The last one

I am so tired of the self-congratulatory, "I am so perfect at life, I shit pink marshmallows", diarrhea posts on blogs and facebook. And if it isn't that, it's "Oh please, please, please feel sorry for me, but /humblebrag/ I'm making it through, somehow....siiiggghhh." Vomit. Retch. Puke.

It's gotten to the point where I can barely stand to open my computer for anything other than work or personal emails with friends and family.

You know, my apartment is overrun with dishes, plastic bottles, clutter and even a bag of rotting garbage. My refrigerator has ancient food stains and remnants crusted all over the shelves. The carpet is stained, moldy and burned in places. Our furniture is a bunch of hand-me-down crap that has been pissed on and chewed on by innumerable dogs since its creation in 1983.

I wear the same old, stained, and unfashionable clothes every day. I'm trying to lose weight for this wedding, but my life is so stressful, it is almost impossible for me to do anything to counteract the fat. Plus, in the back of my mind, I have this crazy-shit idea that the wedding is about love and commitment, not pant size. Even with almost constant exercise, I can barely lose a couple of pounds.

I'm working on a degree (and have been for three years) that makes me want to travel back in time and beat the living shit out of myself for ever considering it. I've been in college since 2005 and I am thoroughly indoctrinated in a system that has left me--at the end of this seven year stretch--feeling less than human; like a wet dog turd.

All I really want at the end of the day is to see my cat. But thanks to the ass plugs in this town, I can't even have that.

But I make no pretenses. Let it be said, I don't get on the Internet and pretend. I don't act like my home is some Martha Stewart magazine spread. My blog posts don't depict some fake WASP-y bitch who spends her time shopping and working some token job, all while staying miraculously petite (so superior). I don't post constant photos of myself all over the Internet, trying *without really trying, of course* to get lots of my "FACEBOOK FRIENDS ZOMG" to comment on my ethereal beauty, bottomless charm and "LOVING GIVING INTELLIGENT FUN BEAUTIFUL personality WOWEEEE!!!!" I don't need constant validation, especially the kind that comes from trying to make other people feel bad about themselves. Because guess what? That's the worst possible kind of person you can be. And the Internet and my life seem to be overrun with these people.

Real life isn't wrapped in some pretty little package with a dollop of sugar on top (wow you're SO CREATIVE)

Real life smells like shit and burns like hell and makes you want to rip your eyeballs out of their sockets. Real life hurts and real problems are not easily fixed with the flick of some privileged wrist.

But to hear life told on the Internet, "I totally found the cutest, most meaningful saying on Pinterest the other day wow here let me post it on facebook life is so good I am just so perfect I never complain and I never use punctuation because all I have is my oh so special high school diploma but I'm still just naturally really smart can't you tell and here's that saying it says "life is so fucking great you're so lucky and so am I oh gee I just know God is smiling down on me right now as I read this and he thinks I'm just so special because I evangelize and I had a baby or 10 before the age of 30 and you're going to hell ha ha ha and oh look there's a rainbow ahhhh or the opposite (though really so incredibly similar) I'm so smart because I'm anti-God wow isn't that super cool I'm ORIGINAL NOT RELIGIOUS yay!!!!!!!!!!!!!! SMART PERSON OVER HERE!!!And I know PAWL-EH-TIX cause this one time I listened to NPR, fuck I'm so smart it hurts! WHY AM I NOT PRESIDENT??!!!"

I just can't take it anymore. I can't take the fake nice shit. I can't take the fake humble shit. I can't take the bitchy shit. I can't take the back-stabbing shit. Just fuck it all. And anyone who doesn't like it can certainly stop reading right now and kiss my ass.