Whiny New York: SHUT UP

Why is everyone from New York such a stuck up whiny pussy?

I met some friends from New York in Jersey City the other night. Basically, they smirked, told tired Jersey jokes, and whined about designer clothes. I was wearing pants that I'd bought in the park for $5 and this is a sample of the dialogue:

New York: Jersey City seems really nice. Is that Town Hall?
Melissa: It's city hall.
New York: It looks like a town. Is this what you call a city in Jersey?
Melissa: I guess.
New York: Do you ever go into The City? Oh, I guess this IS the city for you.

Shut up.

First of all, you live in Brooklyn. Brooklyn is like Jersey City on the East River. I call it Jersey City East. You're probably going to move to Jersey City in a few years when your friends tell you its cool and drive up the rent because you think that $1500 for a studio is a deal and force the locals out as you contribute to the sprawling waspification of Jersey City.

Secondly, you don't even talk like you're from New York. Where's your accent from, TV?

Well, my friend, be glad that I'm here to protect you because are the type of person who gets mugged in JC and I hope that your car gets stolen.

Thirdly, yes, I do go into The City. I've grown up a 5 minute PATH ride from it, I went to high school there, and I'm going tonight to see a show.

I'M FROM HERE. WHAT'S YOUR EXCUSE?

Can I borrow your baby?

Dear Tom,

I know we've been through this before, but can I borrow your baby for this project I'm working on? I know you said that Liz doesn't trust me with it, but I'm NOT going to throw it down a shaft like in the Jersey Journal or when I pushed you down the stairs--I swear on my son's grave.

I'M NOT GOING TO EXPLOIT IT. I'm just gonna make out with it a little.

I've even been practicing mixing fomula. You know what goes good with Similac? Vodka. This baby's lucky--It'll get to drink all day. If this stuff came out of my boobs I would never have to go to bars.

Just give me the goddamn baby. I would have one myself but they keep on dying for some reason.

Love,
Melissa

PS Will you be my dad?

Give my boots back, Uncle Eugeniusz!

Dear Uncle Gene,

After it snowed last weekend, I planned to hike up the hill to Mosquito Park and go sledding on garbage bags and pick up white trash teenagers from the Heights. But the snow boots I'd left in the hallway were missing so I had to wear Converse through the snow and my toes almost had to be amputated and the teenagers, sensing weakness, threatened to mug me.

I still can't find my boots. Gee, Uncle Gene, I wonder who took them?

Grandma said she saw you eating a used ketchup packet out of the garbage on Newark Avenue. On Thursday, I was walking down Bay Street and I passed a pile of trash with a foot sticking out of it. Upon closer inspection, I saw that it was YOU using garbage bags for a mattress and covering yourself with garbage bags for blankets. At first I thought it was funny, but then I thought, "I'm related to that guy," and then I was sad.

I know you stole them! What are you doing with ladies' size 7 shoes anyway? You look ridiculous in them. Well now you can keep them. I bet they smell.

On the subject of stealing, stop giving out my address. I don't need all this mail. For a bum, you sure get a lot of it! If I were you, I'd burn it to keep warm.

Also, please stop stealing things from my neighbors's yards and stop throwing their garbage cans into the street.

THIS IS WHY YOU'RE NOT INVITED TO CHRISTMAS.

The older I get, the less flattering celebrity-look-alike compliments are.

When I was in highschool, I was told by two people that I looked like Cameron Diaz.

Despite the fact that I was told by a manic depressive on anti-psychotics with suicide scars up his wrists, and a friend who once got so drunk she made out with an old guy on an air conditioner without realizing he was missing his front four teeth, I felt that the description was accurate.

When I was in college, I was told that I looked like Jodie Foster.

Despite the fact that I thought she was a lesbian, and that I was told by a manic-depressive melodramatic obsessive teenager with thinning hair who cried a lot, I was still flattered.

