You get 97.675783865% credit for this post title. #TeamGenius #NowPleasegogetFrostedFlakesyouwillthankmelater #BoyBye
So we’re knees-deep into this era of people being “EXTRA”. And I don’t know who the punny little bitch was who came up with this “she’s so extra” concept but I’m
(sans the peanut butter) because I feel like I am the epitome of this damn millennial, urban-ish, phrase-a-majigger. Oh and, The thing is- PB sticks to my teeth and the way my life-schedule is set up…I just don’t have the fucking time for
- needy foods
- sticky people
- clingy situations
- or any mixed-up version of those three things.
I mean Just ask my kids, they’re like midget-dependece-slayers who practically cut their own umbilical cords in order to escape the third-world-womb which held them captive for
nine ten (oh the lies and the trickeries) months. They shower themselves, wipe themselves, manage their hairstyles, dress themselves, make bomb ass sandwiches, (Chef Paulho may even want to take some notes from these kids) (PS-that’s the second time that I mention you in one post. Are you keeping Tally, Mister Tally Man? Because daylight come and we wan’ go home? Too much per the usual…), and make their own breakfast on Sunday mornings so that their momster can get her beauty rest half-sleep and still manage to wake up a hot fucking mess. They are 5 and 7. And that ladies and fuckboys (fuckboys is a general statement that does not apply to every fucking boy out there but still) is a whole lot more than most people in their early thirties can say these days. My kids are legends. End of rantagraph.
Now. Do you see what just happened up there? Typical fuckeries. I initiated this post with legit intentions to rant about ONE single thing and somehow managed to get peanut butter stuck onto my teeth, T-bone myself with a rantagraph about my white-Beyoncé-like offspring being independent, and 700ish EXTRA words later, I’m all like “so let me tell ya’ll just how EXTRA I am these days…”
LIKE IF THAT ISN’T ENOUGH TO REST MY CASE…
But aside from my off-roading-rantventures, lately my behavior has been EXTRA extra and quite frankly, not only is it getting expensive but super obnoxious. I’m not sure what’s going on with me because I can’t really blame anything for it other than maybe the weather in Miami these days and can we totally TALK about this weather? Miami has been a total shit-storm lately! I mean, granted, it’s not raining poop. That will only happen when pigs fly folks (Johnny–can we add 10 poinks onto my pun-scoreboard please?) It’s been stormy and humid and gray and temperamental over here and you know, I am like a breathing, walking, mood ring that mother nature wears around her middle finger with pride. If she’s gray I’m gray if she’s sunny I’m still gray but I have to let the bitch live from time to time right?
Now lets taco-bout this “extraness” I’m dealing with. Take work, for instance. I’ve always been notorious for being THAT person who co-workers and supervisors misinterpret via email because I tend to “write how I speak” and people are SO sensitive these days! They take things too personally and auto-assume there’s a deeper meaning to everything and believe everything is a sugar-coated low-blow (and they’re usually pretty on-point but we can never give them that kind of satisfaction). I am THE single most politically incorrect as fuck emailer alive and while I’ve improved (and by improved I mean, I now add emojis in my emails in the forms of smiley faces after a sentence that I’m pretty sure is still assholeish but the smiley face at the end should neutralize an assholeish-email from being taken TOO personal and that’s about ALL THE FUCK OF AN IMPROVEMENT as it’s ever going to get. Fire me. I dare you.) Either way, I still tend to overdo itEVERY. (clap) SINGLE. (clap) TIME. (clap)
I now present Exhibit A: In which I actually sent this email to the CFO and CC the CEO, along with my direct supervisor in a poor attempt to justify an unfinished report.
This whole thing where I CONSTANTLY speak about my “soul” out loud- yea. It catches people off-guard. Literally, I use the words “my soul” in every other sentence of any conversation that I have with any-fucking-one. Sometimes people “get me” and laugh but most of the time, I get the awkward eyebrow raise paired with a “your soul? What?…uh…heh” because there I am ranting about how “I got so scared like my soul squiggled out of my body and I had to reach up and grab it and shove back into my temporarily lifeless body” mind you, I’m talking about like a bee or something. So stupid Ely. So so extra. SOFAKING extra dude. Just stop!
And In all honesty, I’m not even sure how I still have a fucking job. These highly professional, civilized, respectable ADULTS and business people have been putting up with MY SHIT for 4 years. They deserve a trophy from the “What the FUCK?!” state department. can only hope that they’ve found comfort in my work ethic despite my “extra” attitude which has by the way, been formally addressed in meetings several times. They’re all like “We think you’re amazing. You’re such a wonderful asset and such a passionate employee. And while we appreciate your spunky attitude and your determination and the way you speak up- you have to try to improve in the ways you express yourself….but WE LOVE YOU… just… tone it down a notch ok? But we still love you…just maybe, filter SOME things…but we love you Ely.” And I’m just like-
That’s when I started taking up the “smiley” face methods to sugar coat my saltiness.
Then there’s all the other extraness I’ve been going through beyond the office.
I now present Exhibit B: In which I have re-entered the Terrible-Twos Toddler-who-MUST-have-one-of-anything-in-each-hand-or-else-phase…
So it seems that I can no longer function unless I have not one, but TWO kinds of caffeinated drinks on deck. At all times. Sometimes, this happens more than once in a single fucking day. That means I am sometimes spending quadruple the amount of money I normally spend on caffeine. Exhibit 2, is my typical morning for the past month and a half. A cold drink to keep me distracted during my long ass commutes to work (it varies between an iced strawberry-acai or an iced caramel macchiato) AND a hot large coffee for the office- to get me through to the afternoon. Yes. I take THAT long to finish my hot drinks because there’s a certain comfort that I get from simply having a cup full of coffee in front of me at all times and at my direct disposal to sip off of as needed. Once my cup starts to feel lighter, I start to feel the anxiety kicking in. It’s like the cup of coffee has become my “blankie” or my 45-year-old dirty, nasty little teddy bear that I can’t live without.
Not to mention I had an EKG done, and was specifically instructed to STOP drinking this amount of caffeine because there’s this one part of my heartbeat that is SO fast, it’s nonexistent… like my heart is going to explode? Who the fuck knows. I’m not quitting coffee. So hey, Dr. Know-It-All?
The FAILS are real.
I’d keep giving you “exhibits” C-Z but I’m realizing I’m now at 1,308 words of nothingness and feeling a bit crunchy about this whole fucking post. People don’t like posts this long. So I won’t talk about my 250$ trip to Target for Tee-shirts that say things like-
- “Taking Naps and Checking Apps” which I wore on Saturday even though I was 48 hours deep into NOT closing my eyes ONCE due to cake orders and hadn’t checked a single app in 2 days.
- “Messy Bun and Getting Stuff Done” which I wore on Sunday when my hair was freshly done and perfectly neat and I literally left for the entire day without washing a single fucking dish or doing a single load of the mountains of laundry in sitting in my bathroom.
- “Chips. Salsa. Repeat” which I had worn on Friday for the Mayweather fight and it was more of a “coffee. coffee. coffee. Repeat.” type of night.
- “Aloha Friday!” Which I of-fucking course, also wore on Saturday night. Like a dick.