Small things amuse small minds.

Well you see, it's like this. Everything was going along just fine; Hellvember was becoming a distant memory, December was living up to the promise of being The December Movies Are Made Of (And by movies I mean Lesbian Anime Porn with a Heterosexual Non-Anime Twist and a Dash of Sweet Love thrown in for audience approval. Of course).

You lonely alcoholics might have noticed the salesperson wearing a funny hat or a small candy cane display as you purchased a two-liter of vodka. This is because the holiday season is upon us. It's that magical time of the year where you spend 40 minutes suffering in line at Best Buy so you can purchase that long-requested Maroon 5 CD for your children with room-temperature IQ's and no taste. But it's not all about the commercialism and the unusually high suicide rate my friends. There's also hot cocoa and ham and the smell of the Christmas tree and kissing that cute boy with the ponytail on new-years eve and, of course, snow.

Only this year, NO SNOW! (What gives weatherman, Did you perhaps not get my memo's?)

Perhaps it’s for the best though, because snow makes you do funny things. Especially when you eat it and it's yellow and then you realize Hey! That's not snow, it's Renee Zellweger's son's little, blonde, dead head! And then I’ll blame it all on the snow. Well, the snow and my parents. And the government. And Gary Busey. And that old show Out Of This World with Evie who could freeze time by touching her two index fingers together. Just because.

But as I was saying, the snow, it's a wacky thing. It makes you write poems entitled "Ode To Gary Busey", but that should really be titled "Oh My God I Am Touched In The Head". It’s a time when you start to rearrange your kitchen knives according to the perceived depth of a stab wound when stabbing a Garden Gnome or Live Toaster / Lie on your bedroom floor making Carpet Angels (and damn fine Carpet Angels) / Write all your Christmas cards as if you are that girl from Swimfan ("Dear Uncle Dick, Do you have my panties, my panties, I think I left them in your car...Happy Holidays" or "Dear Mailman, You love me, I know it!! Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year, From That Girl Who Gets All Those Magazines") / Wonder how old Alvin, Simon, and Theodore would be today if they were still alive and recording Christmas carols (I always thought they where dead, but they’re not, are they? They’re back ! Which makes me wonder, what's the average life expectancy of an animated chipmunk these days anyway?)

Like last year, the snow made me steal the Baby Jesus out of the manger from the town's Nativity Set. I can sense your disappointment in me (Please note that I didn't say I cared, just that I sensed it).

In my defense though, he was so cute and I was sure they had a back-up, and I've just always wanted a Baby Jesus of my very own. Unfortunately I left a tiny piece of evidence behind at the scene of the crime and my town's Police Force went all CSI and tracked me down (ok, it was my drivers license, and even then it took them 2 days to figure it out) and there was a hostage situation and someone got shot (good thing I bought Baby Jesus that bulletproof vest as an early Christmas present) and when I went before the judge I tried to say "It was the snow, the snow made me do it", but I had never been in front of a judge before and was nervous so I think what I really ended up saying was "But I like Baby Jesus, and he likes me, too" because the judge threw the book at me. Or would have if not for the surprise character witness...Renee’s big-headed boy! *Gasp* I think you can guess what happened next. Yep. We went to the zoo watched Jerry Maguire.


I can't be held responsible for this post. The snow made me do it, and just be glad I didn't AudioPost myself singing Milli Vanilli's "Blame It On The Rain" except replacing "rain" with "snow", because the thought crossed my mind.

When I was little, a horse killed my parents.

Happy New Year, my little mad cows!
Did you know I was supposed to be a New Year's baby. It's true. But I didn't want to come out. I firmly placed my unborn baby feet on either side of my mother's uterus and refused to budge unless certain demands were met. I won't get into those demands here other than to say they involved magic powers, fat crayons, a pony, and an outfit similar to the one Rainbow Brite wore and if anyone ever promises you a pony to do something, I'm sorry, but THEY'RE LYING.

Unfortunately, I think my reluctance to come out into this god forsaken world was quite possibly the last sensible, quasi-intelligent thing I did.


My New Year's Resolutions, In Case You Care:

1. Build my character. Because apparently, if you listen to my parents, which I try not to, but occasionally a word or two does sneak through, I am in desperate need of character building. Things that build character: Developing an eating disorder/drug addiction/gambling problem/learning disability/origami fetish, or living on a mountain top in the wilderness for a month with nothing but a human-sized bottle of chocolate Filliers, a pair of toe-nail clippers, and Dr. Phil's Life Strategies Workbook. Guess which one I'm going to aim for! Although there is a plan B of course. I can always resort to stealing an innocent person's identity by going through her trash and hacking into her computer and then apply for a job at Amazon.com using this person's name and social security number. The way I figure, once I'm in the door I can set forth Operation Burn Amazon To The Ground (a.k.a. new year's resolution no. 2) in motion. In theory, the woman whose identity I stole will rot in jail for life and I will live happily ever after with the goddamn DVD I ordered in September. In theory.

3. Bury the hatchet with Renee Zellweger's bastard son. Bury it IN HIS (8 POUND) HEAD! I can probably do it when he least expects it, too, like when he's on the set of his new movie, Stuart Little 5, or maybe it's Stuart Little 6, who can really keep up, in which Stuart the mouse realizes he's being discriminated against and in a fit of rage kills all the humans. And then after he dies, he'll be to Stuart Little 5 what Brandon Lee was to The Crow. And I'll be free. Free from his pleas of going to the zoo and free from his incessant chatter about the weight of the human head. Free!


There, now there is nothing left for me to do except wait for the New Year's Fairy to come and bestow upon me her Magic New Year's Fairy Dust and enough alcohol to make me think the Old Year was really just a bad acid trip, even though I'm pretty sure the only kind of acid I do is of the citric variety. Pretty sure. But you know what they say. That citric acid will get you every time. Well. I'm sure someone has said that. At some time or another. Whatever. 

Gummi Bears are good for your liver. I heard it from a horse.

Did you ever stop to think that maybe, just maybe, the reason I haven't been around that much lately is because I found god (again.)? And that maybe god told me you are a bad influence on me and I should only communicate with people who have palindrome names/wear white pants after labor day/list Monkey as their favorite book/own a canoe, a Marvin Gaye CD and every movie ever made starring Tom Arnold? Or that I was captured by enemy (Luxembourg) forces while vacationing (don't worry, I wouldn't really vacation in Luxembourg, that was just my cover) and used as a bargaining chip with the Ukraïne until the CIA sent an extraction team for me? Or that I have been busy shopping for your Christmas present (It takes a lot of time and energy and time and money and time and gloworm "helpers" and did I mention time, to think of the perfect gift and then purchase and build it, not to mention the attempts at wrapping such an umm, extravagant present. And yes, I said build, and no, I'm not telling you anything else)? Or that maybe I developed a rare disease which required hospitalization and lots and lots of drugs to make the hallucinations of elephants and Ashley Tisdale singing "Santa Claus Is Coming To Town" stop? Or that I am actually Diane Sawyer and was too busy interviewing Mike Huckabee's son to take time to blog and wouldn't that explain a lot, like the grudge I have against Renee Zellweger's bastard son because maybe I interviewed him once and he threw up on my new shoes and kept asking to go you-know-where instead of answering my questions? Did you ever think about that? Did you? No, I didn't think so. You never think, do you? Don't you feel like crying now? Oh. Maybe it's just me that feels like crying now. Well fine. Be that way.


Anyway. Not to change the subject or anything, but please, let's change the subject. Let's talk about how I dyed my hair yesterday and got a new carpet yesterday and bought myself a Christmas present yesterday and lost a sofa yesterday but gained a toothbrush yesterday and you would think these things don't go together, but oh yes, they do, especially if it was yesterday. And it was. But now it's today and the other patients here at ShadyBrook Psychiatric Farm want to use the computer too (it's monday you see), so I have to get off and go finish making my paper mache donkey for my dad's Christmas present. I wanted to make him a ceramic monkey, but a.)We're not allowed to play with ceramics since that time that one patient smashed another patient over the head with a ceramic Michael Jackson head, and b.)The doctor said I really need to try to steer clear of monkeys in any form for a while.


