Palookaville

I’m bitter right now, and this is the worst kind of mood to blog in. You just come off as one those ranty, pissy, nothing-to-say types; it becomes a high school blog all of the sudden. At the same time, I’m feeling a bit of pressure because I haven’t posted in a long time. So, sorry in advance, but this is what you get.

There’s a contest going on right now, which officially starts tomorrow. It’s called Ultimate Blogger, and it’s pretty much a Survivor-style blog competition. Twice a week, the hosts give a challenge, the winner gains immunity, and someone gets voted out by the collected contestants—and after six weeks someone is crowned the Ultimate Blogger (said person also receives a decent pile of swag). Why am I bitter? The fuckers didn’t pick me.

I’m coming off as awfully entitled right now—and deservedly so—but it’s not quite as bad as it sounds. The folks at Urban Honking (the producers, if you will) said there were around three hundred applications submitted. Of those, here’s how I break it down in my head:
· Sixty of these applications said something to the effect of: “U have 2 pick me! Have 2 HAVE 2!!! I would be the *best* contestant evr cuz I’m SO cute :) and everyone luvz me!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Squeeeeeeeeeeeee!” :) :) :) :)
· Twenty of these people are a thoughtful, interesting, diverse group of people who—God love ‘em—can’t spell to save their lives
· Fifteen of these people answered the application questions with dead seriousness and no imagination. Have you ever been in a fistfight? No. Dogs or cats? Neither. They make me puffy eyed, so no.

This leaves a little over two-hundred real contenders. With twelve spots in the line up, those are roughly one in sixteen odds—not too shabby. But, despite my solid application, I got the shaft. And I can’t get over how fucking bitter I am right now. For whatever reason, I thought it was a lock. I was actually planning next week around the time I’d have to set aside on challenge days.

This reminds me of my cousin Johny’s birthday party (his ninth, I’m guessing.) A group of us were playing Simon Says with the promise of a giant colouring book as prize. For whatever reason, I was sure that it would be mine; that we just had to go through the formalities first. Being seven and up against older contenders, I spazzed out, didn’t listen to Simon, and was the first one out. And I went mental—buried my face in the couch and wailed like my parents had just died. Not my best display of socially appropriate behavior, and I’ve felt appropriate levels of shame over it since, but in losing out on this blogging contest I feel almost exactly the same. I feel absolutely fucking robbed, man. Only now I cry less and swear more.