Why Try This At Home? It Won't Work.

So yesterday a coworker told me about a trick that tells you when you'll get married. You fill up a glass 1/2 way with water. Then take a chain, put a ring on it, and put it in the glass so the ring sinks. Then pull out the ring, leaving it directly above the water. The ring then starts to swing on the chain, and the number of times the ring dings on the glass is the age you'll be when you get married. After so many dings, the ring suddenly stops swinging. Make sense? Apparently she gets the same number everytime—31.

One of my top 3 fears is that I'll never fall in love. So I snag a whiskey glass, fill it 1/2 way with water and stick my class ring on a silver chain. I sink it, pull it out, and it never dings. I blow on it. It dings 5 times. I lose the class ring and snag a cheap silver ring. No ding. I put ice in the glass and try again. No ding. Either I'm retarded or I'm just never getting married. Perhaps I'm both retarded and destined to die alone. The bouquet I caught at last weekend's wedding was just a ploy to keep me hanging on to the hope that Mr. Tina S. is out there. Well I have news for you Miss Bouquet Tease. The ring didn't ding. So I just ate 1/2 a box of Thin Mints. Thank you, Girl Scouts.

Still Flying Solo

So I was being a total Drama Queen a few days ago, get over it. That's just me, so whatEV! I'm excited to fly home tonight. I just love airports. Along with my coffee shop fantasy, I have a fantasy about getting the good luck of snagging a seat next to a hot single guy with good taste in music. And we have a 3-hour flight with little-to-no turbulence to discuss why Jack Johnson is the best musician ever. And we play some video games on my portable Nintendo and oh! He just happens to live in Hoboken, too! Well, the prospect of it all is just v. exciting! That's why I never mark a seat preference on my e-ticket, even though I adore window seats. I want to leave it up to fate.

Where's Peter Pan when I need him?

Why...do we have to grow up and act professional? Why can't we just choose when to grow up? Why can't I just wear black nail polish to work if I want, what makes me too old to like pop punk? In the white collar world, why should I be asked to lose my personality? It's like...people just graduated from college, and now you have to be an adult. It's not weird that I have like, 30-year-old friends. No one asked me if this was OK! It's not OK!

Why did I deem it necessary to miss every Spring Break so I could work and save money? Why did I spend the summers slaving away in greasy, mediocre restaurants, instead of travelling abroad? I've never been to Venice. I had this stupid dream that things would be different in New York. Well they're different, but uh, better? No. Do I have anything to show for it? Mm, yeah but Ms.Honesty isn't that honest. Believe me, it's not like it's good or anything. And I don't give a crap if this makes no sense to any of you, or if it sounds like a fat pity party. I. Don't. Care. I only HATE writing in my personal journal b/c I hate writing. Like literal writing.

Do you ever just feel lower than low and then click through your phone, but you find that you have no one to call? See, usually when it comes to my problems, I'm a talker. Everyone knows about 'em. Ms. Honesty, right here. Well what do you do when you really find you have no one to call? At least no one you want to call. And the only book you have to read sucks, your eyes hurt from crying, and you can't eat ice cream because your tummy hurts. That poem you've started now sounds like crap because you find you're really not a poet, and you never really were. You find that the cover lines on the new Glamour are not appealing - "Help For Every Woman's Hair!" You don't feel like organizing your recipe box or crocheting a new scarf. You've lost 20 games of Snood and 17 games of Solitaire. You want to put off sleeping because you've been having scary dreams lately, and it's tiring. So what do you do? I guess just play 3 more games of Snood, 2 of Solitaire. Read a crappy chapter in the crappy book. And then go to sleep, and pray you don't dream. Just black empty sleep. For 8 hours. Only to wake up tomorrow and realize it was just a bad day. That's all.

Ms. Honesty. Right here.

F-You Forrest Gump. You and Your Box of Chocolates.

Life is kind of like an Armageddon game of Snood. You know you're going to die. Or drown. You know you're in over your head. Especially when you're about to hit brick wall, and you have a blue guy to shoot, but no pair of blue guys to shoot at. You know you're going to die. But you still keep trying.

Tina's Turning Point

Hmm, perhaps I'm at some sort of...turning point? I'm not sure. I'm 23, and I feel more self-assured than ever. I'm in love with my job, and for that, I feel immensely lucky. I work all day, rarely taking much of a lunch break, and I'm happy doing it. I'm fine with being single, and I've accepted my love handles...and my forehead wrinkles. I've grown attached to the chip on my tooth from junior year's tongue ring, and I don't mind the fact that I'm going to a BFF's wedding next weekend, sans a hot date. I don't give a pooh that the only rock star I ever dated dumped me after three weeks. (But I'm secretly happy that his band never made it.) I could care less that hot guys at bars hit on my practically-engaged roommate instead of moi. I have more good hair days than not, and my credit card debt has significantly decreased. I'm still a bad cook, and I like to sleep on weekends, but that's fine. I'm just ok with myself which is...weird. Maybe it's just a phase? What the F?

I mean, I am irritated that The Ex called four times last week, and he didn't call at all this week. I'm pissed that he didn't try to make out with me Friday night and pissed that he did Saturday night. Still no pleasing me there. So I'm flaky? That's ok. This is my turning point.