But the other night, a very drunk, loud yuppie with that stupid Hoboken button-down shirt was trying to pretend he was hip and told me that I looked like Dweezil Zappa's wife, an actress whose name he couldn't remember. Upon research, I found out that Dweezil is not married to an actress at all, but a one-hit-wonder named Lisa Loeb.

This is not a compliment. Firstly, I don't wear glasses. She's probably cross-eyed. Secondly, "Stay" was maybe the worse song of the '90's out of many. Thirdly, who even talks about Lisa Loeb anymore? That's why the picture's pixelated--it's so small because no one cares about her. Also, I have red hair and blue eyes and I hate acoustic guitars.

So look, yuppie. Please hang yourself with your ugly button down shirt. You probably starch the collar enough to slit your throat.

There's a horrible smell in my living room and I think it's me.

I'm not a dietician, but I'm pretty sure that eating two pounds of cheese right before bed is not very healthy, but I guess it's better than eating garbage. I had a stomach ache all day from that dumpster.

Who made the cheese cloud in my living room?

It was Mr. Fancy Pants the Hedgehog. He smells like cheese when it gets humid out but he does NOT like being spread onto a cracker like me. He spiked me and made me cry.

I'm changing the name of my blog again to "Fear and Dread, Guilt and Shame". Hopefully, one day I will come up with a title that doesn't make me feel bad about myself.

I just found out that I made the cover of the Waterfront Journal. But I don't know where you can get it and I don't think it has a website.

Your rats are probably gonna die soon...

..so why not make them celebrities?

I don't care about what's happened between us in the past--who called who a nutjob or who has bad hair or who is emotionally a fetus and is going to live with his parents forever--but there's one thing I care about. And those are our babies. And by our "babies", I mean your "rats."

Can I PLEASE borrow a rat for a project I'm working on? I'm not gonna give it a yeast infection or anything but I might show it my boobs. Besides, even if I kill it (which I won't), you'd still have like 26 left plus that half of one that you call a hair-do.

Let me use the one that lives in your shirt. Can I use two, one for each bra cup? I would probably let you borrow a rabbit if you needed to. Well, one of them--Butterscotch. He has chronic diarrhea but he only bites when you kiss him.

I bought us a baby rat. And by "us" I mean "you." It's the belated Valentine's gift you never knew you wanted. I went rat shopping at the pet store this morning and the first one they showed me had one eye and huge testicles, just like you, except opposite.

Maybe one day we can get married and live in the sewer with your parents.

A girl can dream, can't she?

Jersey Journal

There's an article on me in the Jersey Journal today about my BlackHole show. It's on page 24, after a story about a furniture maker who has a cat. The article erroneously says that I'm the host. I'm the PRODUCER. It sounds better and pays less.

Also, in the picture my chin looks like an asshole and my eyes look too Polish. But it's a good article. However, I was disappointed that the one day I'm in the Journal there's no rape or shaft baby stories even though I told them details of my childhood.

I dropped "Juggling Babies" and changed the name of my blog to "Queen of Cups," but I think they both suck. Queen of Cups is my querent card in a Tarot Deck. According to my last reading, unfortunately I'm not dying soon, but there's this Queen of Wands slut who needs to stay away from my man, King of Cups. Spiritually, he's cheating on me but physically he doesn't exist. My boyfriend is a card and love is paper cuts and shaft babies.

So I started a blog. Are you gonna kill me?

Well I didn't have a blog before because I thought that they were annoying and only conceited assholes had them. But then I realized that I am an asshole. That's why I have no friends and low self-esteem.

Right now it's called, "Juggling Babies" but I might change it to something more egotistical, like, "Melissa's Blog". I know it looks like the clap right now but it'll be nicer and more entertaining by the end of the week--I'll put up pictures of people who are of interest to you and tell you things that aren't really any of your business.

I'll try to post at least once a week, but it'll probably only be when my boss isn't looking. I don't have internet at home because Verizon has made a fool out of me so I have to do it all at work, where I make fools out of my superiors.

Now I am going to happy hour to drink $3 martinis by myself. It's lunch time.