To all my friends who complained to me: if you read this, I don't care if you're offended. At all.

grievance: cab drivers who talk too much

I got into a cab the other day and I was so hungover that I was pretty much still hammered until about 8 o' clock (Post Meridian) the next day. So naturally, I was already absurdly nauseated.

So the insane driving nature which seems to be a prerequisite to being a cab driver was already making me close my eyes, open the window and pray to not hurl everywhere. 3 blocks later, my cab driver decides to (attempt to) enter into a discourse with my inebriated ass. About complete and utter inanity. And was also not really even paying attention to what I was saying but kind of just enjoyed hearing himself speak.

As an aside, I'd like to say that I empathize with cab drivers. A LOT. They have an incredibly difficult job and are entirely under-appreciated. With that said, I had no use for this man at all. I was polite but also quite obvious in my lack of desire to communicate. I hate small talk as a general tenet. But he also got off on the wrong foot because he had music blaring when I got into the cab and didn't turn it down when I received a phone call. This also quite exacerbated my horrendous hangover (from) hell. ("From" is obviously used parenthetically in order to engender alliteration. ...Obviously.)

In any event... On top of this... My cab ride was 15 dollars from 38th and 2nd to 61st and Lexington due to this dude being a total moron. I was so angry by the time I got there.

And then I paid.

And... (this is the kicker) TIPPED HIM FIVE DOLLARS. For being "nice." For being "friendly." Because I felt odd giving an appropriate tip after having gotten to know a little about this annoying, annoying man. I never ever ever want to talk to people I don't know. And when I get forced to, such as how I was here, I'm angry about it. And then I apparently "reward" this dude by giving him more money?

How is this acceptable?

I realize now that this grievance should really be entitled "Grievance: My Stupid Ass."

-moon

raging out at... unexpected marriages

This affliction is a particularly nasty one. I myself experienced it about a year ago, but in light of it affecting 3 of my friends in the past few months (2 in the last 24 hours!), I feel compelled to speak out against it.

There are a few different things I will categorize as unexpected marriages and different degrees to which they cause pain. I'd like to present mine and my beautiful (and all single) ladies' dealings to show you all the four different types. All names and identities have been altered to protect the heartbroken.

Code Green: The Loss of a Killer Fuck Buddy
Code Green is the demon that I had to face. You may remember a gentleman from "raging out at... inappropriate ways of finding out information," the man who was a random guest speaker in the class I TAed. We will call him the Sexual Predator, or SP for short.

SP and I had a relationship of sorts over the course of a few years. I could always count on him to hook me up with tickets, be around when I was single and lonely or angry and wanting revenge on a cheating boyfriend, and to basically traumatize me in the best way possible with his complete and utter sexual deviance. (Or perhaps he traumatized me in the worst way possible, as all subsequent boyfriends have looked upon ME as the deviant. C'est la vie.)

Regardless of the fact that I never had any real feelings towards SP other than gratitude and horror, when I found out he had gotten married, it stung. And the worst part of it was the news was delivered by a particular cheating ex-boyfriend whom I had needed SP to work through. Double goddamn whammy and a loss that left a gaping hole in my need to be absolutely vile in the boudoir.

Code Orange: The Loss of Your First Time
One of my favorite ladies, Vanessa, lost her virginity a little later in life than most of my other slutty friends. She finally gave it up to a British man named Thomas. Tommy and V were never officially a couple but they carried on their affair on the regular for over a year. Then one day Tommy met Pigerella (her real name- Scout's honor!) and it was a wrap for V and Tommy. V, like your pal Stars, never had any kind of deep-rooted feelings for Tommy so she plowed past that one pretty quickly. Frankly, I think if Thomas hadn't been her first, it may not have affected her at all. But he was and so it did.

And so yesterday she gets a phone call from a friend who works in Tommy's office, telling her that the rumor around the water cooler is that Tommy and V are in Hawaii and he's planning to propose on Valentine's Day. As if Valentine's Day isn't crummy enough, did V need to deal with that? And to add insult to injury, this tattletale friend of hers isn't exactly her favorite person on Earth and the kinda friend who likes to think that every single person is jealous of her relationship. Awesome times.

