The man in slush-dirtied Kenneth Cole knock-offs trudged through the industrial park. The Cup O’ Noodles clutched in his angry, defeated, ashamed, rueful hand followed. Or something to that Stephen King’s The Gunslinger series effect.
Archive for the ‘LOOK AT ME!’ Category
This post should be an interesting attempt to relay an uncomfortable yet amusing incident whilst still maintaining an a modicum of respect towards the setting. Hopefully, this won’t come off as “yah, so we were at that Nazi place in DC and these bitches…” Knowing me, it probably will. Alas!
The other Mr. Harvey and I were in DC to celebrate his 40th birthday at the beginning of this month. He’s not one for big parties where people look at him (that was actually a concern he voiced once…people looking at him…when he doesn’t have his hijab on) so we thought a quick jaunt somewhere fun would be keen. Plus, we’re both currently unemployed (we’re the American nightmare) and had the time laying around and look, Jet Blue has a deal! Cherry blossoms and new bars in which to get intoxicated and new sidewalks to stumble upon while drunkenly abusing Uber!
Despite it being a birthday trip, there were some tourist attractions we had wanted to see that weren’t exactly going to be the ball pit at Chuckie Cheese (that’s not a gay sex reference). We had both heard that the main exhibit at the Holocaust Museum was a sobering must-see. We got our tickets online for our 1st day there so we could get the horror portion of the other Mr. Harvey’s birthday out of the way.
It’s an interesting space. I wouldn’t call it pleasant because it’s designed to evoke concentration camp imagery with a lot of brick and exposed girders. Another interesting feature? The staff, for the most part, are made up of some really extreme personalities. Most of the service industry members we encountered in our nation’s capital that trip were really friendly, laid-back and warm. I’m not sure why, but most of the staff at the Holocaust Memorial were WROUGHT. Witness our first exchange with the female human that womans the entrance elevators to the main exhibit.
We make our way in-between her velvet ropes (that came out dirty) but Scotty has us pause so we can call up our tickets on his phone. Please note in advance that there is no line behind us or in front of us. At that moment it’s just the Harveys. My husband has been searching and scrolling for maybe two seconds when she attacked.
Holocaust worker: Tickets?
Husband: Just calling them up on my phone here…
Holocaust worker (perhaps she didn’t hear him?): I said, do you have tickets?
Me: He’s just getting them on his phone.
Holocaust worker: Well, maybe you should move over there to find them so you’re not blocking the way, ok?
I look behind me and note the absence of any other people behind us. Just some velvet ropes. Air. Is this a fire exit? My husband, who does not suffer being spoken down to by fools, bitches, or maniacs, jerks his head up from his phone. Sometimes I feel like there’s a rubber band stretched to its extreme in his brain. That rubber band is marked “JUST TRY IT, BITCH.” I myself loathe confrontation. I’m the shrinking violet who nervously laughs when he forgets to hold a door for someone AND RUNS BACK TO DO IT because I want them to know I didn’t do it out of spite. It makes me look like a wackjob but it’s all designed to not get a dirty look or have anyone think “remember that asshole who didn’t hold the door for me at the mall” before they fall asleep that evening.
“I’M CALLING IT UP RIGHT NOW,” he said in a slow, emphatic tone. Oh dear. Before Officer Friendly could ignore that and ask for tickets again in a disgusted monotone, they popped up on his phone. She waved us through towards a bank of elevators with a chubby, indifferent hand. Another holocaust worker shot out of nowhere with blond curls and a peppy demeanor. She was the radiant ying to ticket bitch’s yang. You would have thought she was seating us at a Disneyworld character breakfast. She had obviously never read up on XYKLON-B or what they were making the lampshades with in Nazi Germany.
We were put in an elevator with a large, equally happy family. Mom was smiling widely as they bantered. She was standing directly in front of the elevator’s panel of buttons. Smiling. No button was pressed. Nothing was lit up. Nothing was moving. A couple of dreary pics of German soldiers added to my discomfort from above. Do I…move her? What do I say? Can I get in there? What if she thought I meant her ass? Her ass was almost ON the panel. NOTHING WAS HAPPENING. WE WEREN’T MOVING. There’s no switch outside they can press? It’s hot in here. They’re talking like it’s fine. Is this like the Haunted Mansion and we’re actually going down but it’s so mechanically deft we can’t feel it? Scotty didn’t notice. He’s looking at his phone and reading the walls. Swiss Family Oblivious are laughing and chatting like it’s the cherry blossom festival. THERE’S GONNA BE FOOTAGE OF EMACIATED CORPSES BEING MOVED OFF OF TRUCKS WITH PITCHFORKS ON THE OTHER SIDE OF THOSE DOORS. I HAVE TO GET OUT OF HERE. I made my move.