Oh, and speaking of monkeys, I know you have been wondering what to get me, the girl who has everything (if everything in this sentence equals Mickey Mouse earmuffs, then that's about right) for Christmas. Well, let me make it easy for you, a piece of the Berlin Wall would be just great, because I've always wanted a pet rock and you know what's better than a pet rock? A celebrity pet rock. But if it asks me to start calling it B-Lo or Berlin Wall P Diddy, I'm sending it back. To Berlin. Thanks.


Until we meet again, mes amis. May your days be filled with Tootsie Pops and cotton candy and fabric softener, and may all your Christmases taste like tiramisu and smell like someone's grandma's cookies (but not mine, unless you like the smell of dead grandma cookies. Mmm, dead grandma cookies) and feel like The Velveteen Rabbit, before he got all rancid and diseased and joined forces with The Toaster and killed the little boy, the mom, the doctor, the fairy, and all the real bunnies in the forest (What? That didn't happen in your copy of the book?).

Sour Skittles are much more aerodynamic than regular ones

Have I told you about my problem with Christmas cards yet?
I wish my problem was that I simply hated sending them, but no, god hates me (maybe it has something to do with stealing the Baby Jesus out of the manger, if so all I have to say is god, don't you have more important things to do than hold grudges, and hey, he must get his good looks from you), so of course it's more complex than that.

The problem is, for reasons completely beyond me (my therapist and Gigi my psychic friend), I feel the need to send a Christmas card to everyone I know, and by know I mean people I actually know, plus people I pretend to know, and people I wish I knew, and this doesn't exclude FICTIONAL CHARACTERS from books or television. You think I'm joking, but I swear on The Devil's Dictionary, which is about as close to a bible as it gets for me, last year I sent a Christmas card to George Clooney in which I told him I had always wanted to squeeze him out like a full tube of toothpaste, but never had the courage, and I hoped he would have a wonderful holiday. Yeah. Do you see now what I'm talking about? I need help.

It gets worse, too. I don't know if it's the bottle of wine I drink while making out the cards, or the glow of the lights on the tree, or the second bottle of wine, or the stockings hung by the chimney with care, or the third bottle of wine, or the chestnuts roasting on an open fire, but I tend to get a bit sentimental (translation: drunk). Not only do I send cards to everyone I've ever met in my life, but I use this time to be "open and honest" with everyone I've ever met in my life. I couldn't be one of those people who just writes "Happy Holidays, Love, Me", oh no. It's more like this :


Dear So-and-So (This could be you this year, who the hell knows, it's out of my hands),
'Tis the season! The season of love and warmth and pine cones or pine something anyway because boy it smells piney in here and mistletoe and the truth is I have always been in love with you and I cant stop thinking about you. You, your jingle bells and your huge xmas tree. .. (well, this is usually the point where I turn nasty so I guess I'll just leave it at that)
Best Wishes for a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year!
Love, The Girl From 4G.


Only I don't live in 4G. You didn't really think I would give you my address, did you? You would be on my doorstep by the time I woke up tomorrow with a suitcase, an angry monkey (monkeys are not big on traveling), and a bag of Reese's peanut butter cups to win me over and then I would feel compelled to have sex with you invite you in and then you would hack me into little pieces just so you'd have something to write about in your next novel. I'm so on to you guys. But back to me. Me, me, me. The only solution I see to this card thing is one of you writing them out for me. (Woo! My Common Sense is back! First though, I must buy a book on the Practice of Wooing, as I don't know a thing about Wooing, or even if Wooing is a real word. Then Woo with all my might so that I may one day again be able to make a single decision that I won't live to regret and will be able to tell that trying to put a Baby Pit Bull on a payment plan is another Bad Idea, no matter how cute it is when it nibbles my toes.)

Anyway, thanks, you're a peach. Hope you don't get any paper cuts from licking the envelopes and bleed to death, because I hear most of your blood is stored in your tongue. Yay, Holidays! Yay, You for writing my cards! I feel the love tonight, I am totally Elton John or maybe I'm Simba from The Lion King, but either way, I feel the love!

My only problem is randomly spanking strange men.

I know, I know, you were hoping I wouldn't update for like another 10 years so as to give you time to absorb the full flavor of my last post and maybe, I don't know, seek some therapy to help you deal with what you read, but sorry! I had to do it.

I am truly, madly, deeply AN IDIOT and it's a miracle I've survived this long.
I define being an idiot as not being able to:
a.)Open car doors on my own
b.)Figure out how to take the toilet paper thingy off the toilet paper holder thingy so as to put on a new roll of toilet paper with out asking for help
c.)Wear socks that don't leave behind a trail of glitterish tinsel that is harmful to small children and pets
d.)Not hit people with my bag everywhere I go
e.)Figure out how to ride the bus (seriously, there should be some sort of course on riding the bus, in which they teach you How Not To Piss The Bus Driver Off, How Not To Trip Getting On AND Off The Bus, And of course How To Get On The Right Bus) which when coupled with d. this is downright dangerous...
f.)Make a single decision, no matter how trivial, and yes, I am one of Those Girls, who say "I don't know, you decide" or "I don't care, you pick" when asked a question.
and g)I was watching "Buffy" early the other evening. Yeah, I just admitted that. One of my dear, dear friends is always telling me I need to "accept" my dorkiness. So this is me accepting it. Sometimes, when I'm tired and want to take a nap on the sofa I put "Buffy" on (she says while blushing uncontrollably).

Ugh. You have my permission to put me out of my misery. I am afraid, very afraid, that I am merely a step away from "I don't eat buffalo wings because I don't like buffalo" and "Chicken of the sea, so is it chicken or tuna?"-territory, and assassination is the only solution. Now, if you'll excuse me I have to go follow the trail of glittery tinsel to the forest where I'm sure Yogi Bear and Boo Boo are just waiting to push me in an oven and turn me into pie.

In the haze of an extra choc-ice

Have you seen my 85,000 year old neighbor man? I suspect him of slipping a roofie into the bottled water he gave me yesterday when I saw him shuffling around outside muttering "no drinking water, no drinking water"..

Do not be fooled. He is not who he is claiming to be. He is going by the alias "Gilbert", but that's all it is, an alias.

He is wanted in 49 states for fraud, the robbery of a produce market, and lewd conduct. He is also wanted for questioning in the stampede that led to Billy Joel's untimely death. He is considered unarmed, but extremely dangerous, especially when confronted or fed potatoes. He already got me to agree to spend an evening with him by throwing me off with that "did he say spend an evening with me or do you grow beets?" thing, it's pretty clear I'm a sure thing, isn't it? But let's not get into that right now, the important thing here is that if you see this geriatric do not try to apprehend him yourself. Leave it to the professionals.

I beg of you, call your local Monkey Catcher and put your tax dollars to work. A $50,000,000,000,000 reward, payable in yellow m&m's only, will be offered for the capture of this doddering deviant (indeed, I'm all about alliteration).

I always wanted to be a camp counselor

Now that the month of Hellvember is almost over, I can concentrate on the important things. Things that I have been unable to attend to as I have been hiding under my covers for most of the month. I think you know what I'm talking about.

First off, the canceling of 502 magazine subscriptions (erm...yes...that IS including Cosmo...whatever, I don't need to explain myself to yous people.). It's still unclear how I acquired these subscriptions, although I can almost see myself up late at night, delirious, high on shrooms and ketamine, in tears, calling some 1-900-SubscribeMeToAllYourMagazinesBecauseIamSadAndPatheticThanks number. Obviously I need help. Yes, I do. All of these magazines are getting in the way of my budding relationship with my mailman. I can just about sense his frustration at trying to cram all 502 of these magazines in my tiny mailbox (I swear this isn't a metaphor, no, no, no) even though he hasn't said anything to me (ever, except for those conversations we have in my head in which he tells me he begged to be on my route and then we ride off into the sunset together in his mail truck).

Then my chocolate biscuits, I'll need to engage in even more serious matters. Namely the firing of Gigi, my Psychic Friend. I did what she said and screened all calls and didn't talk to anyone except her for the month, but if she's so psychic why didn't she tell me I was going to forget to turn the volume down on my answering machine and so still hear every damn phone call I didn't want to hear in the first place? Hmmm? And she didn't warn me about the Hellmouth in my living room opening up and vampires coming out and taking over my house or that I was going to acquire an unsettling addiction to fabric softener or those annoyingly addictive Buffy-reruns or that I was going to get fired from my job as a sports agent after writing that mission statement and have to start my own company with Renee Zellweger who had me at hello, and her son who is probably a serial killer because he knows how much the human head weighs and who just wants to go to the f@#king zoo. So yeah, she's fired.

