Top Reasons Why I’d Rather Snuggle with a Rabid Possum than go to Coachella

This is only scratching the surface of why this festival gives me severe anxiety. I’m not even going into the asshole celebrities that attend (I would kill to meet any of them), and the thousands of cut-off jorts I’d have to observe.

1. The Music

I’d like to think that I’m a very eclectic person. My top four artists of all-time are Fleetwood Mac, Jason Mraz, Stevie Wonder, and Elisa and the Kidz Kazaam. Wait, you’re not familiar with Elisa and the Kidz Kazaam? Let me tell you who they, sorry, who WE are. Back in the mid-nineties when my list of friends was short and my socks were high, I was a member of a musical group called Elisa and the Kidz Kazaam. We were a gaggle of the most musically inclined kids at East Woods School in Oyster Bay, NY. We came together under the tutelage of Elisa LoPorto, our music teacher, to create sweet, sweet tunes. Some of the gems on our debut album The Hamsters on the Loose include “Cookies”, “Really Feeling Mean”, and “Ode to Dr. Seuss”. We recorded albums, made a music video in an apple orchard, and played gigs at toys stores all over the island. We were like Kidz Incorporated except 1,000 times better. Fuck you, Jennifer Love Hewitt, Fergie and AC Slater. Sadly, the group disbanded. It’s the same old story you hear all the time. Playground politics. Here is our album:

Can you tell which one I am?

I DIGRESS. 

Freshman year of college, a fella by the name of Shithead gave me “his” phone number after we spoke for a total of 10 minutes (pure love), but when I called it 3 minutes after he left (way to play it cool, me), I discovered it was the number to...THE REJECT HOTLINE. Looking at the Coachella lineup was like when I tried to figure out why Shithead would do that. Confusing, sad, dizzying, traumatizing, soul crushing, nauseating. Time out, just look at this photo of me and Shithead taken 10 minutes prior to the phone number thing. 

I blurred out his face using my fancy iPhoto skills to protect his privacy, EVEN THOUGH HIS ASS DESERVES TO BE PUT ON BLAST. But look how happy he looks! I did leave two things in focus- his blemish and his puka shell necklace-just to show that I ended up the victor. 

OMG look at my skin in this photo. I look like a girl of only 17. 

SHIT, I STILL DIGRESS.

Out of the billions of performers listed, I only know 18 of them. And by know, I mean I might have read their names in an issue of Rolling Stone magazine that I accidentally picked up thinking it was an issue of J-14 or Teen People (RIP). Bad news: of those 18 bands, I only knew 20 songs total. Good news: 16 of those songs are Red Hot Chili Peppers songs, so that has GOT to get me some sort of street cred.

2. The Heat

The year is 2008, the month is April, the location is Pearl Harbor. SAS had just docked in Hawaii, and my peeps and I decided to go see the historic site. We get there, I wander around a little, start to get a little dizzy, start to hallucinate some talking squirrels like I’m in Enchanted or some shit, and the next thing I know, I’m waking up on the concrete, propped up against some scary dudes hair legs. After spending approximately an hour and a half outdoors in HAWAII, I passed out due to the heat. This was me minutes before the collapse:

So innocent, so naive. When I woke up, mouth full of gross guys leg hair, I had lots of old women patting me on the head, telling me that Pearl Harbor is a very emotional place for lots of people and it's understandable that I couldn’t handle it. BITCH, I’M NOT EMO, I’M HOT. IT’S 200 DEGREES FAHRENHEIT. I didn't even get to see the memorial, I passed out by the gatorade vending machines and ATM machine. I didn't even see anything that would have gotten me emotional. Even though grape Gatorade IS pretty tragic. 

I couldn’t make it 2 hours in Hawaii and you want me to spend 72 hours in the desert? The fuck do I look like, Moses? I might be African, but do NOT get confused (I was going to say “don’t get it twisted”, but we all know I can’t pull that shit off), I do NOT do the heat. I get Botox injections under my arms to prevent excessive sweating (au revoir, any potential suitors), and that mess works like a gem. There is not enough Botox in all of Bev Hills to save my poor shirts from the Coachellian heat. 

3. Boys in Tank Tops

Boys in tank tops.

4. Hygiene and Comfort

Where do you sit? Do you want me to sit on the dirt floor aka the ground for 3 days? No, thanks. One day at Fernwood Cove, my sleep away camp, my cabin mates and I sat in a circle telling stories about when we first started to shave our legs. This was in 1999, I said I started shaving in 1997, I really started shaving in 2001. THANKS, MOM FOR LETTING ME BE THE FAT TWEEN WITH HAIRY LEGS. Anyway, little did I know that I was sitting on an ant hill, and about 35 red ants FUCKED UP the back of my thighs. I had to go to the infirmary and lie on my stomach for hours while Sue the nurse treated my wounds. No more nature sitting for me. Here is a photo of our bunk:

Can you tell which one I am?