“Can I…” I advanced towards Denim Elevator Panel Ass, weakly pointing behind her. She looked at me, and then turned to see why I was invading her space. Her mouth opened wide and she began giggling.
“Oh! OH! We were just sitting here! I’m sorry!”
“Way to go, Mom!”
I smiled nervously (“Oh, that,’s ok!’ I shrieked), sweat beads barreling down my ivory expanse of a 10-head. Social anxiety is the fucking worst. Button pressed. Nothing happened.
Nothing happened. We were in a hot elevator with nothing happening. They didn’t even give us a button light for assurance. Was this part of the show? That’s fine, we deserved to suffer. We deserved a portly ticket taker making us feel stupid. We didn’t go through what all those people went through. We deserve to sweat and feel awkward in this hell-avator.
The doors sprang open. Cool air rushed in. The happy Holocaust worker regarded us quizzically. Blonde curls bounced as she cocked her head to the side like a curious toy poodle.
“Well, um, wait? What happened?”
“I guess we weren’t going anywhere…” Denim Elevator Panel Ass Mom offered helpfully. Happy went to get Grumpy. She waddled over with a ring of keys and her usual stank face. Resentfully flipping open a little door on the panel, she shoved a key in, and pressed the button again with a girthy finger.
“This breaks…,” she announced moodily to no one in particular. She was never one for an apology.
The doors shut, the floor shook and hydraulics hummed. Up.
So I see a therapist on the regular. I’ve been through maybe…five(?)… since the mid-90s. There have been some good ones that should be credited with my continued existence, and a couple of “eh” ones that ended up just being amusing anecdotes from my past. The following is about one of those.
While working in Wakefield for a number of years, I began seeing a gay male psychologist in not-even-nearby Beverly. Therapy wasn’t going well. Mainly because I wanted to sleep with my therapist. He was a burly salt-and-pepper sort who constantly wore snug trousers that highlighted his broad buttocks and he would laugh at my jokes with a boyish giggle that sent me (and my genitals) swooning. Our arrangement wasn’t very therapeutic. This became evident during one session when he confessed that he had “trouble being professional” around me. Oh, good. Like I inspire you not to do your job? I’m too far gone to take seriously? People wonder why I drink so much.
But I liked being a patient that he looked forward to seeing, even if it was just because I was an extra amusing part of his day. Being the class clown makes me feel like I have a reason for being around. That feeling was one of the reasons why I was IN therapy. So you see the cyclical dilemma I was experiencing with this therapist.
My attraction to this dude grew more and more. I started to seriously debate whether I could land him or not, and then thought about what a special moment that would be in my life. Torrid! And seedy when you think about it. I would be the wanton slut who caused a man to defy the Hippocratic Oath just so he could show me what those trousers were holding so snugly. It didn’t help that, back at the office, more than a few co-workers told me that they had crushes on their own therapists. So it was an office full of neurotics that were all fantasizing about nailing their shrinks. Our Christmas parties were legend.
My crush on my therapist, and the perceived sexual tension between us, was slashed to ribbons one day when he called me fat. He didn’t just come out and say “you’re fat.” And he didn’t try to broach the subject in a therapeutic, counseling-type manner. It was something he had been secretly thinking and that he accidentally blurted out.
He was leading me through guided meditation, designed to relieve stress and be “in the now”.
Shrink: Your eyes are closed. Now take some deep breaths. Hear the sound of my voice. Follow what I say.
Shrink: Picture a ball of light. It’s warm and comforting. It starts at the tip of your toes. It moves across them, taking away all your stress, all your pain. Now it’s rising and moving slowly and gently over your feet. It’s healing light absorbs all the fatigue, and all the negativity. Now it’s reached your ankles. You can feel the light reflecting upwards. It’s so soothing and warm. You’re beginning to feel totally relaxed and at peace. Now it’s going past your calves and it’s reached your knees, healing as it goes. Absorbing all the tension. Now it’s at your big thighs…
Me: *my eyes popped open* WHAT? Did you say ‘big thighs’? *incredulous*
Shrink: Sorry! Sorry, just – I meant…your thighs…close your eyes again and let me guide you back…
I looked at him for a second. The sonofabitch was SMIRKING. He was blushing. But he was also SMIRKING. And then he gave that giggle again!
