Live together, die alone.

Epic fail. I lost my chapstick between the seats in the car.

For the amount to times I've entered a bathroom stall with no toilet paper, you'd think I'd check. But I don't. Sheesh.

Went swimming, arrived wearing my swimsuit and brought a change of clothes for the day. Forgot underwear.

Chrispy chicken strips and a giant pile of fries, out of ketchup.

I'd never survive on the island.

Promises, Promises

It turns out I was right, of course, about this blog. I started it with good intentions, but forgot about it much like I thought I would. However, and I say this lightly, I received an iPad on vacation visiting my family and have decided to try writing and updating my blog more often. Again, who knows how long this will last, but I owe it to myself to try. My goal is to write SOMETHING everyday. Either about the events of the day, as I often find myself surrounded by hilarity and chaos, or something I'm thankful for, or something cynical, the kind of writing I do best. Of course I don't expect everything to be witty or brilliant, although it will be. And no one will read it, which is already a shame. But at least I'll finally do something I said I'd do. It'll be like in the movie Julie and Julia, only this story doesn't end with Julia Child calling me a bitch. Because she's dead.

The Car Capsule, or The Reason You're a Douche

I've never been one to marvel at a nice car. I mean sure, I notice a sharp looking classic every now and then, but my idea of the greatest car ever is a Toyota Prius, safety problems and all, I want one like Veruca Salt wanted that goose who laid golden eggs.

I am currently driving my 2002 Honda Civic, Oscar, into the ground at record speed. I've maybe washed the car twice since I've driven it off the lot, and the undercarriage plastic protector thingy (that's the official name of the part) is being held up with a combination of duct tape and zip ties. It's a vivid picture of how much I just don't care about my non Prius.

Living in Los Angeles, I see a lot of people who carry strange love for their cars. Fresh wax jobs, tops down, shiny and perfect, just like the plastic men and women driving inside them. They take care to make sure everyone knows they are certifiably cool in their sweet rides. As if listening to their music as they pull up behind me isn't bad enough, now I can spot these assholes from the glare I get glistening off their protector shields as they're parked.

What am I talking about? Today I saw an advertisement for The Car Capsule. The world's answer to the question: How can I make myself appear douchier?


I know it must be so difficult to keep your car spotless every moment of the day, I mean God forbid you get a fingerprint on the pristine paint job of your vehicle as I'm sure you wear gloves just to open the driver's side door. But is this thing necessary?

Don't get me wrong, I probably would have loved this as a kid. I mean, come on, I'm pretty much having a silent nerdgasm imaging I was on the Starship Enterprise putting up my shields against the Klingon ships. But the truth of the matter is, no matter how badly I might want to crawl inside and act out my fantasy, you probably can't inflate this with a person inside of it.

So folks, not only is this a real thing, it's a thing that just screams out what kind of asshole you really are. A huge one. It's a bubble, like the reality you live in. It's full of air, like your giant skull cavity where your tiny little brain floats around. It takes up space, much like you do in this universe. And we could all do without it.

The only thing this capsule is going to do is give me another step in the process of keying the words Douche Nozzle into your side panel. And frankly, I never mind a little extra work.