And finally, the one I'm most dreading...finding a way out of my "evening" with 85,000 year old neighbor (I know what you're thinking, because I'm thinking it too "Ewww, old people"). I'm thinking it's too late to pretend I don't speak Dutch/I'm really a man/I'm really Hannibal Lecter/I moved to Guam/I'm a xenophobe/or I'm one of the stars of The Cat In The Hat and so will be out of the country on a promotional tour for the rest of my life, but there has to be a way out. Maybe if I show him my glow worm collection? Show him my hockey mask? Pretend to have a crack addiction? (Did I say pretend? Who am I kidding?)

*Sigh*

So much to do, so little time.

There's a definite lack of chicken carcasses under the bed.

The other night I got into my car, put the key in the ignition and it blew up. No, I'm kidding (I know you were concerned, you probably had one hand on the phone getting ready to call me/911/moviefone to see if I'm ok and/or when that new Kevin Bacon movie is coming to a theatre near you. Well rest assured, I am fine/there IS no new Kevin Bacon movie). What really happened was I got in my car, turned it on, started driving and the most horrible thought popped into my head. I actually thought "man it would so suck right now if someone was in the back seat waiting to kill me and heard me singing along to this Whitney Houston song". Now a SANE paranoid schizophrenic might worry about the (non-existent) person trying to kill them. An INsane paranoid schizophrenic, though, worries about the (non-existent) potential murderer hearing her sing. To Whitney. Yeah. Clearly I have issues!

But anywayz, can I just say that generally I have never had the highest regard for the month of November? And now specifically I HATE you, November.
Really, really, potentially I hate you even more than I hate Luxembourg

(which I hate for many, many obvious and completely objective reasons, all of which I will not state in this particular post as I would simply be repeating myself I will not grant fucking Luxembourg the satisfaction. Screw you Luxembourg, you fuckwaffle!)

Really, I want to hire a hit man and have November taken out back and shot (I would do it myself, but that's just what November wants, for me to go to prison for 11th degree murder). Now that I think about it, maybe murder won't be necessary. Maybe what I will do is file a lawsuit against the month. God knows I at least deserve compensation for emotional damages. Even Johnny Cochran can't help you now, November!

Emotional Distress Endured At The Hands Of November:

-The depletion of all my brain cells (What else would cause me to misspell "Ark", and what's worse, try to cover up by attempting to convince the person I was using the French spelling?).

-Dreams in which Pauly Shore told me I expect too much, dogs ruled the world, and I was eaten alive by a large cotton candy cone. Or was it that a large cotton candy cone told me I expect too much, Pauly Shore ruled the world, and dogs ate me alive? I forget (see above depletion of brain cells).

-Leaves. Leaves in my hair, leaves in my pants (somehow), leaves everywhere.

-The progression of my case of Wanting What I Can't Have from mildly unpleasant yet entirely medicable condition to Hopeless Terminal Disease. The doctors have now ruled out any chance of recovery. I am doomed. Doomed, I tell you! And it's not even half over yet!
I'm thinking if I get a sympathetic jury I can get millions. Millions of what, I don't know. Calendars? For when they have to remake them all because not only did they reward me my emotional damages, but decided November was no longer fit to be one of our twelve precious months?! Who wants to be my attorney? I can pay you in yellow m&m's, murky water, and slabs of concrete.

Note to Luxembourg: Size does matter.

Right. So. Hi. Anyone still out there? No? Great, then I can skip the part about my delayed existential crisis involving the Olsen Twins, Lysol disinfectant, satellites falling from the sky, Grasshoppers, Mika's "Love Today" played 57 times straight and why you shouldn't ever trust a man in a white turtleneck or eat handfuls of raw meat from the backseat of a station wagon and get right to the part where I'm going to offer you many wise and important pieces of advice during this post. Because voices are telling me to (damn annoying Fran Dresher-like voice that makes me want to hurt myself repeatedly.).

And of that advice please note that war MUST be declared on Luxembourg, it is the only alternative to putting up with their shenanigans and if World War 2 has taught us anything it's when in doubt as to the intentions of a German speaking country, it's best to be vigilant. Besides, they are a landlocked nation, and everyone knows landlocked nations are for losers.

Now then, does anyone want to join my newly formed Country, Amnesia (Well it's actually more of a cross between a country and an empire with a democratic monarchy and a motto of "Where Skull Bashing Is Law Of The Land", but you get the picture.) ,and help? They’ve never been much of a fighting force, should be easy…

Ok, ok, I know you're all "no, really, what have you been up to in all these many, many days you have neglected to post and thus forced us to watch barnyard animal porn and read Bart De Wever’s blog (and never the two shall meet)?" but that will have to wait until tomorrow. The other inpatients want to use the computer to write a letter to Catherine Zeta-Jones and I still have to finish my paper maché Donald Trump Head before Lights Out.

Raisin ramblings

Last night, King Haldol (who is actually just my mailman, but will henceforth be referred to as King Haldol...) sat brooding in Castle Vicodin on the planet Xanax, near the great Demerol Forest and the river Wellbutrin, called and insisted I meet him for a drink. He had that sort of tone in his voice that meant he would soon go after strangers' eyes with a salad fork, and because I am a good friend, I agreed.

(Unnecessary Note: I really am a good friend. Some people may not think so, because as we've established earlier, I'm difficult. I tend to dissapear for days at a time, sometimes I borrow things and sort of forget to give them back, and I will tell you that you are full of shit if, indeed, you are full of shit. You'd be amazed at how many people don't appreciate that. Oh, and I also have this silly diary where I may or may not reveal embarrassing personal details about you. On the plus side, however, I am incredibly loyal, sort of the human equivalent of a golden retriever, I will allways stick up for you in public or private, and if you demand that I meet you for a drink I will walk over my own grandmother to do so. Just make sure you include the words 'for a drink'.)

And well, It was fun. And if my soul hadn't gone out on yet another drinking binge, I bet it would feel so cleansed right now, so, I think next time I'd rather go play in traffic. Or I would if there was any traffic at 1:30 in the freaking morning. So maybe I won't. But I will think about playing in traffic. And then I will maybe go to sleep and pretend I'm in a coma as a result of the imaginary playing in traffic. And then maybe you will come visit me and leave me flowers that I can't see because they're not real and I'm not really in a coma anyway.

I feel pretty & witty & gáááááy!

All I really wanted for my birthday this year was an ark, Good Luck Bear to admit he is a mockery of a Care Bear, and Ben Folds to perform his rendition of "Tiny Dancer" for me at my surprise birthday party that should be reminiscent of Kelly's surprise birthday party on that episode of Beverly Hills, you know, the one in which she ended up passing out in the bathroom after downing a package of diet pills, only minus that part, but with the same guest list and add Ben Folds and me as The Tiny Dancer and you've got my dreambirthdayparty.

Yet somehow, none of this happened. Seriously people, what gives? Was I perhaps not clear enough (although I highly doubt it...)?

*sigh*

Fine...

I guess I AM (kind of) difficult. I'm a big enough person to admit this. I can't stop it, and even if I tell you I wish I could, I'm lying.

I lie. I like to argue. I think O.J. is innocent. I will never, ever watch A Beautiful Mind, just because. I have a shoe-tying test that I administer to people with out their knowing and if you fail, you're just not worthy of my time, sorry. I have never worn gloves, wait, that's not true, I've worn surgical gloves (Shut up, like you haven't worn surgical gloves!), but I mean winter gloves. I'm a mitten girl. I ask really obvious questions, like "Are you sleeping?" when you're sleeping and "Did that hurt?" when you stab yourself in the leg with a fork after I tell you about how I don't really blame the Menendez Brothers or when I tell you I can't come out to play because Jerry Maguire is on again, and who knows, maybe this time it will end differently, maybe this time Renee Zellweger's bastard son will get eaten by a pack of wolves at the zoo, it could happens. And I expect my friends to come up with an ark and Ben Folds on my birthday (not to mention Good Luck Bear). Deal with it.

Love me; love my high level of difficulty.

The magic 8 ball says "Outlook Not Good"

Ok. Well, yeah, I've been missing in action for the past couple of days, but really, there was no need for you to seek solace in drugs or alcohol or barnyard animal sex. Really.

