Post-Olympic Depression

Since the opening ceremonies began, I've been dreading this moment - when I'd have to accept the fact that I can't just turn on the television whenever I want and see the greatest athletes in the world compete against each other over the sound of vaguely offensive commentary, all the while secretly waiting for one of them to die, or at least be carted off on a stretcher.

...I meant that I was secretly waiting, but that sort of made it sound like the athletes were hoping for that, too. Which...they probably were.

"Swam 1500m and not ONE PERSON DROWNED?!
You have GOT TO BE KIDDING ME."

So to fill the void, I've started treating everything like a competition and infusing my daily life with the spirit of the Olympics. Unfortunately for The Boy, I haven't told him about my new competitive drive, so he's thrust into events without any advance training. Or knowledge. Really, though, I think life is more exciting this way. He'll just be calmly sitting down to eat his breakfast when I look up with a gleam in my eye.

"I CAN EAT THIS BOWL OF CEREAL FASTER THAN YOU CAN!" I slur through the mouthful of Kix I've shoved down my gullet, milk dripping down my chin already, because I play dirty.

But even though I cheat, I still only place second because despite my bravado, I'm really more of a marathon eater than a sprinter. I cry into my bowl like a Russian gymnast as I place the silver medal around my own neck and try not to think about the shame I've brought to the Motherland.

Whatever. The Olympics are stupid, anyway.

Images via Deadspin, Zimbio, The Hour.

Making Adult Friends 101

Apparently it's the thing these days to go out into the world after graduation and make friends you didn't meet in your 10am lecture. You'd never catch me doing it, but I am here to inform, so I have devised a fool-proof guide to making friends. Grown-up friends. The kind with whom you do lunches and go jogging.

If you're into that sort of thing.

1.  Move to a new town/city/country. While it is possible to meet new friends in your hometown or near your college, you're more likely to bum around with the same people you've known for years. To really get the genuine experience of grasping for friendship in a sea of vulnerability, you'll have to feel the bone-crushing isolation of being completely alone.
2. Find some cool new adult clothes and decorate your new adult apartment. Keep it funky-fresh. Maybe install a wall garden. Or something solar-powered.
3. Discover your city's values and tout them with your every action. Does your town recycle? Help out by picking through your neighbor's trash bins to find some treasures you can upcycle. You can dress like a raccoon if you want. Neighborhood watch program? Hide behind trees and jump out to scare strangers away. Flash your pepper spray. Menace them a little. Your neighbors will thank you - and more importantly, they'll fear you.
• Also, use words like tout in all of your conversations. 
4. Share something with the people you meet. Like your lunch. Or your feelings.
   
   

   

   They'll love it!

   
   
5. Take some classes. Just like in college, show up ten minutes late, wearing sweats and eating a burrito. Spend the entire time "taking notes" on your laptop, then hit your classmates with a killer opening line on the way out:
   -  "I should have taken pottery. Think it's too late to switch?"
   -  "Where's the best place to buy some weed around here?"
   -  "Want the rest of my burrito?"
6. Join a club. Same principle. But maybe walk in and shout, "WHERE DA LADIES AT?" This works for both men and women.
7. Other places to meet potential friends: Lines at the supermarket or DMV, waiting rooms at the dentist or free clinic, browsing at the library, hanging out at the park or public pool, community events, seedy bars, the internet, drug deals, street corners, that hole in the airport bathroom wall, at work. Bonus points if you already work at one of those places!
8. If all else fails, acquire great wealth. Adopt a panda. Buy a ball pit. Maybe learn some magic tricks. Change your name to Cougar. Then just sit back and wait as the friends come flocking to you.

Good luck, friends!

Images via flickr, 500 Sandwiches.

In which Carrie writes a letter.

But which letter to choose? L? P? Would a number be better?

Dear Internet,

Well, I admit that I have not exactly been a Portrait of the Artist as a Young Struggling Writer, what with having a job and regular meals and all that. But as of 3:41 this afternoon, I am officially unemployed.

Again.

On the bright side, I really think people will actually start to recognize me as a writer now. Somehow, the unmistakable stench of unwashed hair mixed with sad desperation and whiskey will be like a foghorn bellowing my plight to the world.

"HEY, YOU GUYS," the passers-by will say, "THAT SMELLY WOMAN IS A WRITER, I THINK."

"THE ONE WITH THE UNKEMPT HAIR WHO'S ONLY WEARING ONE SHOE?" other people will ask.

Then I will shush them irritably because some of us are trying to write, thank you, as I return to the growing pile of scribbled-on paper napkins stacked on the table next to me.

But really, I think this new unemployment situation will be a good thing. Plus, I won't have any more priests yelling at me or auto repair guys calling me "sweetie." At least, not over the phone, for $9 an hour.

My only regret is that I couldn't yank my phone out of the wall and hurl it across the room before storming out of that menial telemarketing job, shouting about the undignified conditions stifling my artistic sensibilities. Instead, I just got a call from my temp agency informing me that unfortunately, this has been my last day. I even said thank you before I hung up. Like some sort of sap.

Fond regards,
Carrie



Image via Stephanie Abbot.

Introductions

"Um, hi. So, two interesting things about myself ... well, I have twice the number of sweat glands as the average human? And sometimes I dream that I have no fingernails," she whispered, and sat down quickly.

Making friends has always been tough for Carrie. She does better on the internet, where people can't see her mangled limbs or hear her oddly high-pitched stutter, but her debilitating social fears and darkly offensive sense of humor still make her a target of mockery wherever she goes.

The beard can't help matters any.

Because of this sad state of affairs, she has chosen to become a writer - that most solitary of professions, second only to Hermiting About - and has started this blog for you. For you, in particular, to read. In hopes that maybe, someday, you will be able to look past her physical deformities and personality defects and learn to love her, just a little bit.

Alternatively, she has considered marrying a disgustingly wealthy old man so she can just buy some friends instead. This method is actually preferred, as she is also exceedingly lazy.

WHAT'S YOUR NAME, STRANGER?



Image via eBaum's World.