Who told Florida its baby was cute?

You know which one I’m talking about. The weather.

And if you talk to a Floridian, they’re sure to mention it.

But I’m sorry friends and family, 90 degrees and high humidity isn’t beautiful, it’s consistent.

You have an entire season devoted to storms that usually cause leaks and occasionally kill the internet for days and humans forever.

But it’s Christmas and we’re going to the beach! Remember when it was August and you were crouched in the closet?

To be fair though, maybe your baby isn’t ugly, Florida. It’s just that even if your baby is cute, nobody really wants it to poop and scream forever.

But then, we’re just waking up from nap time up here.

Bored between posts? Hit the Tumblr for thoughts that are even less baked than this one >> http://jenmccoy.tumblr.com

I have this theory that life is confusing.

For example, I was obsessed with sports for 15 years and now I just feel like a dog watching a soap opera. I took a nap during the Super Bowl despite its validation of social drinking and public scrutiny of ads. A beer drinking ex-copywriter’s dream turned too literal.

Along those lines, why do detergent boxes tell how many loads and toilet paper doesn’t?

Why is it so enjoyable to type in size 18 font?

Who introduced beer and blueberries and why are they still trying to make it work?

Are chicken tenders more sophisticated than chicken fingers?

Why don’t cats have a sense of humor? Licking yourself is funny and I just want a pic. Can you sense that I find floppy ears and smushed noses far more endearing than your creepy eyes?

Why doesn’t Target tell you the expiration date for self-assembled furniture? It’s roughly nine months and regardless of the exact date, all items expire within 36 hours of the first collapse.

When did popping popcorn become so difficult? The “popcorn” setting? Pretty much the biggest kitchen gamble around.

Why are people so insistent on co-travel? Do you know how much simpler it is to travel alone? Which restaurant? This one. How many beers? That many. Bedtime? When I feel like it. Wake-up time? Same. No, dancing to the best of Greg Gillis’ mashups in the hotel bathroom is not time wasted. Boston will still be there whether I see it this trip or not.

Why do I turn into Lenny after the first phase of any resemblance of a relationship? I like rabbits, but at some point I’m going to just accept this old (and heavy) air conditioner as a permanent fixture in my room.

Unless you know someone.

“McCoy, what are your resolutions?”

Resolutions. Part of a light, Friday night convo.

“Well, first, I’m not dating this year.”

“So you’re quitting?! What kind of a resolution is that? That’s like saying, ‘I’m going to get fat!’”

And you know, I disagree. I think it’s a lot more like, I just struck out 18 times in a row and I kind of want to chill on the bench and eat sunflower seeds for a few innings. Or a year. I think it’s also a lot more like, today someone told me I reminded him of a girl from a movie and I cringed because the last time that happened the movie was “All About Steve.”

And anyway, let’s say I do fall madly in love with someone and he actually feels the same way and we go rollerblading and watch movies and wear t-shirts with each other’s pictures on them in hearts because that shit is hilarious, then what? And also we bought matching onesies. Then what?

Then what would I write about? The fact that my personal life is a self-propelled category two hurricane is kind of my thing. I don’t leave a lot of damage and everything goes back to normal in a week or so, but you know, the names change or something.

Sure, I probably listened to Band Of Horses on repeat for a couple weeks before writing about it, but that’s our secret.

Remember when a guy hit on me and I thought he was gay and I just wanted to let him know that I knew and then he wasn’t gay? That was a blog post.

Remember when I went on a weekend trip (in Florida) and then the guy wanted to go to the beach and I was unprepared because I’m a ginger and so I had to go to Wal-Mart and all they had was an XL little girls’ High School Musical bathing suit? Blog post.

Remember when a guy was so annoying that I almost pulled my car over 30 minutes into a 3-hour road trip to give him cab money to go back home? Worked that into a blog post too.

Remember when I went speed dating? Blog post.

And remember when I was going to go to a dating therapist but I scared him off with my application and then a friend said, “Hey, why don’t we just become the matchmakers?” and I was like, “You’re a genius?” Blog post. Coming soon.

You could say I was in direct opposition to “being cool” in high school.

Really, the only tangent between us was my ability to jump and occasionally score twenty points in a big game. In Smalltown, USA, that earns you pats on the back and invites to get wasted in the woods.

Invites aside, my Friday nights usually consisted of parent-sponsored dinners at Olive Garden, watching pro basketball on the couch, and when inspired, some late night hoops in the driveway.