Anyway. Listen, I can explain my absence, really I can. It's like this. I'm pretty sure I was taken hostage by Mai Mai rebels in the Congo. Again. I mean, it's definitely either that or I recently became Mrs. Alice Cooper and have been in Arizona on my honeymoon. Or I was incarcerated for taking obscene photos of my mailman. Or I was incarcerated for drugging and tying up my mailman so I could take the aforementioned photographs. Or maybe I just decided to devote my life to ice skating and spent the last 14 days trying out for The Special Olympics Disney On Ice.

Is it so hard for you people to believe that I might have been recording an album of romantic duets and Air Supply covers with 50 Cent? Fiddy frowns on blogging, you know. I suggested he start a blog, but when I told him guns weren't involved he asked if we could just get back to singing "Making Love Out of Nothing At All". So we did.

Hey. Did I mention I have nothing to say? Because I don't. Clearly. You see I've been working on getting my affairs in order and suchlike. Since this IS my final year of college I figured I might as well do things right for a change. However, things have not quite been going my way, I missed a few deadlines and well, there's a whole bunch of other administration I should really get sorted and now I have to go write out my wedding gift thank you cards (oh, you didn't send a gift? Nice, real nice. I'll remember that. And so will Alice. And also, Alice says to tell you that people GO TO HELL for lesser things! and you KNOW he KNOWS), pick up trash along the highway as part of my community service (definitely worth it for those nude mailman photos, let me tell you)...

But instead I decided to put on my new swim goggles (they're pink and sparkly!) in the bathtub and pretend I'm deep sea diving.


I know, I MUST remember to start taking my meds again. Immediately. The green ones. We don't want any more incidents like this now, do we?

Comme tartine et boterham

I would like to have magical things. I have this pencil in my room that I use to kill spiders. I use the pointy end to jab the big spiders, and the eraser side to snuff out the little ones. I would say I've killed a few hundred of the little buggers. It would be so useful if it was like "Sting" from LOTR and it began to glow an eerie blue light when a spider was around. That would spare me the nasty shock of coming upon the spiders unexpectedly.

I also think it would be fun to have something like a magical green scarf that could fly around and get me things. I'm sick of pausing Mariokart so I can grab a soda. Go get my soda, scarf! And a sandwich! And make it snappy!

Of course, with my luck, Scarf would probably soon turn into one of the most tedious slipper-toting bores - yapping on about machines, or buying and selling things for a ludicrously small amount of profit or loss on some gay online auction, fond of Laura Ashley and round toed shoes, trying shove me into dungarees, DUNGAREES (the lesbian wardrobe staple) in some pathetically weak, Turkish bid to keep other leering scarves away. Typical Scarf behavior.

Also, some random fucktard has stolen my wallet. On my birthday. Tragic isn’t it?

Violence solved everything

To Whom It May Concern,

I can not come out to play today. I am too busy snorting my new shampoo (Yeah, most people just wash their hair with it. Not me. I like to snort it. And by snort I mean not just smell, I mean consume nasally.) Especially when I'm in a store and probably on camera and there are people around and they're all like "what the hell is wrong with that girl"

Really, I busy, what with trying to bring down Amazon.com/drinking mass quantities of Ecco Bella Botanicals Vanilla Bean shampoo/plotting and scheming to rule the world, or at least half of it/power washing my windows...

(ok, fine, I'm not really power washing my windows. I am closing them though so that the nice window power washing people don't power wash the inside of my house as well, does that count?)

.../asking my ouija board such life altering questions as "Is my next door neighbor a serial killer?" and "First they had tickle me Elmo, then Chicken Dance Elmo, then Limbo Elmo, now Hokey Pokey Elmo, when is Drunk One Night Stand Elmo coming out?"/dancing around to Outkast's "Happy Valentine's Day" until my neighbors call the police (any minute now, did I mention I'm naked and on my front lawn?)/praying to the God of all things cookie that I have the sense to not post this (but knowing even he can't help me now) and whatnot.

Seriously, Don't call me, I'll call you

(when my play clothes are clean and I'm ready to rumble).


Love,
Me

"No roofies necessary" is what mommy used to say

The good news is I don't have Monkey Pox. The bad news is I’m still not interested in anything unless it's something I can't have and if it becomes gettable I don't want it anymore.

For example (par exemple for those of you who are French-speaking, because I cater to all here), I would really like to have Michael Vartan & Olivier Martinez as my love slaves ánd a monkey (but not as a love slave, more like a laundry and foot rubbing slave), but if you were to say, give me those tomorrow (you're too kind!), I would no doubt lose interest. Is this some sort of psychotic disorder, or am I just being a 'typical woman' as y mailman likes to say (which I , of course, deeply resent, being the borderline feminist that I am) ? And if so, why do I still think this all relates back to that summer I ate nothing but peanut butter and jelly sandwiches?

Either way, this life-threatening case of Wanting What I Can't Have is worse than originally diagnosed. I'm like a walking, talking Enrique Iglesias song, that's how sad and pathetic I am.

Antibiotics won't help, Nyquil won't help, and I never thought I would say this, but even Vicks Vapo Rub won't help. The doctors are giving me 6-8 weeks to GET A GRIP, but I'm thinking they're just being optimistic. Now is not the time for optimism, however. Now is also not the time to read a whole mind numbing ("Find Out What Type Of Sexy You Are!" or "7 Strange Ideas Guys Have About Sex!") issue of Cosmopolitan (although I almost enjoyed "15 Times To Be A Bitch!") OR eat meals consisting entirely of gummi (gummi bears, gummi worms, gummi fish) OR try to teach my cats, (all 5 orphans are well alive & kicking & scratching & hissing…) how to attack on command (stupid cats, they're lucky I don't send them to a cat sweatshop in Cambodia with Minnie Driver) OR re-record my outgoing answering machine message because no one else will think singing a medley of The Strokes' "You Talk Way Too Much" and The White Stripes' "There's No Home For You Here" as the message is as funny or brilliant as I do.

I'm in such a sucktabulous mood that I can't even muster up the strength to tell you in detail (I'm all about details, you know) how I found the new best shampoo ever and how I almost orgasmed while washing, rinsing, and repeating (oh you know I repeated).

Maybe tomorrow... (Aha! Something to look forward to! Bet I just made your day)

Plimsoll and cookiedough

So.
Exciting news.
I have a crush and I can tell you're dying of curiosity, so I'll give you a hint...his name starts with an G and ends with an D.

Just kidding. That's not a crush. That's true lust. Or love.

No, I'm kidding again. It's a good thing he doesn't read this or I would be writing this from hell.

Anyway, back to my crush, So it's kind of a weird crush. Ok, ok, you twisted my arm, I'll tell you. It’s God. Yep. I haven't been posting because I found God. In an alley. Any more information would be a direct violation of the Confidentiality Agreement they made me sign. They? Yeah, they. And there's really nothing else I can say until God and his Apostles pack up their traveling alley circus and head for greener, holier pastures.


There is one thing though (and I'm pretty sure this won't violate any confidentiality), a love between God and I could never work. How do I know? Because God tends to whine about his weight, which is just beyond gay. Be a fat bastard - or don't be one - I don't care. Just don't tell everyone else what they should be eating as some of us want to eat things we like - rather than fucking lettuce. But there he is, omnipresent and allknowing as he tends to be , ready to whip the packet of cookies out of my hands and hide it - just so he, the pathetic male that he is, can eat the biscuits later and then beat himself up in a frenzy of weak-willed self-hatred. It’s beyond sad.

Yep.
Only not really.
But you know what is a smidge frightening and just a tad alarming? If you google the words “god”, “hot” and “action” the search yields many, many lesbian anime porn sites. Try it. You might like it.


In other exciting and possibly related, possibly not related news, I think I have Mono or Monkey Pox or ADD or ADHD or OCD or PB&J or SOS or SOL.
Symptoms include, but are not limited to, fatigue, sensitivity to light (when I say light I mean that Michael J. Fox movie Bright lights, Big city), benevolent feelings towards Donald Trump, overwhelming desire to listen to Bananarama, a pain in my right leg when I attempt to do Jumping Jacks on my way to A Newer, Happier Me, an inability to keep down any solid food other than Girl Scout cookies, and an unabashed fondness for perfume samples in magazines compounded with the need to Share The Scent, which, frankly, can only end badly. Imagine me being hauled off to the police station, my Coco Mademoiselle scented wrists in handcuffs, after trying to force innocent people to "SMELL MY WRISTS, GODDAMN IT!"

