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Do You See What You’ve Done, Lance Armstrong? It’s Not All About You.

Well, thanks Lance Armstrong and Te’o Guy Who I Never Heard of Before this Week.  You guys just totally ruined my chances of ever being published.

First of all, Armstrong completely derailed my own plans to take steroids (they boost your writing skills, too, right?) for the next decade, enabling me to become the best writer ever, and end up confessing my sins to Oprah.

Then, Te’o Guy Who I Never Heard of Before this Week had to fall in love with a non-existent girlfriend who tragically died.  Except she didn’t.  Because she wasn’t alive in the first place.  (I’m still trying to find out how exactly he discovered she was dead.  I mean, did she tweet “I have died from leukemia”, or post it on her Facebook status, or what?)

Taken right from the first chapter of my current novel under construction.  I swear.

And then that lottery winner inconsiderately died of cyanide poisoning, which completely discourages me from trying to make my millions that way.

To top it all off, someone apparently stole my  idea for a new invention – the iPotty.  And I’m pretty sure they stole it from my very own brain, because I never actually voiced it or put it on paper.  So, that means that they obviously have another invention which Steals Invention Ideas from the Brains of People Who Don’t Know What the Heck to Do With Them.

So, now I am not merely crestfallen due to all of these recent events, but I’m slightly concerned that someone is stalking my brain for invention ideas and everyone is going to make millions from them except me.  The stalking my brain does not disturb me.  It is the everyone making millions from my ideas except me part which is highly depressing.

Plus, I feel a little deprived that I did not have my own iPotty when I was learning to defecate somewhere other than in my drawers.  And my child did not have one, either.  And even if I had another child now, he or she could not have one.  Because we wouldn’t be able to afford it.  Because we have no money.  BECAUSE LANCE ARMSTRONG CONFESSED TO OPRAH THAT HE HAS BEEN USING STEROIDS.

I hope you’re satisfied, Lance Armstrong.  If you would like to begin to compensate me for my suffering, you could start by introducing me to Oprah.  Or Jon Stewart.

photo credit: cosmocatalano via photopin cc

photo credit: cosmocatalano via photopin cc

Sign up Now for Your Trip to Nantucket!

My 365th post is just around the corner, and I am starting to analyze how much I’ve accomplished.  I don’t mind admitting that I’m a bit disappointed.  I haven’t achieved one single item on my bucket list in the last year.  I have not:

  • gotten one billion subscribers
  • gotten invited to spend a week with the writers of The Daily Show
  • gotten a million dollar advance on my book
  • lost 5 pounds

In fact, I’ve gained 10 pounds, which is somewhat distressing.

It’s not for lack of effort, I must point out.  I mean, I did a three day pledge drive – which resulted in the least number of new subscribers daily that I’ve ever received.  I mention Jon Stewart every moment I can, barely avoiding being labeled a stalker.  And I think I would have gotten the million dollar advance if The Bloggess had not beaten me to a publishing contract by a couple of years.

I can’t really explain the 10 pounds, but I’m just going to blame it on my “inefficient colon”.  Obviously, everything I eat is being immediately converted to fat instead of, uh, doing what it’s supposed to do.

Now, I always tell my students that the most important part of achieving their dreams is perseverance, so I would be a hypocrite if I gave up on everything now.  That is what normal, easily discouraged people, would do.  So, I am going to stick to my mantra, which is, “Do what you want to do or prove that it can’t be done by killing everyone in your way yourself trying to do it.”  You are welcome to borrow that quote if you like.

Plus, it’s a bucket list.  Which, I am assuming means that I have until the point that I kick the bucket to finish it up.  I have to check the official rules of bucket lists, but I think that, if you start going in the opposite direction of the items on your list, that means you hold off death a bit longer.  But, you can’t make that your goal, because then you have really changed your bucket list, and you will just speed things up.

It’s complicated.