Code Red: The Ex-Boyfriend Who Marries Someone New 2 Weeks After Breakup
This is where we start to get into some really hairy territory. My gal Lauren suffered one of those particularly devastating heartbreaks recently. She and Alex hadn't dated for a very long time, but it was one of those intense relationships that moves fast and furious. It ended far before Lauren was ready for it to be over. When the news of his marriage broke, she was still in the crying and screaming and plotting to get him back stage of the breakup.

And what was truly rubbing salt in the wound of this catastrophe (as if doing it a mere 14 days post breakup wasn't bad enough!) was that he married a brand new girl... not an old friend or a rekindled ex. A BRAND NEW GIRL.

And how, you might ask, did Lauren find out about the nuptials? Via the internet. Via the goddamn internet. I would certainly hope if I were going to do something like that to that unbelievably recent of an ex, I would have the balls to let them know and not let them find out in some roundabout way. 'Though I suppose if you are classless enough to pull a stunt like that, the proper social etiquettes are probably far beyond your realm of understanding anyway.

Code Blue: Loss of the Man You Dated For 9 Years
And this one may sting worst of all. I think at this point, we can all agree that the news of a former flame getting married is never a pleasant experience. Sure, sometimes it's more annoying than painful, but it is never fabulous news to hear, especially when you have not yet taken the plunge. And sometimes it is just the worst news of all.

My friend Violet dated Andrew for 9 long years. Their relationship was one of the most tumultuous I have ever witnessed (albeit second hand), but they loved each other. Andrew was the kind of guy who would buy Violet dresses for their unborn (and not even yet conceived) daughter. They had a tendency to make up and break up a lot, but Violet always assumed that when she one day walked down the aisle, it would be Andrew waiting for her at the other end.

When Violet found out the news, she and Andrew had been apart for about a year and a half. Long enough for her to have moved on and found a new boyfriend, but Violet, being the old romantic that she is, had still never fully given up hope on Andrew. Maybe that's her fault, but that's just who she is.

In a play from the Stars playbook, Violet stumbled across their wedding website while Googling Andrew's name. On top of the news, she was also subjected to photos, the proposal story and a million other details no one should ever have to live with. I think we all hate the internet.


The point is, this sucks. People get married and people move on from their past relationships. If we never moved on, I would still be pining over a dude who is now a semi-professional wrestler with GREEN HAIR. (Man, I have dated some real gems.) So we will all take the bad of this and hope that someday, we do the same to crappy exes of ours. Moral of the story here is perhaps a little courtesy would be nice. If we broke up two weeks ago, dated for 9 years, had sex within the last 2 months or if I am just gonna hear about it anyway, it would be a lot better coming from your mouth. Or maybe there is no moral and I am grumpy and bitter.

- stars

grievance: the city

The Hills' spin-off The City is just a complete and utter waste of time.
The Hills and its spin-off The City are just complete and utter wastes of time.

With that said, The Hills at least had some entertainment value and actually kept me tuning in each week.
With that said, The Hills placed a spell on me and I kept watching it despite the fact that every single episode made me dumber and dumber.

The main distinction between the two shows, besides the obvious locale change, is that the primary show wasn't OFFENSIVE. The City's Olivia Palermo actually makes me want to move away from New York City and pretend I never went to private school on the Upper West Side. And it's actually making Whitney (formerly the most likeable and normal, unjaded character of The Hills) look like a fucktard for listening to her spout her elitist garbage.

Paraphrased Transcript of a Scene From Last Week's Episode:
Whitney: I think we should really go now (to The Cutting Room) to see Jay's (her boyfriend) show.
Olivia: No. I need to try on the same exact Diane Von Furstenberg blazer as I have on in ALL black, because I'm such an spoiled brat I think that the only way I can go to a "rock show" is by wearing all black.
Whitney's Nondescript, Inconsequential Friend Whose Name I Don't Remember... Probably Because She's Brunette: Umm... you don't have to wear all black to go to a rock show.
Olivia: Whatever. I love my life. Let's drink champagne and make fun of other people. So does this exact same blazer in black look exactly the same as the white one but more rock? I wouldn't want to offend all of your stupid, low-life hipster friends and boyfriend, Whitney.
Whitney: Yeah... it's classic. But can we go now? Seriously. The show is already starting and we're nowhere near it.
Olivia: Oh PLEASE. Can't we take like 45 more minutes to look through my glorious closet? It's not like they're going to start the show without us. They'll stall 'til we get there.
Whitney: Umm... is this your disgusting cousin's sock lying around?