I completely understand that this is 2013, and I'm sure they have gone to great lengths to accomadate the people with ample lavatories, but I want any one of you to look me in the eyes and tell me that every single person uses/makes it to a proper bathroom facility. 

Bathing. Explain.

I went to a Warped Tour concert (is a called a concert? a show? a performace? whatever) back in the early aughts, and it was the worst experience of my life, not including the disbanding of Elisa and the Kidz Kazaam and the reject hotline thing. Why were there so many people there?! Go away! Give me some space! Stop screaming in my ear and running over my toe with your skateboard! Ugh, and people were spilling beer on my precious polo all day long. PS, if you dont wanna stand out at a Warped show(?), don’t wear a lacoste shirt, a madras skirt, and topsiders. And don’t be black. And what's with all the beer at these festivals/shows, anyways? Can a girl get a daiquiri in this bitch? A lemon drop martini? A Tokyo Tea? Geez.

5. Sexual Deviants

I just feel like there might be a lot of them there. Not everyone, but enough to keep me away.

NO, BUT SERIOUSLY. WHERE AM I SUPPOSED TO SIT?

ME. WANT. BUTTER.

So, about ten months ago, I went under the knife. No, I didn’t get any work done on my face. Would the Mona Lisa go to a plastic surgeon? Fuck no. I joined the ranks of esteemed world figures Al Roker, Roseanne, and my dawg Randy Jackson and got weight loss surgery.

While I feel like it is my destiny to look like this,

I feel like I was kinda heading towards this destiny.

And when you look like this,

you ain’t gettin’ to this.

I was covered under Dar-Dar’s insurance (WHAT UP, OBAMA!) and I had some free time one Wednesday, so I figured, why not? *Note: because I recently turned 26, I have no more insurance as of March 31st, 2013 (what up, Obama?). I better pray to God I don’t pop a fucking staple in the near future.

Anyway, there are lots of reasons why I chose to get surgery. I got surgery so that I could become thin enough to:

*buy 5-6 boxes of ice pops at a time without getting looks like, “figures she'd buy all that sugary mess”. BITCHES, YOU DON’T KNOW MY LIFE. MAYBE I’M HAVING A FUCKING BACKYARD BARBECUE! In late October. The day before Hurricane Sandy. Hey, we all prepare in different ways...

*receive a piggy back ride where the “piggy” can not only support my weight, but take at least one full step forward with ease,

*at least PRETEND like its difficult for me to give one grown man or 2-3 women and children a piggy back ride (2-3 women and children...at one time),

*be able to slip my hands out of handcuffs if I'm ever kidnapped. I watch a shit ton of Dateline.

* LIMBO.

*hop a turnstile with ease should that be the route I decide to take in life,

*go to Asia and blend in. Well, I don’t know if I will ever blend in, but I’d like to go chill in Japan without people thinking that Godzilla has returned with a vengeance. Calm down, Asia. I’m not here to stomp your cities and eat your babies.

* successfully flirt my way out of a ticket. I’m not even going to get into the time I received 5 tickets in one swoop last year.

* play more than 3 rounds of hide and seek with kids before I run out of enough suitable places to hide. I’m only semi-ashamed to say that I once put a lamp shade on my head and stood in the corner of the room. A valiant effort, I’d say.

* go on Say Yes to the Dress, not Say Yes to the Dress: Big Bliss. OH MY GOSH! THERE’S NO WAY WE CAN PUT THESE HUGE MONSTERS ON TV WITH THE “REGULAR” BRIDES! THEY MIGHT GET HUNGRY IN THE FITTING ROOM AND EAT ONE OF THEM! Get outta here, Big Bliss.

* trick or treat without getting any assholish looks. Oh, I’m 5’11? And I’m still going to be that tall after losing weight? Fuck, never mind trick or treating.

*drive with one leg up on the seat. Dangerous? Sure. Adorable? Hell yes.

*squeeze into a front-load clothes dryer and have my friends take a funny picture. Girls do that “to see if they can fit” and “for a good laugh”. Bitches, stop fucking lying. THE ONLY REASON YOU CLIMBED INTO THAT APPLIANCE IS TO SHOW EVERYONE HOW SMALL YOU ARE. You know that you can fit into that fucking dryer. It’s like a bar trick; you’ve obviously done it before and you know damn well you can fold your body into such positions. We know what you’re doing, and so do you.

