Hey, self. How is your sexy ass doin’? Feelin’ good? Feelin’ great after you just had a bowl of marshmallows for breakfast, with two bites of a rotten banana, all swallowed down with a large Diet Coke? Feeling hot to trot in your yoga pants and White Sox t-shirt; the one with a hole in the arm pit? Hope no one sees you haven’t shaved those puppies in well over a month.
You busy? You busy getting ready for something? Maybe that party you decided to throw just for shits and giggles? The party you invited well over 70 people to, expecting none of them to come? The party that close to that number will be showing up for? Showing up for to fit into your tiny apartment? Yeah … that one? Gettin’ ready for that, hot stuff?
Well I have something to say to you, self. I have something to say to you, you marshmallow-and-rotten banana-stuffing, unshaven, overachieving self.
Seriously, go fuck yourself. Go fuck yourself sideways with rotten bananas and thorny pineapples.
Go fuck yourself with your complicated menu planning. Kiss my she-balls with your homemade invitations that just got returned because the post office is full of fucking morons. Screw you and your centerpieces, made by hand with little scarecrows inside of them. Take your place cards with the elaborate descriptions of each food item on them, and shove that shit up your crotch.
And while you’re at it, you can shove your justifications up there too. Like the one about making those place cards because you’re tired of having to always tell people what is being served. Like the one about how cheap it is do to things “DIY!!” Fuck you and your DIY bullshit. And how about the one about making five, different desserts so that you can try new recipes you’ve been wanting to try. Since when the fuck did you want to try recipes?
And let’s not talk about you saying you were throwing this party to avoid cooking on Thanksgiving. How’s that working out for you? I see you just bought a Thanksgiving turkey and ham to prepare on the actual T-day. Dillhole. Screw you.
Seriously, overachieving self. Screw you. Screw you and your kid’s platter. Screw you and making cake pops for the kids so they don’t bother the adults. Fuck that shit. What are you – a fucking babysitter?
Now just what the hell is this front door display all about? Since when the shit did you buy into fall offerings? Last year you made fun of people that put up corn stalks and little stuffed turkeys, now you’ve littered your patio with them. What the hell happened to you? You used to be laid back. You used to be cool. You served chips and dip, and said decorating was for schmucks. Now everything has this posh, yupster fall feel to it, and almost every item on your list of food has “with a hint of” as part of the description.
I don’t know if you faithful blog followers can tell, but I’m a little upset with my overachieving self. I decided to throw this party, then let it get out of hand; now it’s consuming every minute of each day. I always do this bullshit. Always. It isn’t really stressing me out, either – quite frankly, I don’t have much else to do most of the time. Really, what is so upsetting about it is that I hate what I’ve become: a posh, yupster. A posh yupster that has to have every detail accounted for. Every fucking detail to the point that I’m sitting here at 9 o’clock in the morning hot gluing feathers to a cornucopia. “Because what Thanksgiving party doesn’t have a cornucopia?!!”
Yeah, screw you, overachieving self. Screw you.
By the way … don’t be a turkey and BUY MY BOOK! And if you want it signed, just email me for details on how to get that done and shipped back to you for free! Click here, buy book, woohoo!