All I'm saying is that this show sucks. Whitney... girl... why'd you turn into a crapbag?

-moon

grievance: people's distaste/scaredness of google maps "latitude"

This new technology by Google is absolutely amazing. And the fact that everyone is freaked out by it is both silly and annoying. And is ruining its potential. For those of you who don't know...

Google Maps has created an add-on called Latitude which essentially allows you to connect to friends on Google Maps and see where they are at any given moment.

If ONE more person says "That's so Big Brother" to me, I will punch him or her in the eye.

It's not at ALL Big Brother-esque. You have to individually request each person. It's not as if you enter into this contract with the devil and then every single person you've ever met can track you down at every single moment. As you can see, I only have a handful of friends who are technologically savvy enough to be on it as well. And some of them, like my roommate (who is currently at work, I can see), were completely unlikely candidates to embrace such technology. But she has. And it's been incredibly fun! "Hey... I see you're about a block away. Are you at D'Agostino's? Can you pleeeeease pick up some butter?" And I was. And I did. And she made a scrumptious dinner.

Now to calm some nerves and address some concerns, I will outline some of the magnificent aspects of this amazing program so that hopefully everyone will CHILL THE HELL OUT and embrace it.

1. (As stated above...) You have to individually request each person. If you want one person to be able to see you and are scared of some other person seeing your whereabouts, you don't have to be "friends" with them.
2. You can turn it off and sign out whenever you'd like and will no longer appear on anyone's map.
3. (And best of all...) You can LIE. You can set your location to a fixed place and say you're in Chicago if you so choose. Although I'm not a fan of Chicago and wouldn't do that.

I saw today that my friend was in Atlanta. And after asking him if he was LYING and was really in New York, thought it was so cool that I knew that he was on a business trip to Atlanta. And we discussed the weather and the like (all via BBM: another wonderful technology) and truth be told, as much as I love this person, I probably would never have had that conversation at all. And it's all due to Google Latitude. ...Bringing Us All a Little Closer Together.

So cut the shit. No one is going to stalk you. If you're going to write about your every damned move on (note: these are all links to MY pages 'cause I'm a technology junkie and self-aggrandizing fool) Facebook, Twitter, MySpace, Tumblr, your blog, your AOL Instant Messenger away message, your Google Chat status message, your LinkedIn, your BBM status (mypin: 31be47d2) and for fuck's sake, maybe even your now-defunct Friendster account (I don't even have one of those anymore)... chill the hell out with the "That's so Big Brother" bullshit.

-moon

grievance: bar etiquette (2)

As my bartending days seem to be coming to a very (welcomed) end, I thought it best to address this very small grievance. It is, of course, for the greater good of humanity to understand that this behavior about which I am about to rage is NOT acceptable.

A patron walks into the bar and asks the bartender "what kind of beers do you have on draught?" Already pretty damned annoying seeing as the draught beers are inherently on display. They are IN FRONT of you, patron. But fine. So the bartender either points (if he or she is in a bad mood) or spells it out and lists every single one there is.

"Sam Adams... Stella... Blue Moon... Guinness... Brooklyn Lager... Amstel...."

Herein lies the idiocy:

"Do you have Newcastle?"

And then the bartender goes into a J.D.-from-Scrubs-like-daydream in which he or she jumps across the bar and strangles the person to death.

If you asked me what was on draught and I told you, why would you ask me if I have something else? WHY? Do you think that I'm telepathic and I know exactly which beer it is that you would like and am trying to torture you by hiding the fact that I have exactly what you want?

I seriously think these people should be knocked over the head with a pint glass.

-moon

grievance: baby taxi accidents

Getting into baby taxi accidents is quite possibly one of the most awkward things ever.

"What are 'baby taxi accidents'?" one might ask... oneself.

"Are they accidents involving a taxi cab hitting a baby carriage?" one might continue to sub-question... oneself.

"... Maybe it involves two very small taxis (thus "babies" in the taxi cab "community") hitting one another."

Or maybe none of such self-interrogation will occur because this matter is of no interest to anyone else but me.

So, I shall tell you. "Baby taxi accidents" are accidents when you are in a taxi, as a passenger, and a small accident occurs in which absolutely no one is hurt and there is very minimal damage to anyone's vehicles. The reason I choose "baby" to modify the magnitude of the accident is solely because if I say "woah! I just got into a small accident!" people immediately think I am injured.

