I know, I know. Long time, no blog. But in my defense -- I just completed a 7 day drinking binge to commemorate my collegiate years, and then I graduated magna cum laude, bitches. So cut a girl some slack.

Whilst browsing FML.com this morning, I came across this gem:

Today, I went through the drive through at Dunkin Donuts and asked for an iced coffee. After no response I start frantically screaming about bad service. After a while, the woman comes out to my car and says, "Please pull up to the speaker." I yelled at a garbage bin for 5 minutes. FML

And my immediate thought was, "well of COURSE you're that stupid, because you go to the anti-christ that is Dunkin Donuts!" See, the thing is - I kind of hate Dunkin Donuts. DD has never truly wronged me in any way, but still - I just can't get on board. This is for many reasons, some of them vain, some of them shallow, but all of them real. Firstly, where I come from (the greatest state this side of bliss), one could only encounter a DD in one of the trashier suburbs - Gresham, Oregon City, etc. As a city-dweller, I speak for all Portlandians when I say that we tend to scorn and eschew all Suburban-types, because who wants new identical houses and strip malls when you can have a 1912 architectural icon and NE Broadway? To get back on point, if one did venture into one of these DD's, certain things are infallible. The patrons will invariably have more children than teeth, have a total inches of girth number higher than their I.Q., and will make a quick stop at DD after picking up their lotto tickets and before their weekly splurge dinner at Red Lobster.

Secondly, Dunkin Donuts is all over the East Coast. I am emphatically NOT all over the East Coast. I mean, techincally I generally am as I spend like 8 months out of the year there, but really anything that is particular to that side of the country I meet with disdain and distrust. I feel distinctly aloof and proud in my inability to partake in the DD madness, and also would truly feel unfaithful to my coast and my people if I did in fact inbibe in one of those g.d. drinks. Thirdly, Dunkin Donuts commercials infiltrate my life. They're quite vexatious! When I'm unwinding with a good, heart-wrenching episode of Grey's, I'm not trying to hear "American Runs on Dunkin" 134256 times. Am I not an American, DD? Because last time I checked, the 14th Amendment told me I was. But do I run on Dunkin? False. I don't even run!

Fourthly, and most importantly, if I ever went to DD, I'd be cheating on my most faithful companion - someone I've been with for years of my life, someone who has never ever let me down. This someone is known as Starbucks. Starbucks is a GOD among coffee-houses. It gets a lot of shit for being a big corporation and too expensive, but whatever! It's not simply about the single cup of coffee/tea/myriad beverages they can provide you with, it's about the whole Starbucks experience. Unlike DD, Starbucks is classy. No matter where you are in the world (and I've heartily tested this theory), you can walk into a Starbucks, and it will be clean, and jewel-toned, with lots of abstract art on the walls and jazzy relaxing music playing in the pleasantly-lit background. The chairs are comfy and oversized, and their display cases never falter to be aesthetically pleasing. Unlike DD, Starbucks is a west-coast operation. Gotta stay true to my roots, you know, and Starbucks just makes it so gosh darn easy to be proud of the good old left side of the country! Unlike DD, Starbucks doesn't air commericals. Nope, they're just naturally popular enough without feeling the need to kill my braincells for 30 seconds 7 times an hour. Take that, DD! People don't need to be lured or tricked or brainwashed into going to Starbucks - they just inately want to! I mean, I know I always do.

So yeah, garbage bin screamer, your actions aren't surprising. I'm willing to barter that if you just ditch your filthy DD habit and pull through a SB drive-thru instead, your minimal brain-power will experience a rapid increase. I mean, it's not like it can go anywhere but up, right?

My career as a college undergrad has almost come to a close. There is but one thing standing between me and total freedom (for a week, at least). It's called The Stupidest History Paper Ever Assigned. Essentially, my professor wants a 25 page report on black communism. Not like research with an original thesis. Nope. Just a report. And generally while I like easy work that I could have done in the 5th grade, the sheer idiocy of this assignment renders me unable to even begin a rudimentary draft. It's due on Tuesday, which is still more than tomorrow away, so there's an immediate plus, but ZOMG I CANNOT WRITE THIS PAPER! The very thought of simply regurgitating the class lectures I daydreamed through makes me want to shovel my brains out of my head. Really. Doesn't help that my professor is this guy:



Except large, black, and continuously screaming about Communism and "smackin' whores around". Verbatim. So I know that he's barely going to read my 25 pages of bullshit, which makes me want to write it even less. Therefore, I proudly present to you the many and varied things I have done to avoid writing this absurd paper:

