Skin is apparently tasty.

I have this awful habit of chewing my fingers.

I used to have nice long nails that offset my man-hand sausages. I went for my first manicure right after high school and the nail technician (heh heh) introduced me to cuticle cutting. I bought my own cuticle scissors and would go to town every night before bed. I was obsessed.

I smoked cigarettes back then and would quit from time to time, usually right after getting bronchitis or a chest cold. I guess I needed an oral fix during those breaks so I started biting my nails. Not sure what made me start chewing my cuticles. I think it was something to do when I was cracked out after partying all night. Now I do it all the time to the point where my fingers are always red, puffy, and bloody. It is so fucking gross.

I would like to write myself a note:

Dear Me,

STOP FUCKING EATING YOUR OWN SKIN. In fact don't eat any one's skin you disgusting cannibalistic douche.

Here are acceptable things to put in your mouth: food, beverage, medication, cock, toothpaste, toothbrush, tongue, floss, and mouthwash. THAT IS ALL. And to clarify, DO NOT CHEW THE COCK OR TONGUE.

Love,
Me

You know what I consider "doing my nails" now? Applying Neosporin to my wounds and wearing band-aids on each finger. Lovely.

So let's make a pact ol' blogosphere. If you should see me either examining my fingers getting ready for the kill or full on gnawing in masochistic bliss, for the love of god, stop me. I don't care how, punch me in the face if you have to. I must be stopped at all costs.

I'm what?!?!?!

I thought I:

hated drama
liked changed
was ugly
was less than
was nice
was non-confrontational
was organized
was not worthy
didn't have a story worth telling
would die alone
was unlovable
was CRAZY CRAZY CRAZY
was scared of both success and failure at the same time
was weak
was average
was self-sacrificing
was butch/masculine
was simple
was unmanipulative
was uncreative
was assexual
would be dead by 22...was that an MTV show?
would do drugs forever
would fuck one guy in every state instead of collecting those stupid quarters
would always "damn the man"
would never wear sneakers with work clothes
would never amount to anything
would always be a bridesmaid and never a bride
would hate my mother for all of eternity
couldn't kill someone
wasn't racist, sexist, ageist, or chauvinistic
was a bad cook
would never stop crying
would be able to do 10 (boy!) push-ups and 5 pull-ups by now
waswaswaswaswouldwouldwould...I think that's it.

Today I realized I was completely wrong.

I am/have/did/will do OR am not/haven't/didn't/won't the complete opposite of everything above.

I don't really love vodka.

But it sure as hell is making me happy right now.

I have decided to deal with my work troubles by getting drunk every night this week. I end up being so preoccupied with my hangover the next morning that I don't think about anything else.

Sometimes when I'm really really hungover I have to keep checking that I'm wearing pants. Thankfully I am wearing them every time.

And thankfully TNA is on. I used to watch wrestling during college, back when the WWE was the WWF and Raw and Nitro were fun. I hate Kurt Angle. He should shove his olympic medals up his ass. Stephanie McMann was a hot dirty whore then, too. I miss college.

Grey Goose is my friend. I decided a year or two ago that I shall aspire to become Karen from Will and Grace. Just be a drunken, snarky, perky breasted biyatch. I'm TOTALLY on my way. Bloody Marys have become my favorite drinks ever.

Who the hell is Conan? I hear him yelling, but I never heard of him...

I have decided to leave Company, for no other reason than to save my liver. I hate stupid.

CW11 shows rock

Okay, I just watched America's Next Top Model and The Pussycat Dolls Show: The Search for the Next Doll. I really wish they called it The Search for the Next Pussy.

I like watching reality tv gameshows more than anything else right now. They show me how to communicate, the difference between working hard and working smart, and how perception is everything.

My perception of the last couple of weeks is that my bosses want me out. Soaps said I'm difficult, a bad communicator, and a slacker. I'm told all this six weeks after getting a sweet raise and a huge bonus. Hello mixed signals.

He also said that my goal to be head of the division one day will never happen, that I was hired as a number cruncher and that's all I will ever be.

Ugh. I hate everyone.