All right, now that I've made it exactly clear (with absolutely NO digressions into silliness) to what I'm referring, I think it best to explain why this deserves to be addressed.

When you are in the back seat of a cab and there is contact between that cab and another vehicle, immediately the cab driver goes inSANE and jumps out of the car and you are rendered incapable of making a decision. Do you stay in the cab with the meter running? Do you get out and get another cab? And if so, do you pay for the metered fare thus far? Do you get out and try to help?

It is entirely the most awkward situation in which a human can be. If you're in your car or a friend's car, it's pretty clear that you're not getting out and leaving your friend stranded. But with cabs, you do NOT know this human being.

The other night, I got into a cab and was exhausted from work and just really needed to be at home. And my cab driver was successful in permeating through my callous and cranky disposition with conversational pleasantries. So when a car hit him, I was paralyzed by indecision. Thank the Gods of the Taxi and Limousine Commission that he had the decency to ask me politely if it would be okay if he dealt with the situation and I took another cab and then wished me a Happy Holidays.

Can someone please let me know what the protocol is for how to deal with this awkwardness when the cab driver simply walks away and screams at the other driver? Man!

Geez, I really have a TON of beef with cabs ("grievance: taxitv")! Maybe I should use public transportation more frequently. Oh wait, I have a ton of beef with the MTA too ("grievance: the mta")!

(Sigh.)

-moon

grievance: asking for "no" or "little" ice

As you may know from one of my earlier blogs ("grievance: bar etiquette [silly cocktails]"), I spend some of my weekend nights slingin' drinks behind a bar. And I've already reprimanded some people for ordering particular (embarrassing) drinks. However, I think an entirely different aspect of cocktail-ordering needs to be addressed...

I swear to GOD if you ask me for "no" or "very little" ice, I will take the 1-inch long baby knife on my wine key intended for cutting foil off of the tops of wine bottles and slit your piece-of-shit throat.

Maybe you don't understand. Bartenders pour as they pour. End of story. And I actually happen to have a pretty heavy hand because... Well, let's call a spade a spade, I'm an alcoholic myself. But asking for this limiting of ice makes me so irate that I actually will end up giving you less liquor than I would, were I not assaulted by such a blasphemous insult.

Would you like to know why this SO pisses off bartenders and why you ought not ask for this? Because it says, very implicitly, "I'm CHEAP. I want as much alcohol as I can possible acquire based on the size of that glass." How does that translate into bartender-ese? "I will not be tipping you." Hence, you will not be obtaining any extra liquor at ALL. Not to mention, it's kind of an insult to a bartender's capacity to do his/her job. It's not your place. And you're going to end up with less that way.

I almost become UNCOMFORTABLE when people do that because I'm embarrassed for such fucking parsimony.

New rule (to the tune of Bill Maher's awesomeness): accept what a bartender has to pour. You'll get fucked over and embarrassed if you request otherwise.

New rule: Not tipping? Not acceptable. Oh wait. That's kind of an old rule. Ugh.

-moon

grievance: ass-biting

I feel like this is probably something that would happen to Stars... or maybe even that Stars would do... but for what it's worth, when this happened, Stars was present. I'm assuming that her being there is the reason that this happened. It must be.

After a lovely dinner and a few pitchers of margaritas, Stars and I ventured to a bar on the Lower East Side, for the purposes of getting (more) hammered and playing Skee-Ball, because really, who doesn't love a good game of drunk Skee-Ball?

After securing BOTH of the two lanes and getting some cocktails, our drunk asses (I'd like to shout out the bartender at MaryAnn's for making the bad judgment call to think Stars and I to be good candidates for free shots) decided to have a Skee-Ball competition:

Moon: What's your best Skee-Ball score of all time?
Stars: I don't know... Probably perfect, I would imagine.

Okay, so that quotation has little-to-no significance for this story. Nothing to do with the story actually. Nothing at all. It was just funny. But what does have to do with the story which I've failed to mention is that I'd decided to wear some pretty ridiculous "pants" that evening (the word pants being in quotations because they look like they're painted on):


Thanks, Stars, by the way, for being too lazy to upload photos from a couple of months ago, so I have to pull a picture of some random bitch off of American Apparel's website. You're lucky you had a funny moment that night so I'm not so mad at you.