My eyes closed again, as he tried to talk me back into that halcyon meadow or whatever and the ball of light came back. But the ball of light was having an issue. The ball of light barely emitted a glow now BECAUSE MY THIGHS WERE TOO FUCKING FAT TO ALLOW IT TO CAST ANY LIGHT ON THE REST OF MY BODY. This bitch just threw shade at my fat legs! I didn’t feel at peace. I felt betrayed! He was looking at my thighs and thinking “damn, he’s got some pudge on those ham hocks” and then accidentally said it!
I decided then and there that I would no longer be utilizing his services. And that his buttocks were not “broad” but “fat, fatter than the fattest things!”
Now I only see lesbian therapists. They could give a shit if I’m fat or not. Or if they do, they’ve got the internal editor switched on to “THINGS NOT TO TELL HIM”.
I’m clinically depressed, and I also have an anxiety disorder. I’m not whining. Just saying. Had it for most of my life. It ain’t going away. Survivors of childhood cancer, gay men, and children of alcoholics are prime for this sort of thing, and I’m all three. Anyway, I’m fine. I take meds, and I talk to someone, and I stick around and try to stay on top of it. It’s kinda all you can ask of me. I’m resigned to the fact that it’s not going anywhere.
Two things that make it worse:
1) Guilt about it. “It makes me a pussy, it’s all just excuses on my part to not excel at life, I’m a coward, I’m weak, etc.”
2) Anger. If it had physical symptoms, I feel like it would have less of a stigma. I don’t talk about it much with friends cuz’ there have been times when I’ve felt looked down upon by them over it. So I shut up about it and keep making jokes.
This is Hyperbole and Half. She’s an artist/blogger who had an awesome blog of drawings that poked fun at life. Then she vanished. She came back with this. Holy shit. I don’t know what else to say. She knows me. I want everyone in my life who knows me to fucking read this because now you know me. Well, a big part of me. And even if you shrug and don’t believe it or understand it, it’s ok. At least I’ll know you know now and can never say you don’t.
“GGGFAAOWWNNUUHHH!” is roughly the sound that issued from me before my face smacked directly on to the sidewalk.
I went DOWN. DOWN DOWN. As if poleaxed! If you translated that sound, it would come out to be:
“WHY THE FUCK ARE MY ARMS NOT COMING UP TO PROTECT MY FACE? THIS IS GOING TO HURT! I AM GOING TO HURT MY FACE! THIS IS TERRIFYING! TERRIFYING!”
As I lay there stunned, not even in pain yet, I heard two cars pass me. Two cars. Neither of them slowing. There’s a man lying facedown on a sidewalk in broad daylight. And not in the sort of area where people lying facedown on the sidewalk (whether dead, dying, high, drunk, lazy, or just plain fatigued) is a common occurrence. And he’s hoping to hear someone’s power window slide down and a tentative, hoping-to-hell-he-answers-in-the-affirmative-because-we’ve-got-little-Shenandoah’s-soccer banquet-to-go-to voice ask if he’s alright. Nope. Two cars drove by. “What’s that man doing?” “Bleeding dear. Take a pic and Facebook it.”
When I took my face off the cement and noted the pretty drops of blood that were starting to pepper the sidewalk, I was pretty scared. I didn’t have a compact in my purse, so I had no idea of just how bad the damage was. Had my nose been reconfigured and pushed to the side? Was my eye hanging out? I could have answered that one for myself because my vision was fine. What little deductive reason I possess tends to fly away in the face of sheer panic. And my teeth – were my teeth all there? I know people with gaps in their teeth. People automatically assume you watch Duck Dynasty when you have one of those.
The worst part of it, after all was said and done, was that my husband was at the movies. With the car. And I was two blocks from our apartment. And I looked like Bloody Face, I assumed. I was able to deduce that from the pain and the blood. From my face.
Alone. I was utterly alone. No cars had stopped and I probably had a skull fracture and part of my brain was probably leaving (I hadn’t seen it on the sidewalk yet, but who knows – maybe it had fallen into a shrub or something) and I had to walk home alone.
