This is what I’m thinking when I’m not thinking about really important global issues and solving world poverty

I have been working towards an intense deadline this week, not leaving my cave of an apartment, not changing from my pajamas, and not cleaning the spilled coffee beans and Indian food delivery boxes scattered about my bed. I’ve pillaged my brain for words this week, and thus have none left to compile on this beautiful Blogger template. So let’s try something new. I’m going to write whatever comes to my mind. I’m just going to write and hit send. No morals or story lines or grammatical checks. Just do it. Written improv. It’s spontaneity firsthand, and I’m trying with all my life force to not be neurotic about it. Oh man, I’m so tired.

Please, add the very first thing that comes to your mind as well, and we shall sew together a quilt of inappropriate spontaneous stories for today’s society of voracious blog readers.

One.
I’ve used bad pickup lines in my life. When I was living in the trashy suburb of Addison (a la Jersey Shore), we’d go out to clubs and ask guys if they were Italian because, like Snooki, we too wanted to meet juiced up Guidos (True story. Sorry).
“Hey, nice tan and spiked hair. Are you Italian?”

But nothing beats the one I got recently from a man who could be my father:
“Oh, I see you rode your bicycle here. Was it a long ride?”
“About a mile.”
“Lucky bicycle.”
Um, I think he’s referring to my vagina, and I don’t want a man my father’s age referring to my vagina. I just don’t. Get my vagina out of your mind, sir. Please give it to an established thirty-year-old with dark hair and a sexy beard. Thanks.

Two.
I saw Eat Pray Love last week. I’ve always been jealous of that Gilbert bitch. ONE- Because that’s my story. I’m supposed to write that book. And TWO- Because that’s my story. I’m supposed to WRITE THAT BOOK.
Julia Roberts was a horrible casting choice. ONE- Because that’s my story and I’m supposed to be in that movie. And TWO– Because nobody believes that her skinny ass can’t fit into a pair of jeans when she ‘overeats’ in Italy. Right.

The real reason I call bullshit on that movie is the wardrobe. Come on. The chick never once repeated an outfit. You’re a backpacker, lady. You don’t have myriad shoes and tunics in your pack. You just don’t. You wear the same thing every day. I wore my Obama t-shirt so many times in so many countries that I alone am responsible for creating his global popularity.

Three
I really miss having an answering machine. Remember when you used to come home and be excited to hear who was thinking about you during that day? And then, if it was a really good message, you’d save the little tape to listen to later. I have a lot of little tapes. Anyone have a little tape player? Also, remember the radio?

Four
Why do people say they ‘lost’ someone when a person dies? “I lost my father in July.” Obviously, you weren’t that careful with him, so it’s kind of your fault. Pay attention to where you put your father, people.

Five
My friend was recently trying to sell me on the idea of spray tanning because ‘it makes you look skinny.’ So I got to thinking… Black people are lucky. Darker colors are automatically slimming. Think of how much fatter Oprah would look if she were white. Think about it… lucky! Black is the new Spanx.

Six
I recently went to a club. A club. I used to go to those back in aught ’98. I think I should probably write about that weird time in my life when I actually took the date rape drug on purpose and dated a drug dealer ten years older than I. Oh, hey mom. Did you know that guy was a drug dealer? Talk to you later. So now, in 2010, I went to a club again. Not to actually go clubbing, but to support a friend. Swear. It was filled with shirtless people and gyrations just like it was back in the day. Two men hit on our group of girls. One tried to get our numbers by bragging about how he makes $15 an hour. And the other tried to woo us with his specialty gloves. He had lights sewn into the tips of each finger so that he could mesmerize us with his jazz hands. He did jazz hands right in front of my face. And the only thing I could think was that I’m so glad I don’t go to clubs anymore. And that somebody out there who knows how to make gloves has a goal in life to make jazz hands cool again. You’re getting there, man. Great progress.

Seven
That hair I referenced here. It doesn’t bode well for folks who sit in one chair all week and can’t remember the last time one of their teeth was brushed. I’m gross. And crusty. And all of a sudden, I have an entire generation of geckos living atop my head. Itchy. Itchy. So itchy. Perhaps this is what water boarding feels like. I found three pens in there this week. And a few batteries. Also some Vick’s (i think. it was slimy and not in any kind of container), a glue stick, 43 paperclips, a bottle of absinthe, and one Venice homeless guy. So, fair warning: brush your weave. Most important lesson of the day, everyone. Brush your weave.

This is what’s in my brain today. I wish it were more than this. I wish that floating inside my head you’d find more facts about cheese and John Adams. Or witchery and secret political codes.

Alas, I’m shallow and unimportant. Like everyone secretly is.
What is in your brain?