That said, when I took a job that made me a digital mouthpiece for the institute of hip and cool, I was nervous.

Is “Yo!” still cool? The kids say “boo,” right? Why does every rapper’s nickname rhyme with every other rapper’s nickname? Is this like a genre-encompassing joke?

Even at age 25, the world of hip and cool was scary and nonsensical. That is, until I discovered a familiar entrance with a simple unlock code: semantics.

I’d been here before. Remember those timed writing tests in high school? I always entered those armed with two to three top SAT vocab words that I could work into any writing prompt. Hey look, I’m an intellectual!

Remember the hours spent learning the foreign language of your choice even though so few ever went all the way? I was always doing one of five activities regardless of the verb conjugation. Hey look, I’m bilingual!

Being hip is no different. The formula? Take a normal word, cut it in half, add an “s” to the first half and discard the rest. Then, you press publish and you’re both hip and cool.

And before you start to worry, I totes know that obvs only a nerd would find a formula to be “cool” and only an even bigger nerd would spend Sunday afternoon writing about it and making charts in Excel.

The subway is like a library.

Except sometimes there are people who look like they want to eat you. And also, it moves.

And maybe a few other things. But still, you keep to yourself unless you’re lost and you don’t talk. You just never fucking talk. That’s the only rule.

Put on your headphones. Open your book. Knit something even though women have been allowed to wear pants for a few years now. It’s up to you and most people are okay with this.

Most people except for the driver of the uptown 2 train on Monday (and sometimes Tuesday) mornings.

He is under the impression that the entire train is filled with 8-year-olds. And also, someone told him all of these 8-year-olds are half deaf.

“Gooooooooooooooooooood morning Manhattan! It’s going to be a great day!”

That’s how we start. Then, at every stop, we’re given step-by-step directions to arbitrary platforms and trains.

“If you’re switching to the 4 train, you’ll go up the stairs, take a left..”

At other stops we’re reminded to take all of our belongings. And at some stops we’re warned that the platform is very narrow and because of this we should not push or shove.

Now, in hindsight, this is quite entertaining. I get to write a silly blog post and use fun metaphors. It’s a win. But when it’s actually happening, it’s like someone just drove a tank through the library and all of the doors are locked, but the tank is shooting cotton candy. Or something similarly absurd that causes all of the 8-year-olds to clutch their iPods and stare at the ground with a frozen smirk of complete confusion.

It’s not painful, it’s just uncomfortable. And since I have no reason to believe it will ever stop, I’ve come up with a way to at bear it and possibly grin.

Because in New York City, being in a good mood doesn’t mean you have to share it with everyone else.

It’s a silly thing to make and break a resolution in the same breath, but I’ll tell ya, it really takes the edge off.

In truth, I’m not a big fan of resolutions. I lose a few pounds after I book a cruise with my ex’s best friends. I spend an entire weekend creating a website to get me out of corporate hell after Gmail, YouTube and Pandora are axed.

Invention driven by necessity, you know.

And so with a list of dormant domains too long to discuss and several infrequently updated blogs, my resolution for 2011: focus.

It’s my safe word for discipline.

It’s also my safe word for if “you keep telling yourself that one of these sites is going to magically get picked up and make you enough money to pay people to do all the things you don’t like doing, you’re going to be taking a lot of pictures of dogs shitting (for free).”

So today, I made a start. After a couple delicious hours of brainless television adoration, I made a list. (The resolution). And then I bought a new domain and started two new blogs. (The breaking of the resolution).

I just don’t see how I can be held accountable for these things in a world where people are addicted to eating french fries and they share their story on TLC. And then right after that, a guy who’s addicted to eating raw meat. And this Wednesday, a girl who’s addicted to ventriloquism.

I mean, I know that if I took the ADD test they’d run out of gold stars, but something about signing up to take a medicine that resembles cocaine just doesn’t sit well with me. However, something about a mild abuse of caffeine sits just fine.

So despite the best efforts of TLC programming, 2011 will be a year of focus. With the help of my safe word and four to five cups of coffee per day, 2011 will be the year I sell my first “I Hate Comedy Shows” t-shirt. It will be the year my dog shit site makes it on Gawker. It will be the year Boy Toy Brad rejoins the ranks of blogging blow up dolls. It will be the year that smmchat.com picks up, one weekly industry recap at a time. And now, thanks to my newest domain purchase, it will be the year that Matt and I take on corporations one ridiculous email at a time to see how much swag we can get from the customer service elite.

Our first victim? Orbitz.

