Category Archives: narcissism

How Will I Know Who I Am If It’s Not Written on My Underwear?

Posted by plumpdumpling on September 16, 2010 – 12:00 pm
Filed under narcissism
Tagged as

I was reading an article about a lampshade made out of human skin last week, and while describing the man who sold it to him, the author writes:

Tattooed onto the guy’s stomach, visible between the edge of the too-small T-shirt and the empty belt loops of his saggy jeans, it said NOLA.

This seemed redundant, Skip thought. The way he looked, like some demented brigand with a hacked-off Mohawk haircut, and the way he talked, in that incongruous river-rat amalgam of off-angled Brooklynese with the occasional flowery southernism thrown in, where else could the guy be from but New Orleans?

And immediately, I was overcome with the need to have the word Ohio tattooed onto me.

I’ve always toyed with the idea of a tattoo but didn’t want to get one just to have it (I’m looking at YOU, younger sister), and at a certain point, I figured I’d just outgrown them. But this seems so perfect and obvious.

As with the guy in the article, my Ohio tattoo would be redundant. I live in New York City, but I’m in Ohio. It’s what I’m made of, and half of me is still there. But that’s the point.

Kamran hates the idea, so one of my co-workers suggested hiding it somewhere like my hip, but I want to look at it every day, and I want it to be seen every day.

You can picture me with this on the inside of my forearm, right?

Except, like, way, way more ornate, because that’s what Ohio deserves.

My Doctor Don’t Know CPR, but He Knows How to Treat Me Right (Eventually)

Posted by plumpdumpling on September 9, 2010 – 12:00 pm
Filed under creepy boyfriend obsession, good times at everyone else's expense, living in new york sucks so hard, narcissism, why i'm better than everyone else
Tagged as , , , , ,

I step onto one of the elevators in Kamran’s building on Friday after work, and a guy in blue scrubs comes in after me. To me, his matching cotton uniform means the guy is too lazy to own real clothes, but I understand that the rest of the world assumes he’s some sort of “medical professional”. This woman slips in just as the doors are closing, so they open back up, and the three of us stand there awkward and silent while we wait for them to close again, because it’s super-rare for someone to talk to you in an elevator in NYC, no matter how cheerfully you smile at them as they enter.

She’s about my age. (Maybe a little older, because people my age can’t afford to live in Kamran’s building unless they have really morally-inexcusable jobs on Wall Street, or at least that’s what I tell myself as I return to my Brooklyn hovel.) She’s wearing a navy blue shift dress that looks expensive, she’s covered in chunky jewelry that looks expensive, and all of the bags on her arm are from expensive stores. I see her slyly eying the guy in the scrubs, and I think about how she probably thinks she’s really hot and deserves to date this spiky-haired dental hygienist posing as a doctor.

So we get to her floor first, and she makes this production of tossing her long blonde hair and holding her bags in her krelbows in that way women always do in movies when they’ve just finished a shopping spree with their friends and are now going to brunch at an outdoor cafe to drink mimosas and laugh at things not even they actually think are funny. She bounces off the elevator, the whatever-he-is looks after her, and for a moment, you know the two of them are totally mind-jerking-off about one another. But just before she’s out of sight, she loses her grip on her very long umbrella, and it gets caught on her I-swear-they-were-patchwork heels. She trips and almost falls down but catches herself, and I almost laugh out loud but catch myself.

And usually, this is where I would accidentally do the same thing six floors later, but I didn’t need to be all bumbling in front of this guy, because I had my own doctor waiting for me at home.

Or, well, he came home from work, like, 4 hours later. But I still felt awfully superior sitting alone in his apartment eating homemade frosting.

Cheese Belly Spleen Face Redux

Posted by plumpdumpling on September 2, 2010 – 12:30 pm
Filed under creepy boyfriend obsession, narcissism
Tagged as , ,

Kamran had the top GPA in his law school class for the third straight year, so we went last night to a reception celebrating his genius.

There were other students there to receive certificates just for being on the Dean’s List, and I felt such disgust for how pathetic and lowly they were that I wanted to comfort myself with a cured meats cookie sandwich, but my best friend and I are blogging about our love of low-carb eating these days, and I didn’t want to disappoint all of the people whose lives we’re changing.

So instead I amused myself by making Kamran reenact these amazing photos from another awards ceremony last year:


Then


Now

You think, “Slightly less creepy,” right? But then you see it up close:

It’s no wonder I have nightmares about showering in front of Simon Cowell.

Why I Don’t Read Your Blog (Hint: It’s Your Fault)

Posted by plumpdumpling on June 10, 2010 – 12:00 pm
Filed under narcissism
Tagged as

Almost as a rule, I don’t read your blog unless you read mine. I don’t mean to be, like, overly sensitive about the importance of my blog, but I don’t have enough time to read all of the blogs of the people who do leave me comments, so I can’t afford to just go gallivanting around the Internet willy-nilly. If I find a blog I like, I usually add the RSS feed to my Google Reader, comment on the posts whenever the mood strikes me for the next few days, and hope to develop the kind of relationship I have with all of the people I’ve linked to in my sidebar.

I understand that not everyone replies to comments on their own blogs, so I don’t expect to check back on a blog I’m newly reading and see some gloriously personal reply, but I do expect the author to have made it clear in some way that she’s read me, too. If she doesn’t? BANISHED. I’m actually amazed at bloggers who don’t comment on other blogger’s posts. Do they think their stuff is so worth the time that some stranger would read every day without getting any sort of contact in return?

My Google Reader has an “Every Day” section that’s filled with the blogs of people I want to read the moment they post: Unapologetically Female, Bachelor Girl, Good Hair, Kim Luck, thickcrust, Serial Monogamist in her various forms, bluzdude, and lots more. I don’t always get to these people every day, but I get to them eventually no matter what. The rest of my feeds are divided up into food blogs, personal blogs, and fluff like Awkward Family Photos. I basically never look at these. So if I don’t comment on your blog regularly, it’s because you personally offended me and got shoved out of the Every Day section. Haha, just kidding. (Except not really.)

Then there’s the problem of the “important” blogs, like all of the food blogs that review all of the same restaurants I do but are twice as popular and half as good. Just kidding again! (Except not at all.) I used to feel like I had to read them just to see what they were saying about the restaurants I was going to, but then Tracey gave me the ingenious idea of shoving them into the sections I never read and using the search function if I ever want to find anything specific.

I know other bloggers who don’t think like this, though. Bachelor Girl, for instance, is forever posting articles on her very active and interesting Google Buzz account from big name tech blogs that I’m sure don’t pay any attention to anyone. And my best friend, Tracey, godblessher, reads all of the big feminist blogs but doesn’t comment on a single one of them, even though she has a feminist blog herself and should be trying to drive traffic to it.

So, what about you? Am I the only compulsive one here?

How’s It Hangin’?

Posted by plumpdumpling on May 6, 2010 – 12:00 pm
Filed under jobby jobby job job, narcissism, potty mouth
Tagged as , ,

I just noticed today, after working at the same company for almost four years, that the woman who refills the toilet paper in our bathroom puts one roll into the side-by-side holder so that the paper’s dispensed on top and one roll in so that it comes from underneath.

I love that the janitorial company cares enough to not take sides in the over/under debate, even though one of the sides is clearly incorrect.