As you can see these symptoms are quite severe. So today I did what any other potentially disease ridden person would do, or at least what my mother would do when any of us kids were bleeding from the eye sockets or puking up Legos and she didn't want to take us to the doctor.
I got some Vicks Vapo Rub.

So now, all that’s left for me to do is I ask you to make sure that someone sings “Venus” at my funeral. Preferably Donald Trump. With choreography by Paula Abdul. Because, as we’ve ascertained earlier, praying is not going to work as God is busy gorging on my cookies.

Thank You.

Really, I must sleep now.

Telepathic blog posts and chicken recipes

I have become a mommy.

‘Tis true, I adopted 5 tiny little kittens…I guess it’s official now, since I got spurned by my hot Mailman (long story, the important thing here is that he’s still delivering my mail, so all is not lost), I HAVE turned into the crazy catlady of my neighborhood. Not that I had a choice in the matter. I found them. In a box. By the side of the road. In the middle of nowhere. On my morning run (Hah! I admit, I DO occasionally exercise. I have to, bikini-time is nigh).

I love the little buggers to death already, but the regular feedings are getting to me, I’m dying of sleep deprivation again and I’ve still not fully recovered from last time I died.

Honestly, right now, the only thing that makes sense other than going on a killing spree is jumping in the sewer to get super powers to deal with nighttime bottle feedings (isn't that how the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles did it, I'd be like The Twenty-Something Mutant Ninja Me, Saturday morning cartoons would rise again, and I would kick August’s ass into next year. And in the morning I would fight evil!) And no, I've not totally lost all touch with my old friend REALITY, in case you were wondering. Because guess what?! I'm Superhero material! I have a Superhero cape (so what if it's a sheet, B. tells me it's ok as long as it doesn't have pee on it), I have Superhero boots (They are purple and glittery and look like a drag queen might have died wearing them), I have a unique Superhero ability to sense Kylie Minogue songs before they even come on the radio (this is helpful in Saving The World From Unnecessary Pain) AND I retain an unbelieveably high tolerance for really bad television ( this is helpful so that I’m not weakened when face to face with an enemy such as Tori Spelling)

Ah, Being a Superhero would be so much better than being a Lifetime Movie of The Week. Unless it's that new one about syphilis.

Contemplating songs about the weather channel.

My therapist says I don't need a man to validate me, I just need to have sex with him on the couch in his office for 200 euros an hour. So yeah, I'm fine. Thanks for asking.

There is one thing though (and I'm pretty sure this won't violate any confidentiality), The Boy and I could never have worked out anyway. How do I know? Well, firstly he lives on the other side of the world (and yes, I do realize Switzerland is not technically the other side of the world , but for all intents and purposes it might as well be) and secondly, because he walks around the house while brushing his teeth, instead of just standing in the bathroom in front of the sink. You know, like a normal person. Bastard. It freaks me out, and it’s probably the most irrational fear I have but when I'm washing my face (because sometimes my face gets that 'not so fresh feeling', ok?) or brushing my teeth I'm constantly afraid someone is going to sneak up behind me and bash my skull into the sink and kill me, so obviously I can’t have somebody walking around when I’m doing all these secret things that involve me bending over the sink. It may be a result of watching too many horror movies or maybe it's because one time someone actually did that to me and I died and dying is not as fun as you might think, especially if you have to clean up after.

So, I’ve decided I’m done with The Boy and I now have no choice but to focus on my dear, sweet, sexy mailman again. And I might have gotten a little too drunk yesterday and sent him an inappropriate message, despite some appropriate advice telling me it would be a Bad Idea. And it may have read something like:

"Dear Mr. Mailman, the truth is I have always been in love with you and I know you're married and you have 9 children and you're my mailman, but you're so gentle when you put my magazines in my mailbox, making sure not to tear a single page, and I suspect you have always loved me, too, so let's not fight it any longer, let's be together, today, now, I want to rip your mailman uniform off you and have hot mailman sex with you in your mail truck and if I can't have you I see no reason to continue this charade of a life I am living. Please be my baby's daddy. I don't need chocolates or flowers, just you (in full mailman uniform as mentioned), me and your mail truck. "

Now, I fully understand this may backfire and I’m at serious risk of not receiving my mail ever again. But then maybe, just maybe he’ll ask me to be his Mail Wife and live happily ever after with him in Mail Land.

And why should the good times stop now that Monday is looming on the horizon? Why, damn it, why? It shouldn't, exactly, I couldn't agree more, you are so intelligent, this is why I keep you around, I love you. Umm. Wait, what just happened? Where was I? Oh yeah, tomorrow, in honor of my mailman I will be practicing a very impressive experimental dance choreography, expressing my undying love for him of course.
Lovely.

A plus tard is not au revoir

I have a problem. I know, you're probably thinking no f@#king kidding crazy girl, but this is a different kind of problem. And I swear there will be no mention here of Kelly, Brenda, Dylan, Steve, Donna, David, and let's not forget Nat, because Nat makes the pie after all.

I finally said goodbye to The Boy two days ago. The send-off turned a little boozy and teary where I cried a bit onto his shirt and then we had sex. Which was nice.

I'm just a litttle emotional right now, like this morning when I watched The Little Mermaid and I just couldn't stop crying in that OHMYGODSHE'SAMERMAID!SHELIVESUNDERTHESEA!IHOPESHEGETSTHEHANDSOMEPRINCE! kinda way. I think I'm only hours away from going Kathy-Bates-In-Misery crazy

Really, what's a girl to do? Go on a drinking binge? Have gratuitous sex? Bake a batch of my World Famous Bailey's Peanutbutter and M&M's Cookies? In the nude? Run away to Boston, home of two really cute boys and one really cute girl, and I'm not sure, but maybe even a pizza place, for a few days? What I ask you, what?

Either way, I decided to make ice cream, because making ice cream is comforting, it makes me think there is a reason for living, a greater good even. Only... when I opened the freezer I underestimated my own super human strength and hit myself in the head with the freezer door, which left a big red mark, which will in all probability later turn black and blue, which will in turn cause someone to refer me to som kind of Woman's Shelter, which will only remind me that, no, I do not HAVE a husband. Not even a wife-beating one. I am all alone. *Sob* And the vicious cycle never, ever ends, because later I will realize that in all the pain and wonder of it all I forgot to make the ice cream.

I can only hope that I will not become The Crazy Cat Woman of the neighborhood. The one that smells like cat litter and spends all of her social security check on cat food for Fluffy, Muffy, Buffy, Kitty, Smitty, Smokey, Pokey, Mr. Whiskers, and Snowball.

Liquor in the front, poker in the rear

I was going to wait until I actually had a baby or was at least expecting a child sometime in the near future to say this, but I just couldn't hold it in any longer, it was eating me up inside, or maybe that's all the Goldfish I have been consuming. Whatever, today I declared my love to The Boy in the usual junior high fashion that I use to declare my love - I told him I wanted to have his babies. Mostly because I didn’t want him to be mad at me because I killed his keyboard (it was apparently not ok, it is now apparently defunct. Who knew keyboards don’t like cherry coke? Did you? Really?) I kept waiting for him to spontaneously burst into flames, because of the implication of an over-active, calculated and eager biological clock preying on his uncharacteristic submission to monogamy.
He never did, he was not impressed. He must get that a lot.

Anyway, now that I'm over that *Sob* two things occurred to me. (I know you're on the edge of your seat, your eyes are watering, your teeth are grinding, your stomach is in knots, well maybe you should up your meds, but this is about me, let's get back to me, me, me, and me, ending your suspense.)

The first thing that occurred to me was there are many, many uses for salad tongs, and yet this utensil gets very little recognition and this makes me want to weep openly for my mommy, I don't think this has anything to do with the fact that I was conceived with the help of some salad tongs, but my therapist says maybe. You can use them to toss salad, to get salad out of the bowl, to put place salad from the bowl onto your plate, to pick up monkey poop, to braid your hair (As Seen On TV), to scratch your back, to scratch your upstairs neighbor's giraffe's back, to keep wild cats away, to dig through the dirt if you get buried alive (this is why I have specified in my will that I wish to be buried with my salad tongs. In case a certain someone, who stand to inherit my millions someone "accidentally" buries me when I am really not dead), to get out of a speeding ticket ("Sorry, officer, these salad tongs fell on the floor of the car and pressed the gas pedal down"), to be your new best friend (BFF! Me and Salad Tongiee!), to jump start your car made out of salad, etc, etc, I think you see what I'm saying. You do, don't you?