In any event, back to Stars and my Olivia-Newton-John-At-The-End-Of-Grease-looking self at this bar, "tell me about it, stud." I'm very intensely competing with Stars in Skee-Ball, when my ass gets slapped. I turn around and see a gentleman (a.k.a. douchebag) and ask him if he had, in fact, slapped my ass. He said "your friend made me do it," which is, let's call a spade a spade, something which I (or any reasonable person) would believe could be true of Stars. So I snarled and continued my game.

A few moments later, all of a sudden, I feel teeth on my ass.

TEETH ON MY ASS.

"I'm sorry... what did you just say?"

TEETH ON MY FUCKING ASS.

So I turn around and ask this fine, young chap if he had, in fact, BITTEN MY ASS. His response? "It had to be done." Okay... what? WHAT! I don't even know what kind of a defense that is supposed to be. I looked at him, looked at his friend, looked at Stars and then said "ummm, no it really didn't."

So, for the first time in my entire life, I went to the bouncer and actually had someone ejected from a bar. The only problem was that by the time I had explained (several times, because the concept of a stranger biting me on the ass was so outlandish that it didn't really get through to the bouncer) what had happened and brought the bouncer back to the Skee-Ball area to get him, I'd entirely forgotten what the douchebag looked like. Thank goodness for Stars who pointed him out. As a result of the whole ordeal, we got more free shots. Never a good idea.

When I asked Stars later if she had in fact told the young man to slap me on the ass, like he'd said she'd done, she said "fuck no! I told him to give you money for Skee-Ball."

I think it's pretty safe to say the message of this post is "if you're NOT already biting people on the ass in bars, keep doin' what you're doing. If you are... ummmmmmm... uhhhhhhh... you should probably be locked in a room forever."

-moon

raging out at... obligations

Do you remember when you were in high school and you HAD to read Great Expectations? And you hated it because it was obligatory? But you picked it up on your own later and realized it was a beautiful story that you unfairly judged then started to sob hysterically in fear that you would turn into Miss Havisham except you probably wouldn't even have an Estella to take care of you and you'd rot to pieces in that old, never-used-for-its-purpose wedding dress? Okay, maybe the last part is just me, but I think it's a universal truth that no one likes doing something because they have to. Obligations suck and can ruin what should otherwise be a good thing.

Case in point: my new side project promoting a night at a bar in Hollywood. How can I possibly make this bad? Well I can and I have. Promoting requires creative night planning, going out to meet new people and begging your friends to come hang out. I'm a self-ordained creative girl who enjoys new people and her current friends (usually). So my job is essentially to get people out, having a good time, to drink for free and to get paid for it. And I hate doing it. Telling me I have to go out multiple nights a week and I have to be in party mode every Monday night is tantamount to torture for me. The second you tell me I have to go out and have a good time, the only thing in the world I want to do is stay home and be miserable. (And maybe watch cheesy movies but that's another issue altogether.)

There's nothing like being obligated to do something to assure that it's the last thing in the world you'd ever want to do. I think if I were Ryan Gosling's personal masseuse, I would still dread going to work every day. That's just not okay. Why is it that I can't separate the actual body of work/event/fill-in-the-blank from the fact that it's a requirement?

And now that I know I have to finish writing this blog, I don't wanna.

-stars

grievance: lottery tickets

I'm not even that pissed at the lottery.

If someone is going to throw money away in the hopes of some fantastical amount of cash coming his or her way, by all means, Lottery (or anyone else for that matter), take that shit. (Indeed, I just apostrophized "the Lottery," because surely the blatant scarcity of poetic devices à la John Donne on this blog is utterly blasphemous. O Fortuna! O Romeo! O Lottery! I am clearly among the genius ranks of Carl Orff and William Shakespeare. Actually... I don't even really like Carl Orff.)

Ok, so now that I've apparently and inadvertantly set the stage for a play... the plot of which consists of a poor peasant buying lottery tickets, losing and thus, in desperation, evoking the great dieties:

O Nickel, you loathsome God of Scratch-Off Tickets!
O Ping-Pong-Looking-Ball, you are filled with avarice, you God of Pick-10!
O Giant Machine Which Takes Up A Large Portion of Counters At Newspaper Stores, you shall rue the day you... you... umm... did something, God of Weird Vending Machines at Bars!