Dreams can come true

My worklife has been a mess since my birthday. That stupid shit with Red escalated into a whole week of misunderstandings, arguments, and negative vibes with Soaps. It's so bad that I am ready to quit. I've always said that Company was my dream job, but why did I think that before I got there?

I thought I would:

1. get paid to talk about characters I love.
2. get paid to work in an industry I love.
3. get free cbooks.
4. meet my favorite writers and artists.
5. meet Stanley (no I'm not stupid and I know you're not either).

You know what? I got all five. That's awesome, but Company just flat out makes me feel like shit most of the time.

AARRGHHH. ***DELETED PARAGRAPH***

Oh and V.P. at Company stands for...

Vagina-less Person.

Not only did my therapist laugh out loud, she also wrote it down on her notepad to share with the other mentals.

Enjoy!

I love beer.

Sincerely. I love it with all my heart.

I'm home, it's snowing, and I'm drinking some left over Brooklyn East India Pale Ale from my Super Boobie Bowl party.

I have a stupid grin on my face, left my brother a stupidly long and nonsensical voicemail, and "Closed Match" with about 20 guys on eharmony. Rockin'.

Have I reached the point in my life when Friday nights consist of solo beers and giggling at inside jokes between me and my multiple personalities?

Nah, I'm just gearing up for tomorrow. Yeah yeah, St. Patrick's Day is for amateurs....blah blah blah...

My nationality hasn't influenced my life until recent years, despite my name being pretty darn close to Kelly O'Shamrock. I just never really thought about it. My mom only made corned beef and cabbage on St. Pat's. My dad's specialties were, oddly enough, stromboli and lasagna although he did go on this Irish soda bread kick for a while.

I went to Ireland early 2003, sort of on a whim. And by "on a whim" I mean "against my mom's wishes since I had no money and moved back home yet somehow decided I could afford to go on a two week vacation." I kept saying I was going to our homeland, but yeah, for some reason that didn't stop her biyatching.

Ireland was amazing. I felt like I was plopped into a huge family reunion. Everyone seemed to have my dad's nose, my uncle's long face, my brother's sarcasm. I have never felt a connection like that before...it really did feel like home.

I'm pretty sure it was right after that trip that I began to consciously identify myself as Irish. Trust me, there ain't no hiding my nationality. I got the freckles, the mouth, and the beer belly to prove where my ancestors came from. I realize now though none of that mattered; I just had to feel it.

Well I feel it now and am proud to be an Irish woman. For the life of me I can never remember why St. Patrick's Day is a holiday and I can't tell you anything about the country's history or how my own family ended up in America....but I'll be damned if anyone thinks I'm going to miss a day celebrated with lots o' beer drinking and red-faced fun.

Get to know your friends.

I just filled out one of those "Get to know your friends" chain emails. Questions range from "favorite flower" to "what did you have for breakfast" to "beavers or ducks." That last one is aching to have a dirty joke attached; oddly enough I can't seem to squeeze one out.

I have the best group of girlfriends of all time. Growing up I had some pretty crappy friendships. I was always The Third Girl. You know the group: two girls are best friends who dress and talk alike. One is the bad egg, the other follows since she can't think for herself. Then there's The Third Girl who is either tall or fat or both, connects The Two with The Others, and inevitably has to sit next to a stranger or by herself on roller coaster rides.

Of all the friends I've had over the years, I never met anyone that I connected with on all levels. It wasn't until my first job out of school that I met the Petes, seven lovely ladies who absolutely mean the world to me.

When we first started hanging out we were all about drinking, dancing and getting laid (at least I was!). Over time we started blacking out less, remembering conversations more, and eventually becoming really close. There have been plenty of good times and thankfully only some bad. Regardless, somehow everything we've been through has made our connection stronger.

It's exciting to be a part of my friends' lives right now. We are all growing into ourselves, finding our path, figuring out what the next step is. One of the girls is now married, another just got engaged, two more will probably get engaged soon. Us singles have been pretty focused on our careers lately and thankfully we are all successful, kickass power-women.

I love my ladies and am forever grateful to have them in my lives. Thank you Shizza for sending me the Petes!

