Why I too should be Justin Bieber

This post has nothing really to do with Justin Bieber, except for exactly what it DOES have to do with Justin Bieber…which is not very much.

So pay close attention.

I feel like I’m losing you already. 

*tap tap tap* 

Is this thing on?

Here’s how it began:  recently, on my way to The Job, I overheard a radio talk show host complaining about how Justin Bieber is outraged that he got a speeding ticket whilst doing 80mph on a Los Angeles freeway in his Fisker Karma—that’s a car…what?  Never heard of it?  That’s because it’s made exclusively from extinct Wooly Mammoth skins sewn together by hand-less midgets in the desert—not dessert—of  Darfur who are simultaneously sewing whilst dodging RPG fire by the government backed Janjaweed militia and cursing PETA out loud in the broken English taught to them by generous American Mormon missionaries.   

I’m sorry PETA, I don’t personally curse you, I just talk about people who I imagine curse you….IN. MY. IMAGINATION…so no firebombing my house for the bacon therein, ok?

Good.  Glad we cleared that up.

And so, I thought to myself while listening to said talk show host curse the Fisker-Karma driving, disobedient Beiber...who on EARTH could feel more privileged than a man (Justin, are you still following?) who feels outraged over being pulled over for breaking a commonly held traffic law when said individual is driving a car made by impoverished, disabled people who are being shot at by their own government whilst sitting in their own shat? (I assume, perhaps mistakenly, that there are no flushing toilets in the desert-again, it's DESERT not  DESSERT, as in these individuals are sitting in SAND and NOT sitting in CUPCAKES-therefore I also assume said Fisker Karma-Wooly Mammoth skin sewing, hand-less midgets are pooing where they sit…wrong?  is that hard to follow?  welcome to my brain.)

And I felt OUTRAGED.

And then I forgot why I was outraged and had to re-read my own blog post. I realized….wait, I’ve totally lost track of my own train of thought.  

And, also, reality.

For all I know, Fiskar-Karma’s are made from metal manufactured in Detroit.  AND, for all I know, Darfurian hand-less midgets poop in regular toilets, just like you and I.  AND how do I know that they have no dessert there?  Maybe there is, in fact, a glut of Strawberry Shortcake in the local markets? 

WHO AM I TO SAY?

Confession

It’s time to fess up.  I am no longer living in a plumbing-less shack in my sister’s backyard, because she kicked me out when she got pregnant again and ran out of room in the regular house to store all of her children because I got a job and that’s what responsible, formerly-unemployed people do when they recover gainful employment…they move out of their sister’s backyard.  

I resisted. 

I was all like, “why do you need another kid anyways, you already have FOUR and, I mean, like, one is enough anyways right?”  And then she muttered something about having an even number of donuts for everyone or some such nonsense and I just gave up. 

Whatever.

So I moved.  To my very own place.  And all was right with the Universe.  Until my student loans came into repayment.  And here’s where I explain things that aren’t so funny and for which I can’t seem to find humor.  *feel free to skip ahead, I wont judge* 

Once upon a time I had a great job that I had incredible passion for, and was kind-of really good at.  It was a job I had done for the better part of a decade, and was just as in love with as when I started.  Then I suffered a serious on-the-job injury that required multiple surgeries, and a very long rehab which left me disabled, and unable to return to my former profession.  I decided to go to graduate school because I knew I needed a new career and, also, that I would have some free time on my hands while undergoing surgeries and rehabilitation.  Surgeries and rehabilitation that might prevent me from working, but which wouldn’t prevent me from doing things like studying and writing papers. 

                             

It all seemed like a good idea at the time. 

I took out student loans to pay for it, which remained in deferment while I was unemployed.  Now that I am working, these loans have gone into something called “income based repayment”.  That sounds great, right?  INCOME based.  Meaning, presumably, that the government will be all, like, “hey, we wont ask you to pay any more than you can AFFORD girlfriend!” and PRESUMABLY we wont base those standards on some RIDICULOUS 1950's cost-of-living....right? 

Wrong.

Unfortunately, the government doesn’t take into account that it is 2012, and that the cost of living where I live (rent is about 1/2 to 2/3 my income), gas prices to commute to work because I can't afford to live close to my job (WTF, $5 a gallon?), repairs to my ten-year-old car (double-WTF, $4,000?), and the fact that I have a penchant for adopting elderly, infirmed dogs requiring expensive veterinary treatment.  Basically, I cannot afford my life.  I can either continue to live independently and accrue a ridiculous amount of debt, or I can swallow my pride and accept help.

Soooo….off I go to Mom and Dad’s house. 

I don't know what I'm really trying to say here, except that the subtext to my blog title is now, sort of...misleading.

Rest assured, there will still be "ramblings and nonesense"...OBVIOUSLY, because that's how I roll, y'all.....only soon it will come from my childhood bedroom.  Which, i think, is even WORSE.

The good news (for you, anyways) is that this should result in far more dysfunction hilarity than when I was living in my sister’s backyard (for reasons that should soon be obvious). 

T-minus 30 days and counting.  Wish me luck people…or nobody since my readership is, like, zero. Whatever, I'm not picky.

Dear Universe

Apparently, I have offended you.

Was it my insistence on continuing to eat bacon after joining PETA? 

Have you ever had bacon?  It’s pretty tasty. 

Maybe it was the time I peed in the ocean and thus unknowingly contributed to its ongoing acidification?    

I think maybe you’re being a little too picky.

Love,

Mary