maybe in another dimension...

As a reward (or punishment, depending on how much you hate my face), I have a special treat for you today for not forgetting about me during my 6-day hiatus: A VLOG!

Actually, it's sort of the anti-vlog. (I'm good at being anti-stuff.)

See, over the weekend I received an email from a reader (who's not related to me!), who asked, "Marissa. I like your writing a lot. Funny stuff. Wondering if you've ever done stand-up or even a any vlogging or anything. You should try it!"

Well, reader, thanks for the compliments and your belief that I'm articulate enough to speak in full sentences. Unfortunately however, I don't think I'm suited to do anything oral [insert dirty joke here]. See, although I give off the image of being a legitimate moron, I'm smart enough to know what I'm good at and talking out loud isn't one of them.

That was my first thought, anyway. And then I forgot about that email entirely while I whittled away my weekend whittling. What? I'm good with a whittle [insert another dirty joke here].

But then yesterday I rethought. I noticed I had been talking to myself. Or my whittle. Whichever. And what I was saying wasn't in gibberish, but in English. So I thought, "Hmm. Maybe I could be a video blogger!" After all, having never tried it, how could I possibly know I'd automatically suck at it?

And so I made a vlog.

And upon rewatching the footage, I learned never to doubt my first instincts ever again.

But despite its all-around sh*tiness, I've decided not let this well-intentioned, rather retardulous effort go to waste. Nope, instead I've decided to make it into a permanent reminder to myself that I should stick to writing.

So without further ado, allow me to present to you, my first and probably last vlog appropriately titled, "Why The Anti DC Will Never Be A Vlog."

And if you can get through the whole thing without punching your computer screen where my face is floating around, then I commend you. You are my true e-friend. Either that, or you like torture and your name is Dick Cheney* and/or you're just a dick.



Wow. I'll never get a fulltime job again. Meh.

My lifelong hobo pass aside, however, I promise I'll get back to what I'm good at (or less bad at) tomorrow. (And I don't just mean whittling!) Now, if you don't mind I have to go record myself watching The View. It's awkward because even I don't know if I'm kidding at this point! Although if that actually does happen, I've made the mental note to shoot from a different angle. Gratuitous up-the-nose shots aren't necessarily flattering. I will also brush my hair. Maybe.

But before I go, I must also share with you the shambles I spotted at Club Monaco in Georgetown this weekend. Behold...


And no, that's not an optical illusion. That, indeed, is a scrunchie. And not just any scrunchie, but a $9 scrunchie. Notice how carefully I'm touching it (I Purelled that whole arm after this encounter). Scrunchies are to me what holy water is to the devil. It burns.

On the other hand, this did provide a new insulting simile to insert into my lexicon -- "glass of $9 scrunchies." As in, Washington, DC, is a like a glass of $9 scrunchies. I will never understand it, yet someone must be buying...someone blind and ignorant, that is.

Wow. Suddenly, spending three minutes staring up my nose and watching me serenade legumes wasn't so bad now, is it!?

*Whoops! Amid trying to spot my boogers and trying to fathom who is actually going to buy a $9 scrunchie, I almost forgot about the asterisk I slapped on the end of Dick Cheney's name. But thankfully I remember my extra Cheney tidbit -- my Dickbit, if you will -- now: My friend almost got ran over by Cheney in the Salt Lake City airport on Friday. He was riding in the back of one of those airport senior-mobiles. Apparently, Dick "The New Old Man White Oprah" Cheney flies commercial now. Who knew!? I bet going from flying private to commercial is like a glass of $9 scrunchies.