I took my hoodie off, and held it to my face like people do when they’re trying to prevent smoke inhalation. I was trying to prevent unnerving people. Which is odd seeing as I was still resentful about the TWO CARS THAT DROVE BY, PROBABLY SAW A MAN LYING FACEDOWN ON A SIDEWALK, AND KEPT DRIVING TO SHENANDOAH’S SOCCER BANQUET.
It was a long two blocks. I passed three people. One was a small Asian woman. One was a young white man getting into a car that had been idling waiting for him. And one was an older white gentleman walking a dog. Apparently they had been invited to Shenandoah’s soccer banquet as well. Cuz’ not one of those assholes asked me if I was ok. And the sweatshirt wasn’t covering all the damage. That patch on my forehead you see is post-initial clean-up. It was bleeding pretty heavily at first. So the three people who saw me would have been able to see THE BLOOD STREAMING DOWN MY FOREHEAD. Wow, that must have been some fucking soccer banquet. Maybe they had a DJ.
What did people think I was doing? Converting to Muslim but had gotten confused about which gender wears the niqab? A stupid Muslim who was gender transitioning and couldn’t work her niqab correctly? Concerned about the smog levels in Quincy, MA? Really?
Now that I look back, I honestly think the general public’s apathy towards my plight had something to do with the marathon bombing. It was probably a case of “Look, guy. We’ve all had enough of the death and maiming and we’re trying to get back to normal. Can you swing this one on your own? KTHANKSBAI.” So the One Fund won’t be supporting my recovery. I’m ok with that.
The only damage I really did was give myself a non-displacing fracture in my nose. Which means I broke it but not in the way where you need surgery to point it back in the right direction. This is good news, because I have that modeling career to get back to and Ford Models demands that your nose go in the right direction or you can kiss that Marie Claire cover goodbye, darling.
My face hurts.
“DUDE FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK DUDE!”
“FUCK FUCK FUCK DUDE FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK!”
“DUDE DUDE DUDE DUDE FUCK FUCK FUCK!”
That’s how their conversation initially sounded to the person unschooled in “young douchebag.” Eventually I and the other spectators who were just trying to mind our individual business while waiting for our rides were able to figure out that someone gave someone a dirty look. A girlfriend might have been involved? Pinhead #1 was white and short. Pinhead #2 was perhaps Filipino(?) and short. I say “Filipino” because he had brown skin and Asian features. I am a close-to-middle aged white woman and I have next to no clue how to discern between certain ethnicities. White people in America are clueless. There’s guilt about it. To be frank, there’s not so much “guilt” as there is “fear of being found out as ignorant.” Yes, I worry about these things.
Pinheads #1 and #2 did a lot of literal chest thumping, I noticed Pinhead #2 still had one earbud in. Was he being coached? It’s like Cyrano De Roxanne!I need to completely remove my ear buds when I speak to people, and when I order at Dunkies so I am sure to SCREAM at the counter person without meaning to.
The threats and dialogue got increasingly more amusing. It was confirmed by the smirks and chuckles of the two other young men trying to separate them.
“Dude, you wanna fucking go? You wanna fucking go?”
“I’ll fucking slap you, man.”
“You’re gonna stab me? YOU’RE GONNA STAB ME, MOTHERFUCKER?!?!”
I’ve never seen someone get so enraged by thinking someone threatened to stab them. Most people would just run, or find a brick, or call a cop. Pinhead #1 began clawing at the neck of his t-shirt, and flexing his (sub-standard) muscles. It reminded me faintly of Randy “Macho Man” Savage, a former WWF (that’s what they called it back then) wrestler whom I used to watch as a child and thrill to his weird speech intonations when I wasn’t staring at spandexed man ass and pretending to care about champion belt match outcomes.
There’s more –
I’m toying with blogging again. I’ve had lots of therapy. Hopefully my block is cleared. I’m just not sure what to write about. Little vignettes about my day? Even typing that made me want to shear off my face with something sharp. Posts about my hatred of things? I could write about celebrity bullshit, but did you guys know Michael K. at DListed hired me out of the blue to cover for him when he’s got the clap and it’s affecting his laptop? How fucking huge was that for my ass? So whenever there’s a holiday or he has a flare-up, it looks like I’ll be over there handling famous douche. I hope. FUCK, what if he decides I suck? That last thought was why I see a therapist once a week. Anyway, thay was a fucking dream come true. And ironic, seeing as in the post where I closed this blog, I noted that he was a way better writer than I am. Still true, but if you can’t beat em – beat them off.