Okay I lied.

I'm not over that guy yet. I'm home sick today and I just found out that his long distance girlfriend is in the office. I can't stop crying.

I like this guy so much and he knows it. It's been almost eight months now and it won't stop. Every time I think I'm over him he either says or does something that makes me like him again. It fucking blows.

Donovan (his new alias) is everything I ever wanted. He's funny, smart, warm, silly, and just an overall good guy. He's got a big build and warm face, a real life teddy bear. I think he's absolutely beautful inside and out.

I've never had lukewarm feelings for anyone. If I like you, I love you. I love Donovan with my heart and soul. It hurts so much not to have it reciprocated. It's torture having my dream guy just out of reach.

I have no idea what I would have done had I been in the office today. I think I would have laid under my desk in the fetal position and waited for her to leave. I can't help but feel that he betrayed me in some way by bringing her on my turf. Maybe it's the fact that he didn't consider my feelings about it, but then again why should he? My world revolves around me, his world revolves around him.

At this point I've had such a roller coaster relationship with Donovan in my fantasy world that I can't even imagine what it would truly be like in reality. I don't know why I can't just let go. There's no reason to have hope after this long.

I signed up for eharmony a couple of weeks ago. It's okay, much better than shopping for sausage on Match. I'm practically forcing myself to be interested in the guys on there, but I can't. I think I should just accept that I'm in a miserable dating rut and leave it at that.

Shitballs.

Why Thighs?

I have 26 inch thighs. It's the equivalent of having a toddler wrapped around my femur.

My thighs have been my dirty little secret for years. Of course anyone who sees me walking down the street can see that I'm pear shaped, rubenesque if you will. I've had an active sex life and definitely not shy under the sheets, but I never, ever wear shorts and only wear skirts that cover my knees.

So why would I name myself Thighs if my own are something I hate and am ashamed of? Oddly enough, it just feels right.

Of the few clear childhood memories I have, I remember the first time I noticed my thighs were bigger than other girls. I was in first grade and the class was sitting on our knees singing a song, slapping the tops of our legs. I looked around at all the petite girls with their small little thighs that barely made any noise while mine sounded like thunder. I was the tallest girl in class so it made sense I'd have thicker legs, but it was at that moment that I had discovered my thighs and decided that they were ugly.

Over 20 years later, I still feel the same way. Naming myself Thighs is my way of facing my dirty little secret and sharing it with the world. Here's hoping this will help me learn to love them no matter what size they are.

Countdown to 30.

I was thinking about what I wanted the theme of this blog to be. I was tempted to delete this blog and start off fresh with my latest reccurring thought...I turn 30 next year.

It reminds me of when I first got my period (no I have never seen the Vagina Monologues). I was 11 years old, no one was home but my grandmother who was visiting for a few days. Ever since I was kid my inner monologue becomes a Wonder Years/Sex in the City voice over, especially when I reach a milestone of sorts. "Are you there God? It's me, Thighs. Today I became a woman, but I don't feel like one. Am I supposed to? Do I have to start wearing makeup?" Fast forward 18 years to today, when my random thoughts about turning 30 can be shared with the zero people reading this.

Thought number one, my countdown to 30 is special enough to delete my previous posts. Why? Okay, this is a huge leap, but maybe it's all about clean slates. And what is a clean slate? Is it literally erasing my past or the acceptance of it, with the peace of knowing it made me who I am today?

I LOVED that Eagles fan up until last week, my Internet went out again for a little while, and while I'm only 7 weeks into 2007, I'm pretty darn excited for this year.

My mind races all the time, why wouldn't my blog? Even the 6 o'clock news has its water-skiing squirrel moments.

Odd years

I wasn't a fan of odd years until five minutes ago. Every recent odd year has been an exhausting and emotional roller coaster:

1999, 21 years old:
Broke up with my best friend which meant I had to live with people I didn't know; started breaking up with my boyfriend; failed out of college; relationship with my mother went to shit.

2001:
Had to move back home after college; many, many fights with my mom; adjusted to a 9 to 5 job in the city; and of course the terrorist attack.

