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| | Let Me Upgrade You 
Beyonce Knowles, for all the retardness her soundbytes imply, has simply got me beat in the dancing department. Plus, unlike me, she doesn't appear to be helping a large cantaloupe shimmy its way out of her birth canal while she rocks to the beat of "Proud Mary." The holidays added more than joy to my life this year - they added a few more inches of padding which must be burned off like old growth in the forest. While dancing might be considered the right antidote to bloat, if you take into consideration the amount of alcohol required to contort my body into that position, well - we might as well call it a draw. Beyonce may be functionally retarded, but this one-trick-pony found a helluva trick to exploit, capturing the inertia generated by her enormous gyrating hips and riding them, literally, to the top. I'm currently engaged in the search for my own ridable talent to take me to the top and leave my truly retarded self behind (all ridable talent 8" or more, step to the front of the line! haha, I KID).
My mind is still recovering from the Great Trim-Spa Debacle of 2005, and while my "do you like my bodyyyyyy" outbursts have been curtailed so far to the bedroom, I find myself rambling more and more like a disciple of Paula Abdul. You know Paula. Not the beloved "Coldhearted Snake" enchantress of yesterdecade, but the current American Idol co-host/stroke-victim iteration, whose facial movements are inversely proportional to the number of words uttered. How did it come to this? I have no idea. I do say some stupid shit, especially around my boyfriend, but you know how that goes. You try to say the right, cute things, so that your whole relationship is like When Harry Met Sally come to life, and you end up sounding more like a character in a pointless Sylvester Stallone vehicle, attempting to say with a straight face that humans in the 21st century wipe their asses with one of three seashells. So I mean, I can understand why he sometimes suspects that I may be just the tiniest bit retarded, but he lets it go because I make a kick-ass Dijon Turkey Leg and he knows that if he would like to keep eating such succulent meals, then he had better at least acknowledge my few intellectual moments with all the enthusiasm of a new pet-owner who is trying to train his puppy to shit on the little mat, and not on the Berber rug.
My self-consciousness has everything to do with the fact that this year, 2007, I turn 25, and I'm desperately searching for relevance. Not like, what's relevant to ME, per se, but trying to feel relevant to THE WORLD. You hit that wall where you realize that everyone whose music you admire, books you've read, movies you lost yourself in, even friends whose professional accomplishements inspired you - you realize that in most cases, they were at least on that track for sucess before they hit 25. And you wonder if, since you're nowhere near the purchase of your first Bentley, you'll ever see that sort of success. You crush yourself wondering if the fact that you majored in Asian American Studies from a school of lesser-reknown is going to kill your career prospects before they've hatched. You speculate that perhaps because you slacked off in that public high school and intentionally skipped taking AP classes because you thought the "smart" students who took the "smart" classes were too stuffy for your liking will now mean that you're doomed to a life of lesser achievements. It's all bullshit - the battle is fought internally, and no one knows that better than me.
This ain't an original conundrum. I know millions of people have gone through their quarter-life crisis and emerged unscathed (except for back in the days before the 20th century, when "quarter-life" was more like, 13 years old), and I'm just the most verbose one, fated to ramble endlessly online about the direness of my situation before retiring at the end of the night to masturbate and sleep. I'm sure Beyonce has had similar discussions with Mama Tina, about whether an earlier costume disaster involving Mediterranean Blue sequins being mistakenly applied to LaTavia's corset instead of the correct Cerulean Blue sequins (thus causing the group to implode, because everyone knows that Mediterranean is totally like, THREE SHADES lighter than Cerulean) meant that although she'd be financially and professionally successful with Jay-Z, she'd forever be cursed to a life sleeping next to ugliness personified (See, B's just like you and me. She ponders the DEEP SHIT.) Either way, as long as homegirl and I keep working out our dance routines, I'm sure these minor quarter-life quibbles will be over in a 5-6-7-8 kick step kick sidebend booty bounce drop to the floor and OUT.
Or whatever.
| | | Posted 1/15/2007 12:37 AM - 57 views - 11 comments
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