I could post secrets people told me, but thinly veil them. SHROUD THEM. So “fucked his husband” becomes “got that used on Craigslist.”
The posts about what I saw on the T were pretty popular. But now I pay for parking. Did you guys know I work with my future husband…
OH SHIT, THIS COULD BE A TOTALLY BORING BLOG ABOUT HOW I’M GETTING MARRIED IN OCTOBER. It could be like one of those bride blogs where I tell you about how the sand in that centerpiece was imported from Revere Beach. Smokin’ butts. Tannin’.
I need to keep my peabrain busy, so I guess I’ll just post about whatever strikes my fancy. Here’s where I make a promise to myself (I PROMISE TO TRY, BUT IT FEELS LIKE A LIE. I still think Like A Prayer is her best album.) to post once a week. HAHAHAHHAHAHAHAH. That’ll happen.
Has anyone had Mrs. Fields cookies that come individually wrapped in a box. Shit, those are good.
I need a new banner. I am taking submissions.
This one was actually pretty short but it bears writing about.
The Dancer. Youth, early 20s. White sweatshirt, designer jeans, black plastic sneakers. Braids.
In The Moment. Youth, early 20s. Black hoodie. What looks like harpoons in his face.
The Dancer boards, holding on the pole to the left of me. He has ear buds in, and it is loud enough to hear the hip-hop joint that he begins DANCING to. Not crazy-ass dancing (I once saw a girl in NYC do a pole dance to the music only she could hear on her iPod, it’s one of my favorite NYC moments) but there is some bobbing, some ass action, and some challenging an imaginary adversary to a dance-off on the floor. Except we’re on an inbound MBTA car, son. Oh, and did I say the adversary was imaginary? Not anymore!
In The Moment boards. He looks like he has seen the other side and it’s not exactly halcyon up in there. His handheld device is BLARING some kind of combination nu-metal/rap concoction. Worse than say Linkin Park or Korn (is that possible?). He is without ear buds, he is just LISTENING to his phone play shitty music. And making the rest of us do the same. My morning trip to Venice (I finally got around to reading The City of Falling Angels by John Berendt) has been ruined. The city has already been sunk for me.
The Dancer (still dancing) dances to the other side of the car, directly opposite In The Moment. Their eyes lock. It’s a spaghetti western. Correction, it’s an asshole western. In The Moment closes his eyes tightly, brings the handheld device (still blaring “You Thought Metal Was Bad But We Added Shitty Rapping To It” by Suck) to his chin and freezes. He is In The Moment. He is lost in shredding guitar riffs and bellowing. The Dancer begins to bump his ass against the doors directly behind him, angry that In The Moment has chosen passive resistance. He wants to throw down, but what he doesn’t get is that In The Moment IS throwing down. Because this music is SO good he simply has to FEEL it. The Dancer puffs his chest out and club steps in place.
Is this the shitty remake of Fame? Is this a fucking Droid commercial? Can they tie their wrists together and knife fight and do us all a favor and hit the right artery at exactly the same moment? At least Scott Pilgrim had cool effects during this scene and Allison Pill on drums!
This is not your performing arts high school! It’s really loud on this fucking train now! This is not the dorm or your living room. People have books and ear buds for a reason so everyone can keep whatever they’re into to their goddamn selves. This is Boston. People’s lives shouldn’t get splashed all over each other! No one wants this. This is not a rebellion, these are challenged people!
Anyway – no one won. In fact, I think we all lost a little this morning.
The only way I can forgive audible music on the subway is if it’s coming out of a boom box that lights up and it’s 1983 and someone’s named Lazer.
You might have to go to the club yourself, wearing some Affliction and Ed Hardy mess, doing cartwheels while baring your vagine and pounding the ground like an ape in heat, because Season 3 of Jersey Shore has stopped filming. Bump-Its don’t come cheap, bitch! Who’s gonna put herp in the jacuzzi now? *crestfallen*
Filming of the third season of Jersey Shore has come grinding to a halt due to a strike! Snookie‘s doing some Norma Rae shit! Picture her goblin ass up on a workbench, holding a UNION sign! And then eating a pickle. TMZ says that the cast are demanding more money per episode.
