This last week and half I've been sacrificing my brain cells and my dignity in order to save the world. That's right I've been reading Greg Behrendt's completely unresearched self help books "He's Just Not That Into You" and "It's called A Break-up Because it's Broken." I read these books so you don't have to. And you shouldn't. I feel my life and my writing has suffered. Two weeks ago when I was reading Tom Stoppard plays this blog was the touchstone of funny. Now look at it. I barely can compose sentences.
Since I began reading these books the subway has never been more scary. I fear the other communters might notice what I'm reading and throw me off the train. Last night a homeless man who had no shoes saw what I was reading and he got up and moved to the end of the subway car.
Greg is very condescending. He keeps calling the reader a superfox. Greg has never met me. I live with me and have lived with me for over 29 years every single day. I'm here to tell you I'm not a superfox and unless you mean super angry like a fox being chased by British fox hunters. I am not a superfox, nor am I superdeformed nor do I have a super birthmark on my face. I am just a lady living in Brooklyn who prefers baggy jeans but doesn't own a pair anymore.
The self help book should be called, "He's Broken that's Why You Just so Into Him." I love myself a broken man. One who is so awkward, shy and self loathing he can't possibly judge me for my faults. Sure I think I deserve better, but I don't want to be better. Unfortunately, broken men are just as judgemental as hot men who have their shit together.
I have to go bed. My point is I'm reading crappy pop psychology written by some stand-up comic and his wife all so that in 2007 I can rip the whole ridiculous philosophy a new asshole. Yeah, where's the self help book for that pathology?
Since I began reading these books the subway has never been more scary. I fear the other communters might notice what I'm reading and throw me off the train. Last night a homeless man who had no shoes saw what I was reading and he got up and moved to the end of the subway car.
Greg is very condescending. He keeps calling the reader a superfox. Greg has never met me. I live with me and have lived with me for over 29 years every single day. I'm here to tell you I'm not a superfox and unless you mean super angry like a fox being chased by British fox hunters. I am not a superfox, nor am I superdeformed nor do I have a super birthmark on my face. I am just a lady living in Brooklyn who prefers baggy jeans but doesn't own a pair anymore.
The self help book should be called, "He's Broken that's Why You Just so Into Him." I love myself a broken man. One who is so awkward, shy and self loathing he can't possibly judge me for my faults. Sure I think I deserve better, but I don't want to be better. Unfortunately, broken men are just as judgemental as hot men who have their shit together.
I have to go bed. My point is I'm reading crappy pop psychology written by some stand-up comic and his wife all so that in 2007 I can rip the whole ridiculous philosophy a new asshole. Yeah, where's the self help book for that pathology?
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