Somewhere along the way... it's pretty clear that my hatred for lottery tickets has spun me into another plane of rage. But it's not even the lottery tickets themselves (as I've made blatantly clear). It's that every SINGLE time, every goddamned SINGLE time I'm in a rush, there is always an asshole in front of me buying LOTTO tickets. And it's hardly even a contest... there is a disparity as widely gaping as a temporal Grand Canyon between how much time I need to hand the kind gentleman my money and receive change and goods in return, and how long it takes YOU, yes YOU MOTHERFUCKER, to pick out what kinds of crappy, shiney, bullshit pipe-dream you're going to gamble on today. Just hurry it up.

I'm just saying, have some etiquette about it. If you know I'm gonna be in and out of there, there's no reason to give me dirty looks when I start to look like a child who is going to pee in her pants. I'm not allowed to smoke anywhere anymore. And now you're ruining the process of purchasing cigarettes for me too? Your vice is allowed to annoy me and I have to curtail my "vice" around you LOTTO-fiends? You know what? New rule: if I can't smoke, you can't buy LOTTO tickets.

And what's with the stupid grey stuff on scratch-offs? What the hell is that stuff made out of?

-moon

raging out at... drunken behavior

If you've been paying attention, it is pretty apparent that I enjoy a good cocktail. I even enjoy a mediocre cocktail that's a little watered down from the ice melting in it. Hell, I doubt I would turn down a bad cocktail if the mood struck and it was the only thing available. I don't mind when others drink around me if I'm not drinking, but factor in ridiculous drunken behavior and I'm fit to be tied.

Now ridiculous drunken behavior doesn't encompass being silly or getting a little rowdy or even when your vocals get above a decibel I care to listen to them at. That's par for the course and while I don't necessarily enjoy all that behavior, I can live with it. What does burn me up is the "Did you actually just do/say/think about that" kind of behavior. And I apparently am just surrounded by friends who have the most deplorable conduct imaginable when their BAC rises just the slightest; people whom it would serve well to maybe lay off the sauce for a bit.

So if you want to spend any time around me and grab a drink with me, may I present to you "Stars DOs and ABSOLUTELY FUCKING DO NOTs of Drinking."

DO... Be mindful of your own tolerance. No one who is above the average American college age should be throwing up in the street or blacking out or falling all over themselves. I accept this behavior early on in your drinking years, but come on. How many times do you have to vomit on the club's bouncer before it clicks that maybe 16 gin and tonics is more than you can handle?

ABSOLUTELY FUCKING DO NOT... Ask me for money when you are drunk. It is not my responsibility to fund your extracurricular activities. Unless I choose to buy you a drink or I owe you money, my cash stays in my wallet. You are not entitled to it because you are drunk and out of cash. Not my problem. And ESPECIALLY do not ask me for money if:
1)You paid for parking when I said I would walk: too bad for your lazy butt; or
2) You need it to buy marijuana which I am not going to smoke: just don't ask.

DO... Put your cell phone away before you do something you will regret with it. It's your life and for the most part, what you choose to do with it does not affect me. However, when you drunkenly call your ex-boyfriend or text a friend to tell her off, I have to hear about it all day the next day. I am not interested. Don't be stupid. Perhaps this DO should be amended to: If you're going to use your cell phone while inebriated, ABSOLUTELY FUCKING DO NOT talk to me about what you did the next day. I will never in life have any sympathy for it. Suck my non-existent balls.

ABSOLUTELY FUCKING DO NOT... Tell people things I have told you in confidence and then either attribute it to your intoxication or claim to not remember. You did it to be "funny and cool" at the time. So being disloyal and a shitty friend makes you cool... hope whomever you told likes you now, because I don't anymore.

DO... feel free to go home when you've had enough. I would never look down on you for not making it out to last call. I only look down on you when you act like a Grade-A Jackass.

ABSOLUTELY FUCKING DO NOT... ever come near me if you're one of THOSE drunk people.

Writing this blog has made me realize my new found respect for straight edge folks... and not for their willpower to not get themselves tanked, but for their remarkable ability to put up with the rest of us stupid drunk idiots whilst sober. Hats off to you, Straight Edgers of America - I am contemplating moving over to your ranks.