The cast was supposed to begin shooting “at home” scenes today for season three, but we’re told JWoww, Ronnie, Sammi, Pauly D and Vinny — who are spread out between New York and Rhode Island — told the crews they weren’t shooting without new contracts.
The Situation and Snooki are supposed to shoot tomorrow, and we’re told Snooki plans to do the same
But wait, did you know that MTV considers jerky-bodied The Situation to be the the show’s breakout guido? They offered him some sort of secret contract to secure his Axe-smelling self in the MTV corral. Uh, hello….there’s a tiny pumpkin-faced ankle biter who is CLEARLY shining brighter than the sun in that house!
According to the proposed deal, MTV is offering Mikey a one-time bonus for the impending Season 2 in Miami, ranging from $60,000 to $180,000, depending on ratings.
Word is that one of the coverboys of New York magazine’s “Queer” issue (hee) will snatch $27,500 to $45,000 an episode for Season 4. Right now, all these bitches only make 10K. “Only.” What am I saying? Hell, pay me $100 an episode to go down to the club with a blowback and a fake bake and act gross and I’d do it. It’s open bar, right? I can get into a tube dress and do midget ninja cartwheels while men throw beer at my nethers!
The Situation hasn’t accepted this deal yet, according to TMZ.
Does this mean that when the rest of the trogs find out The Situation is clearing more cash than them, they are going to turn on each other and there’s going to be tanning grease and blood all over the duck phone? Hopefully.
And I know she’s only a mean teen, but I think Ashley is the worst. Anyway, so the other night Bravo showed the eagerly awaited part 2 to the fashion show/country club/my Chinchilla mini-jacket from Paterson, New Jersey is waiting to kill you, Danielle, you BITCH! episode of The Real Housewives of New Jersey. And shit was effed up!
It was sort of everything you pray for in a gross reality show about plastic-faced, aging narcissists. You had broken heels, hair-pulling, screaming, running, big-haired women mourning the death of class, crazy women who go to “energists” taking refuge in Bentleys, really weird hairlines (what is going on with Teresa‘s hair? I won’t ask her personally because she’s from Paterson, did you know she was from Paterson?), snotty mean teens getting wet over discovering that becoming the villainess on a reality show is way better than being Homecoming Queen, and why being being called “honey” is better than being called “bitch.”
Anyway, I’m thinking that the producers have these tricks blow a couple of rails before having the Kim Twins wrangle their asses to the same events and then they let the fur, er, the extensions, fly.
And I know none of it is actually really “real.” Teresa knows that if she plants her Chinchilla mini-jacketed ass outside in the foyer waiting for Danielle to walk by so that the blood games can begin, she will surely get re-signed for next season. The two Kims know if they stage a fashion show, and play both sides, and have fuck hair (did you see the hair on Danielle’s primary Kim? What, did she let a train get run on her before the Posche show?), it could possibly result in becoming a main cast member next season. After all, they are out one Housewife! Hell, the Two Kims should get their own show! That Bethany slut over in NYC got hers and that show consisted of her raging at her mo’ wedding planner and shopping at Costco!
These women aren’t fools, they are business ladies, and they are getting theirs!
Danielle Staub seems to be the craziest, most paranoid middle-aged waspface ever to grace our screens, but she’s on the fast track to becoming a household name! Who else calls the cops when they break a heel and suddenly can not move or breathe after being yelled at after a country club (emphasis on “cunt”) fashion show? Perfection!
And that Ashley girl. Man, have you ever wanted to take off your evening glove, weight it with a brick, and smack a smug teen upside her nosejob? Ooo, Danielle and Teresa are just crazy, but this one is young and immature and thinks she’s Alexis Carrington. When in actuality, she’s attention-starved, sneer-faced imbecile trash (although, props for “un-beweave-able” – even her totally ineffectual mother smirked at that shit). When she was mouthing off to her parents at the end, I wanted her to experience Carrie’s mom, Joan Crawford, and the woman who drove her kids into the lake all at the same time. Can the guy who punched Snookie punch Ashley?
This show is actually so soul-deadening that it gives me chest pains after I watch it for too long. Considering all the bad press Joisee has gotten lately, how hasn’t there been a mass exodus? At this point I would lie and say I was from Cleveland.