Present Imperfect

100 Candles | May 24, 2004

Well, bust out the me-shaped piñata, because this is my 100th Blog Post!

I wanted it to be, you know, special, like with someone I love...but instead I'll just spend it yammering on about nothing in particular. Story of my life, really.

The Keane album comes out tomorrow domestically, but because I'm the Luckiest Girl in the World, Eric bought the import for me while I was in Pittsburgh. And already my assertion that "these kids are gonna be HUGE" is right on the money: the album is #1 in Britain with Morrissey trailing behind at #2.

Which reminds me that Morrissey is hilarious.

In the Virgin Megastore bookstore yesterday, I browsed the fiction section with crossed arms and smell face. I think it's high time for a chick-lit backlash. Have you seen the cover to that inane Plum Sykes book? And before you (who?) say anything: No, I have NOT read it. I am never, ever going to read it. I do not want a Harry Winston diamond. I do not want a weekend in the Hamptons. I do not want a private jet to Nice. I do not want them, Sam I am.

These books are shallow, creepshow instruction manuals for how to land a "catch" or "survive the dating scene." They have absolutely nothing to do with how to enjoy this short life either with a kind person who likes you or, fuck it, without one. But you know what? If you need an instruction manual for that, I don't think a $16 paperback is going to do you much good.

Then again, I guess if you want a rich, traditionally handsome boyfriend with a sexy job, then in order to beat the competition you are probably going to have to pull on your assiest pair of Joe's Jeans, don a diaphanous halter and strap on the hair extensions. Please, be my guest. Because if you don't know by now that all the good, funny ones are up to their (probably) bespectacled eyeballs in student loans or credit card debt, you deserve the guy who calls out your name while he's pounding a $1000-an-hour whore. (Awww...how sweet!)

Did I say that out loud?