-stars

raging out at... internet findings

So I'm in love. Again. Just for this week. Or for all time. I have no idea. The only thing I truly know is that Google is severely impairing my ability to have any semblance of a "normal" relationship with "normal" progression. Not that normalcy has been my strong suit historically. I'm babbling. Allow me to rewind.

So being single and with the nonsense of past relationships behind me for now, I've been fully ready to move on and perhaps find that elusive nice guy for once. So bored one night and admittedly on a MySpace binge, I happen upon the older brother of my adorable buddy Pierre (names have been changed to protect the innocent who don't want their business on blast on the internet.) JD, Pierre's brother, is, not to mince words, smoking hot. In the immortal words of Moon, he is just "holy bananas." So being the crazed, freshly recovered single gal that I am, I shoot him a message to the super smooth and charming effect of “Hey, I’m a buddy of Pierre’s so I thought I would shoot you a message. Sweet pictures.” Yeah, I’m good, I know. What man wouldn’t be falling at his feet with such delicately placed words?

So, many exchanged e-mails, texts, and a few phone calls later, I am fully hooked on JD… despite having never met him. Ahh, the age of the internet, where love matches are made based on a few pictures taken at our best angles and a handful of well-worded emails that frankly could have been penned by the entire writing staff of 30 Rock for all we know. But we want to believe and so we do. And sometimes everything we hope for turns out to be true. But none of that risk-taking with potential for meeting a frog you thought was a Prince Charming bothers me. What I am pissed at is my ability to Google anyone.

Now JD is a special case as he is probably a little more publicly profiled than your average internet love affair. He certainly isn't some giant celebrity, but suffice it to say when you're a professional athlete, even one of the lowest common denominator, there's a lot of information about you on the internet. So now only mere days into the beginnings of my new found love and never having met the boy, what do I know about him? I could tell you his height, his weight, how much money he makes, what the inside of his apartment looks like, his Guitar Hero ranking (I am completely mortified about knowing that one), and most importantly, what he looks like shirtless.

Okay, what?? How in the hell am I supposed to progress normally and slowly when I already have a good 4 months of relationship information in my head? Some of my best friends I have known for YEARS probably couldn't tell you all that information about me. I certainly don't know Moon's Guitar Hero ranking. Or if she even has one. But once I set off on an innocent Google of JD, I couldn't stop myself. And now I know too much. And now it's making things awkward.

Example 1:
JD:
"Man, I had a rough day. You would win the day if you came to give me a massage."
Stars Internal Monologue Dilemma:
"Poor baby, his team lost today. He did have a trying day. Wait, shit, how do I answer that? If I acknowledge I know why he had a bad day, am I a stalker for checking box scores? I can pretend I didn't go to ESPN.com. But then do I look like I don't care enough to even see how his team did? Or like I'm not a sports fan and maybe that's a turn-off. Dear God, help me!!!"
Stars' Final Answer:
"Aww, honey. I wish you weren't so far or I would. Too bad phone massage doesn't have quite the same effect as phone sex."
Crisis averted. Stars' sanity moves just out of her range of vision.

Example 2:
Stars is sitting around, eating leftover pancakes and singing loudly to AFI. Phone rings.
Stars:
"Oh Jesus, JD!"
Minor and brief panic attack ensue. Composure regained. Opens up phone.
Stars:
"Hi love, what's going on?"
JD:
"Hi beautiful girl. Are you listening to AFI?"
Major panic attack sets in.
Stars Internal Monologue Dilemma:
"Crap, fuck, crap, fuck hell! (My internal monologue indeed does have Tourette's.) Shit!!! I know one of his favorite bands is AFI. Did he tell me that or did I read that? I most likely read it. Is he going to think I'm listening to it because he likes it? Is the jig up? He's going to know I Googled him! This is a nightmare. Why, oh why, did I have to be listening to AFI? I do like other bands! This is so not a big deal, who cares, right? Oh no, it's been way too long since I've said anything."
JD:
"Stars? You there?"
Stars:
"Yeah, sorry. Was turning the music down. Having an iPod Shuffle of a night."
Crisis again averted, although why couldn't I just acknowledge I was listening to one of my favorite bands? He doesn't own them. Now I'm mad at JD for my own stupidity. Calm down, crazy girl.