The second thing is Mad Cow just means the cows are mad - angry mad, not crazy mad. This whole "deadly disease, infected cows, ban on beef" thing was something the cows thought up at a cow poker game one night while discussing ways to avoid slaughter (the band and the act of being killed, thanks for asking) and get back at those of us partaking of their beefy goodness.
Beau The Cow said "Hey, I know, I'll pretend like I'm going mental, remember when we saw Girl Interrupted on Movie Night? I'll just take my cue from that, and then Murray The Cow can shock my cow heart with the barbed wire from the fence over there when they're not looking and make me appear to die, like in that other movie we saw, Flatliners!". And that's how it all began. Worked like a charm, too. Good thing I'm here to tell you that it's all a big cow conspiracy and you can go get your usual quadruple bypass pounder with cheese at lunch today. Enjoy, and really, don't worry about getting holes in your brain. And even if say, it was true, which it's not, it's just the result of a few angry cows who saw a few too many movies, who cares, Keifer Sutherland and Julia Roberts would bring you back to life, and you'd have something to talk about at parties. Which is really all that matters. Isn't it?

I know you want me (to adopt you)

I have to say Switzerland suits me. I’m thinking it’s probably the abundance of delicious chocolate that’s making me feel right at home. Because when you think about it, and I mean really think about it, life... is like a box of chocolates.

And I don’t mean a cheap, thoughtless, perfunctory gift that no one ever asks for, unreturnable because all you get back is another box of chocolates so that you're stuck with mostly undefinable whipped mint crap, mindlessly wolfed down when there's nothing else to eat while you're watching the game and sure, once is a while you get a peanut butter cup or an English toffee but it's gone too fast and the taste is fleeting, but in the end, you are left with nothing but broken bits filled with hardened jelly and teeth-shattering nuts, which, if you are desperate enough to eat, leaves nothing but an empty box of useless brown paper. (Now isn't that just the longest sentence you've ever read)

No, I mean "Life is like a box of chocolates; you never know what you gonna get" and vanilla ice-cream is like good literature (not sure myself what I mean by that…)

(Is it ok that I dropped my late dinner of blueberry muffin crumbs and diet cherry coke all over Alex' keyboard just now? I should probably be asking the keyboard that, but I am so not in the mood for his holier than thou attitude, so just tell me, is it ok? I mean, really? Everything still seems to be functioning, I haven't seen any sparks yet, and sparks would mean trouble so lack of sparkage is good, no? Yes? Yeah, I'm even confusing myself now.)

Well, it’s either the chocolates or The Boy. But I have to go now, we're busy brushing his 80's music loving Pandacat's teeth and writing each other erotic haikus and drawing nude sketches of each other minus the eroticism and nudity.

Short of money and low on cash

So it has been brought to my attention that I have been a bit angry lately. Sorry. I blame lack of sleep and Jewish people for that.

Wait.. NO I don't blame Jewish people...that's the angry me talking again.
Oh dear Bob whats wrong with me? I like Jewish people...they are nice and I like those hats they wear.

I will try to be nicer from now on, classes are out and I passed (duh) and we all know what that means! Tis the season to empty your savings account, head to Mexico, buy a large cache of cocaine, hide it in your friends' body cavities, and send them back across the border in a separate car, just in case.

Another thing about summer though is that it seems like right near mid June/July, the fat kids start coming out again. (I've got nothing against fat kids. Really. I'm a big enough person that I don't judge books by their cover and yada, yada, yada...)but my guess is that after a month or two of summer, they have forgotten how awkward and humiliating social settings are for them. Must be uncomfortable though, what with the chubbrubb and all.

T'es trop bonne, Madame

Do not mind this entry as I am drunk (yes, at three in the afternoon, I am indeed a disgrace...) Also, my template got messed up "because of high bandwith usage" or whatever the fuck that means. Anyway, because of this and because I am what is commonly refered to as "An Angry Drunk" I am not exactly in the best of moods.

I have the hiccups.
Probably because I am drunk but also because I've decided to live more dangerously. And as we all know that means: drink water out of the wrong side of the glass when you don't even have the hiccups.

And if you want to live really dangerously, drink vodka out of the wrong side of the glass when you don't even have hiccups. And if you want to live really, really dangerously, drink rum out of a the wrong side of a bowl when you don't even have the hiccups. And if you want to live really, really, really dangerously, don't drink anything any way out of any thing when you have the hiccups. Just sit there in your hiccupiness and hiccup.

Either way, I'm going to stop right here, because you cannot believe how long it took me to get this entry typed in moderately acceptable spelling....

I am so drunk right now I need a nap, really.
Either that or pass out right here.................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................

Russian figure skaters everywhere

As I sit here at my desk, it has dawned on me that I'm a Hair Flipper. (Yes, I flip my hair like an annoying little girlie girl, and I do it incessantly). Judge Judy would surely yell at me if I was in her courtroom.

From there on it’s pretty much a given: I’m an incredibly annoying person, but I feel in a sharing mood so I’ll give you some more reasons, just for the hell of it…

I always put the ice cube trays back in the freezer empty. I'm still hoping that there is an Ice Cube Fairy that will flutter in and fill them for me, probably with special Fairy Water out of some remote Fairy Spring like something you might see in Rainbow Land (home of your heroine and mine, Rainbow Brite), and then leave a trail of sparkle Fairy Dust on her way out. (Am I expecting too much again?)

I'm also incapable of washing my hair with out getting shampoo in my eyes and I just learned that Beethoven's favorite meal was macaroni and cheese (It must be true, I read it on my paper towels! All paper towels should in my opinion provide some sort of intellectual stimulation. And yes, by intellectual stimulation I mean pictures of puppies and frogs and Charlie Brown cartoons and the like. Because everyone knows people who own plain paper towels are a.)Devil Worshippers, b.)Blind, or c.) Blind Devil Worshippers.)

That is all.

Sandals do not grow on trees

If you were standing in the right place at the right time tonight you would have heard the following sentence escape from my mouth: "There's a rumbly in my tumbly." The right place being the street corner I turn tricks on, of course. And the right time being 8:47pm and 20 seconds.

Okay, so it might not technically be the first time I've uttered those words it might have just slipped out once or twice before in my sleep (I do actually talk in my sleep, even more so than in my waking hours and yes, that IS possible...), but who can really say, other than the SandMan. And how creepy is that name anyway, The SandMan, it's like he was a reject for Candyman so he goes around putting things in our eyes at night, and wow, I really hope I'm not the only one who knows about the SandMan or else you're probably all thinking I've totally lost my marbles, aren't you? (you should really work on your psychic connection to me, you are missing out on a LOT of chicken recipes and Chicken Soup For The Ass stories).

But let's move on, shall we? Because I have important things on my mind. Like the fact that my brain is now filled with fluff, I woke up inside a tree this morning and I'm turning a golden shade of yellow.

You’ll be glad to know I now have this new found appreciation of honey. No, not you, honey. Food, honey. (at least I think it's food anyway. Or is it more of a condiment? Who cares? Not me.). Surely this can only mean Winnie The Pooh Is Trapped Inside My Body and so I have taken to walking around in a red t-shirt that shows my belly. And nothing else. Because bears don't need no stinking pants, okay?

Well, ok, not really. I wear pants. I just wanted to make sure you knew how serious this Winnie the Pooh inhabiting my body thing is. Because it's serious. Yeah, it is. Any moment now I could say "Oh Bother" go deep into the forest in back of my house in search of The Hundred Acre Wood, and make friends with a pig, a tiger, a rabbit, a donkey and owl.

This might not sound like a problem to some of you, but what happens when I get stuck in a honey tree or my head is lodged in a honey pot? What then, damn it? Who is going to save me? Who???