Sure, the first couple interactions don’t look so promising. But upon further harassment on Twitter, I was awarded a $50 voucher.

I don’t know if that’s focus, but get ready, ILikeToEmail.com is coming soon.

Daytime drinking is a young man’s sport.

And like much of youth, daytime drinking is a lot of things being really fun and awesome followed by those same things being not so fun and awesome anymore.

Take for example, cracking open a Sierra Nevada at 10:30 a.m. It’s pretty fun and awesome (even though a little part of you is worried you’ll start thinking it’s fun and awesome regularly.)

But then take for example, stumbling into bed at 3:30 p.m. while interrogating that same Sierra Nevada bottle, “Why are you not fun and awesome anymore!?”

Or take for example, wearing XL little girls’ leggings and duct tape and proclaiming, “I’m a candy cane! I can do whatever I want!” for six hours.

But then waking up 1:00 a.m. and not wanting duct tape to be a part of your outfit anymore, and again at 1:30 a.m., and finally at 2:00 a.m. deciding to make the duct tape not a part of your outfit anymore. One stripe at a time.

Of course, these were just the bookends of what was a very fun and awesome day.

A day of subways and streets full of drunken santas.

A day of wondering who the hell you’re supposed to give this canned food to.

A day of delicious beer and new friends who dance on demand.

A day of those same new friends wondering why you’re on your phone all the time and asking ridiculous questions like, “How many people have you communicated with since you got to this bar?”

And you being like, “Well, do you mean by text? Because only five. But if you’re counting Facebook and Twitter, then like 2,000 and I’ve done it three or four times…”

A day of confused children and pictures worthy of profile status, framing and in general, mass dissemination.

But mostly, a day to laugh about and forget . Until Santacon 2011.

I decided recently that I’m going to become the greatest seductress of all time.

But don’t get me wrong. Unlike seductresses of the past, I don’t want to sleep with every man on the planet. I just want every man on the planet to want me to want to sleep with him.

There’s a difference.

And really, this goal should come as no surprise to those who know me best. Hints of my aspirations date back to my senior year of high school.

Yearbook quote? “Don’t hate the player, hate the game.” Sure, this seemed silly at the time since I did not have a high school boyfriend and I spent high school dances quietly sipping Sprite and wishing that my school didn’t have high school dances, but now the quote is evidence of my destiny.

Lofty goal, you say? I think not.

You see, I’ve been reading this book about the greatest seductresses of all time and really, they all followed a simple formula.

First, you completely lose your shit and then you just let that psychopathic state manifest by being a really huge bitch. Then, it’s all you talking to men and men all desiring you. And if you do this well enough, they’ll be all proposing right away and encouraging you to continue to make other men desire you while they fold your laundry.

That’s it. No more texting and then waiting for a response and then discussing that response with a friend before sending another response.

You just take whatever you’d normally say to menfolk and say the opposite, but make sure it’s really, really mean.

Sounds simple, right?

So, who’s with me ladies?

(SIT YOUR ASS DOWN!)

(SEE, IT’S ALREADY HAPPENING!)

(I’M SUCH A BITCH NOW!)

Hangovers are nature’s way of saying, “The orange slices on the side of Blue Moons aren’t dinner, idiot.”

You awake to smeared mascara and a creative pajama assortment, and it’s survival time. Your body wants water, food, Tylenol and more sleep, but its priority is grunting.

Welcome to my hangover stream of conscience.

Ughhhhh. I’m thirsty. Ughhhhhh. Ughhhhhhhhhhhhh. I’m thirsty. Like, really thirsty. Ughhhhh.

Ughhhhhhhhhh.

[15 minutes of sleep]

Gotta get water. Ughhhh. Ughh.

[5 minutes of sleep]

Okay. Water.

[Gets water]

Omg. Omg. So good. Need more.

[Gets more water]

[Lies on couch]

[25 minutes sleep]

Really need food. And more water.

And so it continues until all brain cells are called on deck to end the misery with coffee and bacon. Always bacon.

Sure, by noon I’m a resemblance of humanity again, but it’d be much easier with a little help. That’s why I’m now hiring a hangover assistant. You really don’t have to do much. All I ask for is a voice of reason, like the one I didn’t have the night before.

You think you’d feel better with some water? WELL, GET SOME WATER!

Oh, you’re hungry? WELL, GET SOME FOOD!

If you can do this without actually speaking or requiring a response from me, you’re hired. Pay is minimal. Hours are random.