Example 3:
This is not so much an example as my deep burning desire to point something out. JD has pictures of himself on the internet where he is deeply and meaningfully shirtless. Some dudes should never go without a shirt and some guys I don't mind if they do. JD, in his professional athlete glory, does the world a great injustice when he puts a shirt on. To put it in perspective... we all know my love of Sawyer from Lost. If I could only enjoy one shirtless man for the rest of my life, I wouldn't hesitate to choose JD over Sawyer every day of the week. It's that good.
Actually now that I think about it, this is an example. Knowing the hotness that lurks there, I am infinitely more nervous talking to him than I would be without that information. Generally, I'm not ogling a man I am dating in all his shirtless glory until he is allowed to see me shirtless as well. And usually by the time that happens, I am largely past the point of being fully nervous around him. This is simply not fair.

Example 4:
Google search? Check!
YouTube search? Check!
Scouring through MySpace comments? Check!
Drooling over shirtless pictures? Check, check, and dear God, check again!

So, in conclusion (and thanks to all of you for trudging through this post and making it this far with me... Stars in love is a crazy Stars indeed!), I am never ever looking anything up on the internet again. I don't need that much information until it is presented to me. I don't need to make myself more nervous and more psycho than I obviously already am. Hopefully, I can meditate on this and reach an inner peace and calm before I screw this whole thing up. If not, I wonder if I can sue the entire internet for destroying my relationship?

-stars

grievance: young, drunk girls in murray hill

Premise A: "I am a girl."
Premise B: "I live in Murray Hill."

Conclusion A: "I am an annoying slutface hobag who gets hammered and screams nonsense on the streets."

Introducing... Premise C: "I have a brain."

Conclusion B: (The obvious is "I am not marked by attributes described in Conclusion A due to the having-a-brain-ness," but instead, I will use this time to aver an emphatic: "GO FUCK YOURSELVES MURRAY HILL SLUTS."

For those of you who don't know, Murray Hill is a section of Manhattan, the exact boundaries of which I do not even know but will approximate to be around 25th to 40th streets on the East Side. It's probably the most reasonably priced area of Manhattan below 120th street, so it'd be expected that a lot of young people would live in that area, but when I moved there from a really, REALLY quiet area of Manhattan, I had no idea what I'd find.

Young, annoying girls. Trendy restaurants. Young, annoying girls. Men in business suits. Young, annoying girls. Bars. Young, annoying girls. Young, annoying girls. Young, annoying girls. Ahhhhhhhhh!!!!!!

Every single night (not just weekends) hoards of women in their 20s prance around in their best people-tell-me-I'm-like-Carrie-Bradshaw outfits in packs of 3s, 4s, whatever, on the prowl for... Love.

Scratch that.

... On the prowl for... SEX.

And a free meal.

By all means, people are allowed to do whatever they'd like with themselves (despite the fact that I'll STILL definitely be judging them [ya can't win 'em all]) but these women are offensive to the quality of life of those around whom they prey on men.

This is how: they get fucking hammered sloppyfaced drunk and then spill out of the bars looking like a blonde celebrity (they all do it at this point; take your pick) emerging from a vehicle, i.e. clothes falling off, hair tattered, make-up smudged.

So now they're on the street, sloshed, at 4, 5, 6 A.M.; I am in no way exaggerating either. And they look like SHIT, and the 30 Cosmopolitans they've had have apparently rendered them incapable of assessing the brilliant volume at which they are speaking... And saying the most dumbing shit I've ever heard in my life...

"Oh my GAD! Do you think he'll call?! I gave him my number!"... Said she as she fell into the tree potter/walked into oncoming traffic/walked down the sidewalk barefoot with her stilettos in her hands/dropped her Louis Vuitton bag/walked into a wall/puked on her friend/self/phone/hair/fill in any inane drunk-girl activity here. (Note, "she" is of course the universal "she." I did not in fact see one idiot perform all of these behaviors simultaneously. If I saw THAT, I'd actually be kind of impressed.)

But seriously: (directed to the lovely ladies) WHY ARE YOU YELLING? ALL THE TIME? Don't you have a home?

I just don't want these shitbags doing this anymore because
A. It's really putrid noise pollution to me personally; and
B. It's embarrassing to women in general.

Somebody put a fuckin' leash on these predators.

And an alcohol-moderating ankle-bracelet.

And for fuck's sake, a chastity belt.

-moon