I'm Pretty Easygoing But You Don't Want To Make This Ginger Snap

You’re probably wondering why I’m here. You’re probably thinking I’m late to the blogger world and should have started this ten years ago. Well, guess what? Ten years ago I was an angsty, acne-studded teen reading The Perks of Being a Wallflower and watching Garden State on repeat and now I’m fucking bored. I’ve watched The Real Housewives of New York five times through this year and it’s only February. Also, I have a lot to say. I honestly don’t care if people read this or not, because I just need an online diary so the next time I go to the Apple store and the “genius” dismantles my hard drive I won’t lose every single FREAKING thing I ever wrote down. Although it would be dope if I could get enough foot traffic to attract advertisers so I could quit my job. If you would take a moment to picture the film, The Wolf of Wall Street, I can safely assure you that my job is the exact opposite. Jordan Belfort did a really nice job of lying to the masses because my dumbass thought investment banking would be filled with free food and drinks, strippers, and parties with Jonah Hill.

Anyway. If you’re questioning the title of this blog post, it’s meant to be my Real Housewives tagline. I, unfortunately, am not qualified to be on the Real Housewives. The only way I’d be qualified is if I invented a time machine, traveled back to 2015, and never parted ways with the m*n who drove me insane. I was unhinged. Similar to Kelly Bensimone in season three of RHONY, I was alone on scary island with no friends, but instead of going to sleep, I put on a frighteningly deranged show for those around me for three years. So, yeah. I would have made great reality TV. Now I often think I am the sanest person in the room. Maybe that’s why I love Bravo.

It’s Friday night (even though I am posting this on a Tuesday) and I have recently moved to San Fran for a man. I’m writing San Fran because every person who moves here and pretends to be from here feels the need to correct me. “It’s actually San Francisco. Or SF.” Scram, idiot. I don’t want anyone to think I am actually from here. I left New York and all of my friends and family and although I love the proximity to LA and Vegas, I now have no one to get a drink with after work. I don’t hate myself enough to go to the gym so here I am. I’m watching The Real Housewives of Orange County for the first time and drinking rose alone in bed. I’m on season three and after watching RHONY and Real Housewives of Beverly Hills, this shit is painful. It’s set in 2006 and looks like it was filmed on a camcorder. What’s up with this “Slade” man? What a disgrace. I know he’s not on the season I’m currently watching but I googled it and he returns. Fabulous. My New Year’s Resolution was to get through all of the Housewives, but I’m so tempted to just re-watch New York. Why am I even watching this without Dorinda? I also want to skip a few seasons because apparently Vicki Gunvalson helps her boyfriend fake cancer? Good lord lady. How desperate can one be?

I actually never watched reality TV until my best friend and my mom sat me down one day and forced me to watch Vanderpump Rules. They assured me that after I saw it I would be more like Stassi and dump the aforementioned m*n. When I met Stassi I told her this and I swear she teared up. I live and die for Pump Rules. I’ve been to SUR, I’ve eaten meals with Peter, I’ve gone to the premier parties, and I can recite every single episode from memory. Well, I’ve only been to one premier party, but it was the best night of my life. Schwartz gave me his sunglasses, Sandoval served me a drink, Stassi hugged me, and Jax told me he didn’t like clubbing. I cry when I think about it. Now I really wish I had that time machine.

So, anyway. Enjoy my thoughts. Post mean comments. I'll drink to that.