Of the 6,692,030,277 humans on Earth as of 2008, not one wants to share VD with me
I say “reader,” because at this point I’m certain I have only one, and it is I. And because I’m a newspaper copy editor and write grammatically correct phrases such as “it is I,” one reader may be my peak.
Nonetheless, I thought it would be fitting to launch my blog on the eve of the eve of quite possibly the most contrived day of the year. Of course, we all have shitty days. And sometimes, no matter how cautious we are about skirting food-borne pathogens, gulping the water in Tijuana or chowing down an entire two-pound bag of baby carrots during a cross-country drive, we have diarrhea days. But Sunday is the worst of the worst, the bottom of the barrel, the Ann Coulter of the calendar. We’re less than 48 hours away from February’s equivalent of fat blocker-induced anal leakage.
With antibiotics having been handed out willy-nilly for decades and rendered as ineffectual as Democrats trying to pass health-care reform while commanding a 58-41 majority in the Senate (seriously? seriously?), I just cannot get onboard with a “holiday” with the acronym VD. You know what’s turdier than having an Imodium moment? Chlamydia, is what.
And while we’re on the topic of crap, I, Jessica – a Boston spinster teetering dangerously close to 30 who prefers to keep company only with her two cats – intend to use this space to air ruminations on the everyday insanity of life, love and other topics I deem ruminatable.
In the spirit of transparency, I’ll confess my reasons for entering the blogosphere are fourfold:
- My boss Paul recently recommended I create a web site to chronicle my misadventures. A longtime sufferer of what can be described only as a mild form of Tourette’s, he randomly, loudly and indiscreetly announced to the otherwise dead-silent newsroom: “JESSISUNDATABLE. DOT COM!!!” However, I’ve thus far resisted learning HTML, even though my job might one day depend on it. And let’s just say, in the words of Larry David, I’ve no desire to be the master of my domain. Fortunately, WordPress doesn’t judge – and actually encourages – me not to be the master of my domain.
- A friend, who went on one non-date with me before declaring she’s head over heels for her not-so-long-lost ex, assured me if I expose my neuroses wit and charm to the masses, potential suitors will come knocking. I have my doubts.
- It’d be super awesome to put in minimal effort and somehow magically parlay this into a book deal. Sort of like how all Sarah Palin had to do pre-“Going Rogue” was beat, butcher and bury alive John McCain. Duh, geezers are easy targets. If by some stretch of the imagination you, fictional reader No. 2, happen to work in publishing AND are unattached, we have much to discuss. Unless you’re geriatric and I’ve offended you with talk of crimes against the elderly. Damn it.
- Saying the word “parlay” makes me feel très sophistiqué and Parisian. My knowledge of French is severely limited to three song lyrics (“la vie en rose,” “michelle, ma belle, sont les mots qui vont très bien ensemble,” “voulez-vous coucher avec moi ce soir?”). And unlike Patti LaBelle, Christina Aguilera, Pink, Mya and Lil’ Kim, I rarely have the opportunity to belt out the latter, because I am alone … with cats.