2003:
Left my first company for another one in the same industry, it was horrible for a good six months; weighed almost 200 pounds.

2005:
Left my second company for my absolute dream company, only to find out it is the dumbest run company of all time; had nervous breakdown.

And then it hit me. After each miserable odd year came an amazing even year:

2000:
Got back into college and graduated; had some great times in the house with the people I originally didn't know; survived the break up.

2002:
Met the Petes at my first company, seven ladies who are my very best friends to this day.

2004:
Moved into an apartment in New York that I absolutely love; lost 23 pounds.

2006:
Still at dream company, loving it more and more every day; have a brand new, healthy relationship with my mom; in therapy and really enjoying it.

And now it's 2007. When I began to type I was going to say I'm worried what this year will bring. Now I'm pretty excited because I'm sure whatever happens I will find the strength to make it through.

Son of a!!

It's almost two months since my first posts. It's all Kirsten Dunst's fault.

I have the same bone structure as her so whenever I get my hair did I always look at her latest do, see if it's something I'd like.

I googled "Kirsten Dunst hairstyles" and stupidly clicked on the first site that popped up. It ended up being a porn site, something about her pubic hairstyle. No biggie, I love porn and for those of you who have seen Avenue Q know that the internet was created only for porn.

As I continue browsing for a good site, I started getting a couple pop-ups. Within an hour I had so many pop ups that my computer crashed. Luckily my dad is in IT so he helped me fix it by wiping out my hard drive and starting over.

So now that my computer is working again, I totally plan on keeping up with my blog.

And I can't help but laugh about writing "those of you"...none of my friends know about this yet. Probably because so far there's nothing really to know!

hmmm.

Interesting thing happened last night. I've been an insomniac lately, I either wake up in the middle of the night or go to bed really late. I don't think it's stress related, it's me being idiot related.

My latest pasttime is putting off doing laundry for as long as possible, aka until I'm out of clean underwear. Problem is I have over 30 pairs so for the past two months I've done laundry twice.

It gets pretty darn exciting when I'm three weeks in the hole. I may have lots of undies but I only have 4 or 5 pair of pants, so I get all slick trying to make them last.

In the latest round of procrastination I've hemmed two pairs of year old pants that I've never worn and bought three new shirts. I think the fun part about this little game is the way I rationalize spending $100 on new clothes vs. the $5 it costs to just clean the shite I already own.

Anyhoo, so last night at like 1am I was having a fashion emergency. Nothing was left except a new pair of pants that I don't really like. I pleaded with myself to just decide to wear them and get to bed, but nooo...I got all revved up and had to find the best shirt and shoes combo, too. Finally I picked an outfit (and didn't look too shabby by the way), but the damage was done. I was wired and didn't end up falling asleep until 4am.

Now the interesting part. Between 1 and 4am I somehow stopped liking the guy at work. How the hell did that happen?!? I have liked him for about two months now. I've flirted, emailed, gushed, invited him out, watched friggin Eagles games just because he's a huge fan...how the hell in 3 hours did I decide I'm done?

Only explanation...the last line of my first post. I think writing that one damn sentence made me realize that I am wasting my fucking time with this dude. I practically threw myself at him and got nothing!! UGH! I'm cute people, I swear!

Fuck that schmuck for not liking me. And fuck the Eagles. And fuck laundry, too.

huh.

I like a guy that I work with. I like him enough to blog, something I never thought I would ever have the guts to do. I'm not sure why I think a person's brave for blogging...they can just be self-involved or fourteen or bored or have friends all over the country.

Obviously I'm not brave enough or my name would be my url and I'd tell my friends I'm writing this. I'm chicken shit to admit (rhymes!) that I have a story and it might actually be worth telling.

My heart is racing and my nose is scrunched up tight as I'm typing. Why do I feel so raw? I've read blogs, some of my best friends post all the time. I've read blogs from people I don't know and I've searched for blogs by people I don't even like, perhaps to validate that I shouldn't like them. Why can't I have one?

Okay then. I am Thighs, I like a guy I work with and I don't think he likes me. First post done.