shake weight

Speaker7’s Journey

So it begins again, dear reader. On May 27th, ABC will roll out its stained red carpet and gas up its dirty limo for another installment of The Bachelorette or what I like to call The Loss of Hope.

This season’s “star” is Desiree, a woman tossed aside by Bland The Blandest Bachelor because her brother called Bland “a player.” The correct verbiage is “douchetool.”

I watched a promotion on ABC’s “news” website because all news is entertainment at this point. Another ABC product churned out by Sylvester McMonkey McBean’s Star-Off Machine (re: American Idleautotunes in the background while we glimpse Desiree’s “journey.” It’s as inspiring as a turd’s journey from bowel to sewage treatment plant. As to be expected, there is this:

sadnessI already know what will happen. Men will call each other “bro.” Desiree will profess “This is the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do” while she sends home a man as remarkable as a used tissue. And Chris Harrison will earn substantially more money than cancer researchers for saying things like: “There is one rose left.”

This got me thinking about my own “journey.” In the past, I have watched the rectal sausage produced by the ABC meatprocessing plant, and produced recraps that some find enjoyable and some find lead to acute gastroenteritis. Am I ready to start all over again and accept a mildewed rose?

I guess it comes down to my vision for this blog. It began as a mechanism to force me to write. I would continually say how much I wanted to be a writer, and then plop myself down in front of the TV for hours.

Unlike my other blog, The Official How To Blog, this blog seems rather rudderless. Do I want it to be a recrapping blog? A commentary on current events? A marketing platform for the Shakeweight™?

These are the questions that keep me up at night–or at least until 8:30 p.m. when I crash because I have the constitution of a newborn.

So I leave the question to you, dear reader. I will put forth the effort, but only if you desire it, and I won’t feel hurt if you have reached your limit.

Do you want to read the alcohol-infused ramblings of brainless meat sacks on their “journey” to find “love” and guest appearances  at wet T-shirt contests? Have you grown tired of my recycled jokes where I describe the multitude of objects I will use to bash in my skull? Or is it time we moved on. . . maybe to more serious topics like Tanning Mom’s music video?

Before you decide à la poll, I present you with this:

knight

What the Fuck is Pinterest?

Seriously. What is it?

Because I just spent two hours pinning things, and I don’t know what happened to my life.

Like with so many other things, my awareness of Pinterest began on Facebook. That’s where I learned the weekend goes by much quicker than Monday and that rainy weather is a bummer. I was going to like someone’s status update about needing coffee, when this ecard caught my eye.

That sounded like so much fun! With real sledding, there’s the cold and the snow and then the walking and sitting and walking again and it’s like, what am I at work?

But what the fuck is Pinterest?

According to Pinterest, Pinterest is a virtual pinboard.

Great. What the fuck is that?

It’s a place to organize and share beautiful things one finds on the web. 

So like a book marking site?

No. 

I figured I needed to do some real-life research so I went to the Pinterest website, became really confused by the jumbled nature of it, joined it, “followed” boards I don’t understand and created new boards.

I still can’t explain what it is though. Here’s my first board:

I next pinned this:

And then I stopped at this:

Because seriously, I should be packing for my impending move to a new house not pinning. Wait…can I just pin my furniture to a board I call “New House?”

Dearest Reader: Speaker7 is attempting to write a post every day in November so she doesn’t have to participate in NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month). She wishes she could pin all of you except she doesn’t know what that means. 

Please don’t make me make a decision on whether I suffer from decision fatigue

While deciding whether I have the will to cook dinner or instead earn my nutrients by sucking down glass after glass of wine (grapes, antioxidants, cork protein), I came across this NY Times Magazine article. It made me appreciate the “job” of Larry King’s replacement, Ozzela Osborne and Rubber Glovehead on the show America’s Unemployed Should Be Put to Work in Different Manner. I had cruelly dismissed the show as somewhat non exciting and the end of America in this post that I accessed several times from my iPad to get my viewing count up (4 views, yo).

But I give them props (the kids still say that, right?). These people/mannequins had to sit through a bunch of acts and then make a decision, and making a bunch of decisions can lead you to impulsive acts like buying a shake weight or cutting yourself off from reality altogether, according to people who study stuff and coin new syndromes (see restless leg syndrome). They conducted experiments and had people who shopped at a mall (people still do that?) stick their hands in lukewarm water to see who would pee themselves first, I may not be entirely accurate in my reading, but the heavy shoppers peed sooner than the ones who didn’t have to make choices between which horrible Kim Karzdigiohsiishain KBebe koutfit to buy. And they peed faster because their will to live had been sapped by the suck of consumerism fatigue the comes from making tons of decisions about  meaningless material items that were made by Indonesian fetuses.

This explains a lot. This explains why I was willing to use a cardboard box as a car seat because I could not make a decision between the 123,078 varieties out there while consulting childcare books that informed me if I made the wrong decision, I was basically committing infanticide. This explains why I spent many years at a job that I hated because I didn’t want to put in the necessary decision-making to change the course of my life. This explains why I was watching America’s Got Talent.

But at least now I have something to blame it on like when I can’t come up with an original ending for a blog post–that’s my decision fatigue, brother.