 

Before my operation, I had to go visit my surgeon about 100 times. This was dreadful, mainly because of the waiting room. First, have any of you ever been to a fatty doctor’s office? There are specialty fat chairs, I fuck with you not. These were like Pawnee waiting rooms. The armrests on these bitches were about 4 feet apart. They were loveseats meant for one human. Holy shit, thats the saddest song title ever. Loveseat, Party of One. You know that picture where Michael Jordan is palming that basketball while showing off his wingspan? That was me holding onto the armrests. *Note: add “get thinner than Michael Jordan” to the list above. Second, the people in this office. Oh, the people in this office. The doctors office waiting room was the same level of freak show as the the waiting room in Beetlejuice. 

Have you ever walked into a room and just KNOWN that you were the coolest person there? Be honest. It’s fucking awesome, I’m not going to lie. Those patients were the sketchiest bunch of weirdos I’ve ever seen. And ya know what? I’m allowed to say that until I can fit into the dryer. I don’t like to judge (HA) and I like to think I’m a nice person (HA) (even though I did win the superlative for “friendliest” in high school),

*shout out to Mikey VB*

but wow. All I’m saying is hand sanitizer. I also went to a WLS (weight loss surgery) support group that was recommended by my doctor. All the people in these meetings had already had their surgeries. If you have never sat in a room and listened to 20 obese people sob because they miss hot Cheetos and Mountain Dew, you are blessed. I’m assuming you’re all thinking it must be pretty sad, but you have no idea. Multiply your thoughts times 250, or times 250 Oreos which is how many Oreos one woman said she ate while watching one showing of The House Bunny. The House Bunny? Maybe I could see 250 Oreos if you’re watching a long movie like Titanic or that Brad Pitt movie where all his brothers go to war and he gets eaten by a bear at the end, but The House Bunny is 97 minutes long. Whatevs. So as these sad creatures sat there talking about how they were weak and ate a king size Snickers in their shower (I don’t know if they were actually showering while eating the Snickers, or just hiding out. I didn’t want to ask. Some things you just can NOT un-know), or how they spent their days crying over cookies, I sat back thinking they were Amanda Bynes level nuts. NO, LINDSAY. TOO SOON FOR AMANDA BYNES JOKES. It’s just too soon.

Fast forward five months and do you know where you will find me? Lying on my side in the middle of the grocery store, whimpering in front of the Frosted Flakes and Cap’n Crunch. I don’t mean metaphorically lying on the ground, I mean my sad, not-so-little-yet body was making direct contact with the tiles in Pathmark. MELT.DOWN. Let me tell you, you can learn a LOT about yourself when you’re being asked by a grocery store manager if he can call someone for you. Do any of you know what its like to pine over a pat of butter? To dream about bread crumbs? To consider holding up a McDonalds just to steal a happy meal sized french fry? I would have gladly gone to jail for that french fry, as long as I got to eat it in the squad car. The diet for WLS patients is pretty strict until you reach your goal weight. Think Gwenyth Paltrow on a “cheat day”. Imagine going to a lovely, greasy diner, ordering chicken fingers and mozzarella sticks, and only being allowed to eat the hot, wet, wilted lettuce underneath the chicken and mozz sticks. It’s inhumane. It’s like Brokedown Palace inhumane. I pretty much eat meat and protein drinks with fruit as a “treat”. WAIT. That reminds me. WHY DO PEOPLE KEEP HYPING UP FRUIT? The nutritionist I had to see before surgery constantly jazzed up fruit, trying to trick me. “Hungry for some ice cream? Freeze some apple slices! Yummm!” NO, HEIFER. NOT YUM. 1. I’m not a teething infant. Sucking on frozen fruit is not going to appease me. 2. how is that a reasonable substitute for ice cream? They are in two totally different food groups and have completely different textures and consistencies. Is your theory that anything that you can put in your mouth can taste like ice cream if you will it so? OH, GOODY. MY BRACES TASTE LIKE A STRAWBERRY SUNDAE. WHATS THAT YUMMY TASTE? AM I DRINKING A CHOCOLATE MILKSHAKE? OH NO, ITS JUST AN ENDOSCOPY TUBE GOING DOWN MY THROAT. Fuck this shit. I might be delirious with visions of carbohydrates and saturated fats, but I’m not a fucking moron.

 Like I said before, its been 10 months and I’d like to tell you the cravings have completely stopped, but I’d also like to tell you that I didn’t walk out in public today in sweat pants, slippers, and a bathing suit because I have no clean bras, but I can’t do that, either. I’ll be sure to keep you updated, but I have to run now. There’s a single egg white and a glass of water with my name on it. Fuck.