When I was in PreK, I said “damn” in class and my teacher, Mrs. Marx, washed my mouth out with soap. It was absolutely traumatizing and I will never forget the taste of those pearly pink generic-brand suds on my tongue.
I gagged. I cried. Pretty sure I puked. But more than anything, I was extremely embarrassed. I despised Mrs. Marx for the rest of the year.
Now that I am older, and have the experience of being both a teacher and a mom, I can look back and see with clear vision what Mrs. Marx was doing. She saw a reckless kid, and, rightfully so, it worried her. Kids need boundaries, and she wanted to create some for me. She knew I would have an easier time in life if I understood the consequences of my actions, took behavioral expectations seriously, and generally tried to fall in line with societal norms. She was trying desperately, in her own way, to help me.
So shout out to Mrs. Marx— now that I have matured and gained the wisdom of perspective, and am raising a PreK child of my own, I see exactly what you were doing, and you know what? IT DIDN’T FUCKING WORK YOU SICK TWISTED CUNT.
That amazing moment when you’re packing for the first wedding that isn’t your own wedding, and you realize it doesn’t matter what the hell you pack, wear, do, or say, because no one gives a fuck about YOU this weekend.
Friend, to me: “It’s so nice to just totally disconnect from social media on your birthday. You should try it.”
Spot, on Po! I definitely ALWAYS bring food.
Oh it doesn’t count if I already ate the food? And I’m bringing it in my belly?
Then, neither. I bring neither.
You suck at this, Po.
I love clothes-shopping online because rather than having to go to the store and try everything on myself, I can just view it on the model and instantly decide if I like it or not.
Then the clothes arrive and I remember that I am not a model.
Because I was supposed to do a 10-mile training run this morning, but didn’t.
I’m sorry that you don’t see that as a reasonable explanation for why I am eating this giant chunk of leftover mac and cheese with my fists, but in my head it makes complete sense.
So fuck off.
I do not apologize for, and am 100% fine with, the fact that I did not recognize even ONE famous athlete in the movie “Trainwreck,” including LeBron James. I was grateful that the script actually stated, “You know who that is, right? That’s LeBron James,” because no, I did NOT know who that was. Much like Amy Schumer’s character, I simply thought he was a very tall, handsome, muscular black man.
I did, however, know every single comedian who made an appearance in the film and have read most of their memoirs.
I can’t be a girl who is funny AND who likes sports.
The universe would implode, guys.
I’ve been called many names by standard NYC crazies in my 10-year stint living here. This includes, but is not limited to:
- “Pasty white bitch” (which is just absurd, as I’m always tan)
- “Slut” (eh. Depends on the season)
- “Cracker” (never not funny)
- “Cheap jerk” (fair)
- “Fucking Sarah Jessica Parker Skinny Legged Hoe” (this one’s my favorite. She thought I was skinny, guys!)
These name-callings are always unprovoked. I’ll admit, the first time it happened, I was pretty taken aback, but now I welcome it, as I feel every time a derogatory name is spat my way, I become more a citizen of this city.
And in that spirit, I would like to proudly announce that as a group of us were getting off the D train last night, the conductor took it upon himself to stick his head out the window of the subway car and yell “Get off my train, you pussy dicks!”
Game, set, match.
I’m a New Yorker, guys!!!!!
(That man maybe shouldn’t be driving trains, though….)
I knew it– this whole time, the Smurfs were nothing but white KKK members.
Seriously guys, my whole world is falling apart here.