I do feel like it is time to revise my bucket list, though, so here is the new, improved list:

  • get 2 billion subscribers who are not relatives, but could conceivably be bribed to type their email address into the little box on my right margin (oops, just realized it’s in my left margin – that explains a lot)
  • spend 2 weeks with the writers of The Daily Show.  In their writing room.  Contributing to their writing.  (I thought I should clarify this, because my last goal was a bit too vague, and could have been misconstrued.)
  • write the book for which I will get my million dollar contract
  • lose 1 pound

I know.  That last one is a bit unrealistic.  But I’m thinking of removing the inefficient colon, by force, if necessary, and surely it weighs at least a pound.

Oh, and I’m not calling it a bucket list anymore.  There is pretty much not one thing that I find motivating about buckets, much less kicking the bucket.  So, it is now my Nantucket List.  As soon as I get it all done, I will give myself a relaxing trip to Nantucket.

And, what the heck, my heart is just as big as Oprah’s, I’ll take my 2 billion subscribers with me.

(P.S.  For the BEST Bucket List EVER, click here.  (Thanks, Guapolawesomest, for this reference.  I’ll let you come to Nantucket, too.  Unless that’s where you live.  In which case, why haven’t you invited me, yet?)

A bucket from Nantucket. I kid you not.                              Photo Credit: http://www.nantucketcountryantiques.com

Thanks to the Pittle Leeple

Previously, on whatimeant2say, I began my Awards Acceptance Speech, but was abruptly stopped by an orchestrated disturbance claiming I had gone over my time limit.  I was able to hijack another star’s allotted spot (Oprah has enough awards anyway) in order to finish up.

 “As I was saying before I was so rudely interrupted – well, I don’t know what I was saying.  But here is what I will say.

I will say that I am here to stay.”

Uh, did I mention that I downed a few “refreshments” in the interim before I was able to reappear at the podium?

“Yes, I am here to thank all of the pittle leeple.  My blog is a suck fest due to you.  No, that’s not whatimeant2say.  It’s a fu- nope, that’s not it, either.  Never mind.  Moving on.  I have to thank you, first, for my Biggest Liar award.

The Best Liar Award is Now Rightfully Mine!

Because I fooled you all!  No one figured out that the true statements were 1, 3, and 6. That’s probably because I made a little error with #1.  I was in “Scrooge – the Musical” in high school, not “Scrooged.”  Sorry about that “d” I added.  It’s been 25 years since I was in high school, so I think that minor mistake should be forgiven.  I know – I don’t look that old.  I am very well-perturbed.

Anyhoo, those of you who thought #2 was true must not know me at all.  I am just completely insulted that you thought I would ever do that even one time.  I don’t remember what “that” was, but I can assure you I am too much of a lady to do it.

Now, I should move on because I don’t want any silly little man in a tuxedo using his stick to shut me up again.

I have one more award that I am thankful for.  Rumpy Boad to Rubba has awarded me – no, wait a second, it’s Bubba Rumpy Boad.  Hang on…

Oh yes.  Bumpy Road to Bubba.  Rubber Baby Buggy Bumpers.  Can you say that 10 times fast?  Bubber Raby Buggy Humpers.  Bubba Baby Bubby Thumpers.  Huh?  Oh, yeah.  So they gave me a HUG.  Award, I mean.  Not a hug.  Don’t you worry, Cap’n Firepants.  You’re the only one I hug.  I know you don’t think I do it often enough.  But – crap.  There’s that friggin’ music again!  Fine.  Just give me my trophy and I will be gone.  Fine.  Yes, I know there’s no trophy.  Fine.  I am leaving.  Fine.  Yes, I know I’m still on stage.  I just thought I could squeeze over here an eensy little bit so I could, uh, help out Brad Pitt if he needs any help with his lines on the next present station.  Fine.  Fine, I said!!!!  I’m leaving!”

The worst part?  Vera Wang made me give back the dress.  That’s okay.  It’s hard to put a dress on an Award Shelf, anyway.

 

 

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