A utopian carrot guides the brainwashed donkey

I think I may have been insulted by a three year old. I know, I know, I have all the maternal instincts of a dragon lizard (given a chance, they eat their young) and am therefore necessarily "doomed to a life of regretful yearning", and I will definitely become "a shrivelled, twisted and vicious old woman driven by resentment and bitterness." (There is also usually mention of cats. Not sure where the cats come into it - some sort of bizarre contraceptive process?) Whatever, I'd still rather shave my head with a cheese grater while chewing on tinfoil than have kids, but my point was that just like a typical male, he calls me and then after a minute whines "I don't wan tawk him any-mowa, I tawk to him morrow" as he hands the phone to his mom.

Yeah, that's right. He called me a him. So what. He has issues, clearly. I mean we're talking about a boy who drinks out of a sippycup, is afraid of Curious George and allways has jam on his hands (even when there isn't any jam in the house, he get's jam on his hands. I can't deal with jam-hands.). Whatever,  I DO have a big lesbian following, and for whatever reasons they show me love and I'm never going to shun, disrespect or neglect anybody who shows me genuine non-psychotic love, so maybe I DO have a little butch in me.

Pinky LaFemme

I have to tell you, for a while there I was certain all the forces of evil were working against me. But things are now looking up, mes petits choux. My ducks are forming a row, I no longer feel the need to turn to drugs/Jerry Maguire/prostitution/primal scream therapy for help getting through the day, and somewhere in the distance instead of "Road to Nowhere" I can hear, ever so slightly, The Talking Heads' "Stay Up Late."

The only potential cloud in my I-Can-See-Clearly-Now-The-Rain-Is-Gone sky?

I couldn't sleep last night. I tried and tried. I counted sheep, I counted monkeys, I counted the number of people whose bare feet I've seen, but, alas (enter abnormality), one thing and one thing only kept popping into my head and making me giggle like An Insomniac On Crack, the phrase "There are no strangers...Only friends we haven't met." What the hell??? (allthough I suppose it ís better than that time I couldn't sleep because Donna and David from Beverly Hills, 90210 were having sex in my head.)

It might possibly, probably, definitely be the dread of failing my (last!) exam on friday... I mean, really, who knew European law is not quite as easypeasy as I had envisaged it to be (truly, it makes me want to cry and bake poison cookies to feed on after locking myself in my non-existent attic.)

It's all good though, because there's allways my plan B: Selling flowers out of a van on the side of the highway. For like...money...or beads...for like making earrings...

The choice is yours, Daniel-san

I found one of my old diaries and I have decided to share: (unfortunately, I can't post a picture of this particular entry , as it was written in French and well, that would just be mean. Although it ís a shame you won't see the sparkly pink ink and the use of exlamation mark smiley faces)

"...Hannes actually spoke to me - directly to me - today. For the first time (at lunch!). His friend David kept tapping me on the shoulder (They were sitting behing me & Ann!) So I turned around and looked right into Hannes' Big Brown Eyes (The biggest!!) and he goes "Do you have a quarter?" and then I said "A what?" and he said "A quarter." And of course he picked a day when I didn't, so I said "No" And then he kept asking everyone, but I was so happy after that. I only wish I had a quarter to give him, then he'd have to pay me back so he'd have to talk to me again!..."

I love the detailed transcription of the conversation and especially my twelve year old reasoning. I was convinced having a quarter would have changed my life because he would have "had" to pay me back and then he would have "had" to talk to me again.
And thus declare his undying love.
And ask me to go steady.
And have hot unprotected sex with me in his Mazda Miata. (well, maybe not quite yet...)

Sigh. I'm going to try this tactic out on my mechanic and/or mailman tomorrow.

So, if you see a crazy woman running down the street chasing a man in uniform/overalls yelling “I know you NEED a quarter and I have one, I have a quarter for you! TAKE MY QUARTER!”
It’s just me.
Do not be afraid.

Anyway, back to my OhI'mjustpeelingpotatoeslalalaheywaitisthat?ohmygodthepotatoes!they'reALIVEandscreamingandPISSED-dream now.
Go forth and be brave, pound puppies.

Tinkerbell on a really serious bender

Allow me to tell you something, mes petits legumes,

Life is currently not the bowl of peanut butter cups it promised to be, I woke up this morning and realized my dear, dear Common Sense had packed its bags and left for greener pastures.

Was it perhaps something I did? Something I said?

Oh please come back, Common Sense, since you took away my ability to tell a good idea from a bad idea to the sunny island of Hahaheeheehoohoo, I am unable to function like a normal human being. I have already made several grave errors involving phone calls and things better left unsaid, not to mention baking cookies when you haven't slept in eleven billion days other than a few minutes. (For Jesus will pick just thát time to strike you down with extreme fatigue and you will pass out and wake up an hour and a half after putting the cookies in the oven to a whole lot of smoke and no cookies.)


I know what you are thinking, and well, I'm thinking it too.
Did that crazy girl just blame Jesus for a kitchen fire and burnt cookies?
Did she mean Jesus our savior or Hey-Zeus her gardener?
Well, as of yet I don't have a gardener (or a garden for that matter). But if I did his name would be Jesus. And he would lovingly tend to my garden everyday I'm sure.


And now here I am, left to dispose of the evidence of what was once mistaken to be a good idea, but which I’m pretty sure is commonly considered as being a pretty bad idea.

I really, really wanted those cookies, can you tell?

Adventures in squirrel taming

I have the kind of brain fog that comes from catching up on night-sleep during the day,( maybe kinda like Joe, from Joe & the Volcano), there is no study or any kind of exam preparation when the brain is fogged over.

The brain fog also means I can't handle anything too complex or long and my fragile mental health means I shouldn't read anything that could upset me. So, no sociology of culture today, for it is both too complex and upsetting for me to handle.

Other than that I have about fifty-six million, one hundred and eighty-two thousand things I need to be doing. Things I could be doing. Things I should be doing. Things like sleeping or eating or saving the world or ...
Well, anything really, but as I said before, the brain fog has completely taken over (that's my excuse and I'm sticking to it)

So, instead I've been doing what I don't need to be doing and shouldn't be doing, but am doing anyway because when I kill time, I kill it dead.



Also, I know my archives are in Spanish (or possibly Italian, or maybe even Portuguese), I have no idea how that happened.
Computers are complicated.

The IQ of a satsuma

Hmmm...'oral exam'...it does sound kinda dirrrty doesn't it?

So. I need a DISTRACTION. Yeah. It’s that serious.

A distraction that involves time travel is totally okay. In case you know a guy who knows a guy who can hook me up. And I don’t mean time travel as code for crack. Really. Well, I haven’t completely ruled out a drug addiction, because what could be more distracting than that.

Attaching bunny ears to my cats' head and making her pose for pictures, you say? Well, I'm not quite at that stage of the disease yet, thanks for asking. Maybe next year.

I'm thinking of painting my nails Vixen Red to see if there is any truth to the Amish tale that red nail polish equals sex. Yeah, I know what you are thinking (and I know what you've been doing. Just because you can't see me doesn't mean I can't see you. Everyday my super hero powers get a little bit stronger. It helps that I'm wearing my Wonder Woman underwear, vuile bieste!).

Yes,I did try sleeping for a while, but the caffeine is working against me on that.

Balderdash & piffle

I really, really have a thing for guys who tie their hair back into a bun. I used to prefer curly hair, but now I'm a bun-girl all the way....

Anyway, today has been an important day in the life of me.
Monumental even.
You see, today I had an epiphany.

I realized that we easily waste 25% of our life waiting in a line of some sort. Actually,it’s not just waiting in line, it’s waiting in general. We waste a big chunk of our lives just simply waiting. You wait in traffic, you wait in the drive thru line at McDonalds, you wait at the post office,you wait at the grocery store,you wait for waiters at restaurants… dammit, everywhere you go you have to wait.

Even today, I had an appointment to take an oral exam at 2 pm., unfortunately so had 13 other people and so today I realised you can cut in line with impunity.

I think it's up to their horde mentality, but people rarely do or say anything. Belgians in particular, they're allways so...composed...

And you know what? There are few things more satisfying than breezing past throngs of impatient people, feeling their murderous gaze of jealousy as you nonchalantly and unapologetically cut in front of them.

I say, more power to the jerks that like to cut in line. They're not assholes, they're freakin’ geniuses.

I got soul but I'm not a soldier

I just pulled an all-nighter and it is quite possible that I have more coffee than blood running through my veins right now.

I had my second exam today, for which I was totally not prepared...as usual...
Only, this time I got so stressed I actually broke out in hives.
So not attractive.