1. Watched the entire series of Freaks & Geeks. Again, For the second time since winter break. Was weirdly attracted to 14 year old John Francis Daley (but only because I know how cute he grows up to be!)
2. Felt weird about being attracted to 14 year old, so had lengthy discussion with Roomie #1 about appropriateness. Decided it was okay because she is attracted to Justin Beiber. Subsequently decided this probably makes her same sex oriented.
3. Brainstormed the female celebrities that Roomie #1 should go for.
4. Did time trials, semi finals, and finals on an inflatable obstacle course that was on our campus green for the day.
5. Administered first aid to myself, Roomie #1 and Roomie #2 after unfortunate accidents on said inflatable obstacle course.
6. Thought up and wrote down an entire half horror/half comedy movie plotline wherein one of our friends kills another in murderous rage with the Roomies.
7. Casted said movie with famous Hollywood stars.
8. Reassured ourselves that we could and would in fact get this movie made WITH the preferred actors.
9. Practiced my Robot moves in the mirror for an ungodly amount of time (read: hours).
10. Wikipedia'd things including but not limited to: lobsters, Matthew Lillard, Anastasia, Bea Arthur, Crohns Disease, Moscow, and Kardashians. Verbatim, sadly.
11. Willingly and without prompting called my mother. Her honest-to-god response upon answering -- "What's wrong? Are you hurt? Are you at the hospital? (pause)... are you calling for money?"
12. Willingly and without prompting called my father. His honest-to-god response upon answering -- "stop procrastinating and do your work, you idiot."
13. Washed all the dirty dishes (aka all the dishes), pretended I was Cinderella. Sang "Impossible" from the made-for-TV version of Cinderella starring Brandy (of Boy is Mine fame).
14. Watched the entire series of Undeclared. Without apology but with Roomies.
15. Spurred by Undeclared, made lists of all our collegiate hook-ups.
16. Moaned, slammed around, and writhed in self-pity per many inclusions re: #15.
17. Went through every picture tagged of myself on Facebook to make sure I was always looking my best. I was not. Detagging occurred with a vengeance.
18. Painted my toenails pale pink. Decided I did not like the color. Walked to Wal-greens to buy new nail polish. Repainted nails.

This is not an exaggeration. I'm simultaneously insanely proud of my ability to waste time and disgusted with my inability to just sit down and write things that don't even require original thought. I suppose I could say something sentimental about how I'm unconsciously holding on to this paper because it represents the culmination of my college years, but that's a bold-faced lie. I've always pulled shit like this. It's my greatest talent and greatest flaw. As my friend Alanis would say, ironic.

As most of the internets are reporting, actors Jeffrey Dean Morgan and Hilarie Burton have purportedly been secretly dating for like a year and a half, and in fact have a secret baby boy. And have had said baby for a few months, now. People are shocked. I am shocked. I do NOT like being shocked by celebrity news. I much prefer to be the shock inducer. Not in a capital-punishment-kind of way, but in a i-know-more-than-you kind of way. Shallow? yes. True? moreso. Therefore, it should be no surprise that accompanying my shock is also the cold and torturous pain of betrayal seeping through my veins. Yes, I feel betrayed. You may, dear reader(s?) be wondering why exactly I would feel such a strong emotional response to the news that two B-list (but nonetheless loved) celebrities with whom I have no personal connection whatsoever have managed to do the near impossible and hatch a small creature out of their love nest.

But betrayed I am. With the entertainment industry at large, and with this couple in particular. Firstly, how g.d. sloppy is the celebrity gossip circuit these days? First Sandra Bullock has a secret adoption, and now this? Like, what the hell? Get off your lazy asses, people.com, and get me some breaking news. And get it yesterday. And yes -- I really feel this strongly about celebrity gossip. I can understand where this penchant might be considered "uncultured", "trashy" or just "weird"(all things I aspire to be at times), but WE ALL HAVE OUR VICES! And since giving up Diet Coke (RIP), my quest for celebrity gossip has only intensified. And I think it should be socially acceptable! I mean, it's not like I spend my days watching Sally Jesse, eating cheese puffs on my couch cracking open a new Corona every hour (often), so what if I like to come home from grueling day of work and school and responsibilities and kick back with EW.com and Perez? WHY IS THAT SO WRONG? I also have a theory, in working through my distressing response to this scandal, that my insane impatience has something to do with it. I can be patient all day long with six year olds, all of whom have selective hearing and a tendency to wipe their noses on my clothes, but with information or things that I want -- I am NOT a patient person. I say with complete understanding that this is certainly one of my more unsavory characteristics. But when something happens, and I don't find out immediately, I get MAD. I do not like being kept in the dark. Information is literally my crack cocaine.

I'm also feeling very betrayed by the two baby-makers themselves. Hilarie Burton. You were an MTV VJ and then on One Tree Hill. Listen -- I'mma tell you right now, that's not incredibly impressive. But I didn't care! Your years on MTV were also the years in which I watched MTV exclusively (ahh, middle school), and I was always glad to see your face after school. And then, I supported you all throughout your troubled times in Tree Hill. People may have scorned and scoffed, but I watched you, I did, and I didn't care. Even when Peyton got unbearably emo, I still defended and supported your creative decisions. YOU'RE WELCOME. And you, Jeffrey Dean Morgan. You play the dead guy on like a billion shows, and even though you broke up my favorite Grey's couple (yes, I know, I do watch quality television, thank you) of Alex and Izzie like seven hundred and two times, I still found you charming. EVEN WHEN YOU WERE A SEX-HAVING GHOST I still liked you. Which is saying a lot because that shit was ridiculous and you and Shonda Rhimes should be equally ashamed.

So thanks, assholes. All I wanted was the chance to squeal over how cute I'm sure your teensy bebe is. And to know his name. Most parents like it when people want to see pictures of their kid. Most parents have to beg for that kind of attention to their offspring! Why would you deny me this pleaure? After my hours spent watching your various shows and basically paying your expanding salaries (indirectly, maybe, sure, but the principle!), you cannot afford me the simple pleasure of a picture? Well, your loss guys. Kind of. I'm obviously still fuming.