It's all my fault
Back in the olden days, when people were on MySpace (pre-Facebook, I guess), I used to get drunk and communicate with people late at night on MySpace. It was easier to just send a line to your favorite celebrities, or at least B- to D-list celebrities. (The A-listers have people to do that, you know.)
I might've drunk a half bottle of rum, seen Kenny Chesney's "You Save Me" video and sent a message late at night to the actress who played his girlfriend, not only in the video but in real life as well. I don't remember the note verbatim, but the gist of it was that she seriously deserved an Academy Award to play his girlfriend in that video and pull it off, because, well, you know...
What brings all this up, anyhow? Well, that would be an email that I just got from something called Taylor Nation. I get these emails because of one of my late-night, drunken MySpace messages. You see, back in the day, I saw this young high school girl sing a song about Tim McGraw downtown, and I thought it was cute, so I decided to be her friend on MySpace. Well, little did I know that this young girl was about to be the biggest thing since sliced bread. But, she's also very famous for actually building her fan base by using the Internet to connect with them, which brings me to the next part of this story.
Back in the day, young Taylor was up for a best new artist award or something. It was fan-voted, and she sent out a message to all her MySpace peeps late at night from her tour bus in who-knows-where.
You see where this is going, right?
I was not only up to get the message, but I was drunk on MySpace AGAIN. So I voted for whatever it was, and then I sent her a message to let her know that I voted for her. No idea what I said to her or what she said back, but I do remember she signed her note, "XOXO, Tay-tay," and ever since I have gotten emails for the Taylor Nation. She used to send them herself, but now she has people. Of course, she probably also has people who wipe her ass with hundred-dollar bills, but that's a different story.
So, as I read today's note from Taylor Nation (which I can't bring myself to unsubscribe, even though I've sobered up and blame Taylor for about 85 percent of what is wrong with country music today), I realized that all the fame she has is partly my fault. If I'd never been drinking and voted for her for best new artist in the middle of the night all those years ago, who knows what the world might be like today.
I kind of miss MySpace. In many ways, it was a lot more fun and definitely a lot more drama-filled than Facebook. People were so passive-aggressive there. It entertained me. Facebook is like it's legit older cousin.
And, speaking of The Elf, I saw he had a new flavor with him at this year's CMAs. I wonder if she has a MySpace page, because I am positive she is an actress.
Song of the day: "Welcome to the Fishbowl" by ol' KC.
Hilarious
No more posts about online dating, at least until my blog stops coming up when someone Googles "men with tits."
Hilarious.
Tying up loose ends?
Every day, I am reminded that my heart is still a little
roughed up. I blame myself for most of it. For starting to fall in love with
you when I knew better, and for
pussy-footing around and not telling you how I felt until it was too late,
until you were gone.
I feel stupid that I felt that way about you, but I feel
even stupider (is that even a word?) that I can’t get over you, no matter how
hard I try. Albeit, how hard am I really trying since I have blamed your assholiness
on the entire male species?
Over and over in my mind, plays the scene of another
break-up. Where I drove off crying, while someone I loved stood in his driveway
and started to tear up, as well.
Maybe this is worse because I didn’t have that break-up
scene. I got a text basically telling me to stop texting, so that “little Miss
I love Google” wouldn’t ever find out that I’d texted. In some ways, I secretly
hope she’s reading this since she loves Google so fucking much. But, I haven’t
checked my visitor stats in weeks (yes, I know, bad blogger) so I couldn’t tell
you if she’s been here or not.
Usually my blog appears when you Google me, so
perhaps she has. However, as tempting as it may be, I have resisted the urge to
throw-down on the Internet with her. After all, it’s not her fault you’re an
asshole; and she’s the person who’s stuck with you. (It’s also not her fault
she looks like a dude, or maybe it is.)
That’s what I don’t get. You turned out to be a complete and
total son of a bitch. There is NOTHING else to describe someone who breaks up
with someone via text because they couldn’t go three days without knocking off
a piece and had to go crawling back to their ex-wife. NOTHING. Well, except maybe sex addict. Three days?
Pah-lease.
Oh, my point, before I went to Insultville? Oh yes, who the
hell gets upset when they get dumped by a complete and total son of a bitch,
even when it was right before her birthday? Perhaps that’s why I feel stupid
and pathetic.
The fact is, we clicked. Our relationship ended up being
something completely and totally different than what it started out to be
because we got along so well. But, of course, the ending was also completely
and totally different than it was supposed to be. Maybe I’m just mad because I’m
prettier and not a bitch and didn’t deserve to get dumped. Come to think of it, I rarely deserve to get
dumped, but what am I supposed to do about that?
Although…bitchy and whiny is really the theme to this little
rant of mine. But, this is my space; I am allowed to be bitchy and whiny here.
I have not been bitchy on any of your spaces, although in some ways I wonder if
I should’ve. One of my friends told me that he thinks that guys dump me because
they know I won’t all go all crazy ex-girlfriend on them. Maybe, just once, I
should. Maybe I should send you a bitchy text thanking you for letting me be a
pawn in your game, hoping she’ll snoop on your phone like she usually does.
But, no, for some reason I still want to spare your
feelings, even though you’ve obviously never given two shits about mine. I
guess that’s the difference between genuinely caring about someone and biding
your time until someone else smiles at you. And maybe that’s the difference
between her and me. She’s obviously put up with your shit much longer, and I
know from a quick glance at the Internet that the shit she puts up with has
been much worse than getting dumped at Disney World. (Although maybe she doesn’t
know, but she is a Googler, so I doubt it.) Even though it’s obvious that you
probably used me, it’s not like I didn’t benefit from it as well. At some
point, my having self-esteem probably would’ve been an issue. It always does with
guys who think the fat girl will take what she can get.
Funny, in writing this, it’s cleared up a lot of issues. I
guess that was the intent all along. While I have no intention of letting
another guy steamroll my emotions anytime soon, I suspect that I will live even
though you totally took the pussy way out. After all, who wants to go out with
a guy like that anyhow?
Song of the day: Whatever song would be the love child of an
Alanis Morrisette/Miranda Lambert hook-up.
Let’s call it “You oughta know I’m your crazy ex-girlfriend.” Ha ha ha.