At least I think they were hives ( it might be the caffeine-overdose...)

Anyway, whatever it was, it made me look all patchy from the neck down, so there was no showing off my cleavage for a passing grade this time. (Do not worry, I am not a whore, I allways use the amahzing power of my breastices responsibly)

It's a good thing I can allways rely on my extraordinary bullshitting skills in situations like these. Yay me!

Harmonica sunbeam

You know, I think I passed my exam, I really think I might have...

So that's only five more to go, that's 18 more days...We'll see how I do.

I am a lot less stressed though, I spent about 2 hours in a traffic jam this morning, so I got a change to get a lot of my frustrations go.

Some might call it road rage, I call it somewhat of a therapy session.
I especially enjoy excessive honking, yelling, cursing (a lót) and making rude gestures at old geriatrics that no longer have the reflexes or basic mobility to drive.
It's so... cleansing.

Allez les blues!

I have honestly tried to update every day and you have to admit I managed to be pretty good about it the first week...and yes, that ís a new record for me...

Anyway, the main reason though is not because I am supremely lahazey about things like this, it's because I honestly have nothing to tell you.

I have begun studying, you see. ('t was about time too, my first exam is tomorrow, I know, this procrastinating of mine is getting ridiculous)
So there, now you know.

I'm seriously considering joining the 'procrastination fighting community' (there is indeed such a thing). And very well organized too, I must say. You can post about your daily progress, find friends to fight against procrastination together and support each other. Aww, doesn't that sounds nice...

I also read that some people’s procrastination may be linked to depression.
I had no idea I may be depressed.
So I started thinking about whether I was depressed.
This lead me to the conclusion that I may, in fact, be suffering some mild depression.
This realization has made me so depressed that I am cannot seem to get any more studying done.

It's a vicious cycle for sure.

Snugly tumkins

I get unnerved by street musicians and I hate sentence fragments.
Just so you know.


So. I have decided to obey my voices. Sort of like Obeying My Thirst, only with less thirst and more voices screaming.

"Buy Colgate Whitestrips, buy Colgate Whitestrips! So what if they cause you to digest your own stomach lining, at least you will have the whitest teeth ever and it won't matter that you put regular dish soap in the dishwasher instead of dishwasher detergent and flooded your kitchen with bubbles or that your toaster burst into flames when you were trying to make english muffin pizzas in it because the whiteness of your teeth will blind everyone to everything but your good qualities, which let's be frank, consist of your ASS, your keen fashion sense when it comes to socks, oh and your ASS."

Well, you know how it is. Hopefully the intestinal organ failure warning on the box is just a precaution and hopefully I don't end up vomiting my own blood, because that would probably stain my teeth and gee, I'd really hate to have to do it twice...

Huzzah!

I hate public transportation.
I do, I do, I do.

I don't mind paying, since using it four times a day, everyday is still cheaper than gas and insurance and I don't even mind the length of time I end up on the bus/train/subway because it gives me a chance to catch up on my reading.
However, I do (ever so intensely) hate the people.

First thing I get confronted with, each and every morning is those dumbfucks on the platform who either stand directly in front of the door and thereby blocking those trying to get off or the fuckwits who will try to push their way ON to the train as soon as the door opens, meanwhile there’s a ton of people trying to get off.

And then there’s the idiots who get on the train when there are few seats left and block your way while they select the “perfect” seat? This process of seat selection is usually carried out in a careful and excruciatingly slow manner, so as to let each and every passenger entering from the other direction take the seats you could have gotten to. And at the other end of this spectrum, we find the seat grubbers, the kind of people who will purposely run you over to get to that recently vacated seat halfway down the train car.

But let’s not forget the pole-spooners. You know who I’m talking about – the people who will, on a very crowded train, wrap one of their arms around one of those floor-to-ceiling poles and lean the rest of their body against it while everyone else has to scramble to stand upright when the train moves. Seriously, it is not only incredibly annoying, it is also pretty disgusting. I mean, do you really want to spoon with something as filthily diseased as a subway pole?

Creepy people who sit next to you even though the train or bus is empty.

The people who seem to think it is so vitally important that they listen to the latest accordion-R&B-funk-metal fusion band at 8 o’clock on a Monday morning, on full volume. That is some serious selfish, self-obsessed, whining, selfish, self-centred, fucking self-regarding, self-absorbed, selfish, fucking cuntery.

And the spreaders, the kind of men (and I use that term loosely here) who sit next to you on the train and open their legs so wide that they invade your own leg space. As far as I am concerned, they are just one step away from my personal favourite, the train-gropers. You know who they are. They live for packed trains, when they can "mistakenly" rub against you.

Oh, and the old people. D’you think maybe we could do anything about them? 'Cause I just don’t know…

The devil incarnate

Yeeeeessss...I know I'm not a people person.
So what?

So okay. I’m a dreamer. I won’t argue that by any stretch, reality comes by and either nods or throws me to the curb.

So I dream...crazy dreams, little dreams, good dreams and shitty dreams.

It’s my cycle, it’s what i do.

Wrapped in my papoose

I know I might have seemed a tad pissed off yesterday (mainly because I was).

Yeah, sure I panicked and was a smidge more dramatic than I needed to.., but the whole thing was just so vile, offensive and generally disgusting that it made me feel icky all day.
Not good when one desperately needs to get at least sóme studying done.

And as if the whole creaky, old public-masturbator-debacle wasn't bad enough, I got attacked by a pigeon today. Again (It is ideed not the first time this has happened to me, I don't know what else to tell you...they are vicious little creatures).

Winged vermin.

Pigeons, in my opinion, are perhaps the most vile, grotesque birds on the planet....Between the way they bob their heads, their orange, crinkly claws, the feathers or their creepy cooing and moaning, they are absolutely disgusting...and they seem to hate me right back.


But I'm all better now, I am finally getting over the trauma of having a zit on my face that is so ripe, it repels makeup. (I am disgusting, I have been told this before) However, my new Clinique cover-up-stick-thingie is no match for this bad ass mother fucker. Victory!

Howdey matey!

Why does this kind of thing allways happen to me....

While walking down the street this morning, I saw this old man standing by the large floor to ceiling windows of a department store (the INNO in the Veldstraat, if you must know).
Now, he was probably about 60-70 years old and at this point I could only see him from behind but from that angle he seemed to be making a hand movement that could only be one thing... This registered in my mind, but it took me a few minutes to put it together, that this guy was actually masturbating on the sidewalk. So I turned my head back around and I swear to you, there was absolutely no mistaking that he was standing there in plain view just going to town. At this point I think he saw me out of the corner of his eye because he turns around and makes this ridiculous “OH” face while he slowly covers his erm...area with his coat.

At 8 'o clock in the morning that is just not something you want to see.

So,


Dear public masturbator,

Allthough public masturbation of any sort is illegal (and disgusting), most public masturbators choose to do so the relative privacy of a public bathroom, public transportation, libraries, dressing room, etc... I'd like to recommend that to you.

I've had the unfortunate experience of overhearing guys masturbate in these 'situations', but it's not nearly as disgusting and day-ruining as seeing a man standing at in the middle of the street jerking off.--and this is just so you know--Turning your back to me doesn't shield what you're doing as your arm is still moving and because the only sound I hear is your breathing, I can only assume you're not, say, shellacking the wall or, say, caulking it.

In the above very unfortunate incident, I was simply too shocked to report what happened or tell you to stop. Please be aware that, the next time, I will not be so inclined, now that I'm prepared to see another self-lover the next time I need to relieve myself.

Respectfully yours,
Stephanie.

Humor covers up an inner poverty, a certain lack of depth.

My dog doesn't do cutesy dog tricks; they're too good for her.
She won't shake, rollover, play dead, run circles, jump rope or kiss on command.

She does, however have these little games she likes to play:

The In-Out game: Stand in the open doorway just enough so I can't shut the door, or wait until I start to close it and stick your head out. Another fun variation is beg and whine to go outside then run back and forth before I can shut the door.

Morning Nose Game: First go stick your nose in the toilet. Then stick it under the covers and against the first bare skin you can find.

Hide and Seek: Dig with your feet on the bed when I am sleeping until all the covers are the floor and you find me.

Hide the Present: Find something smelly and hide it in the house somewhere.

Rotten dog.

You know, I used to read Stephen King and other great horror books all the time, but I had to stop a few years ago. It seemed like she would wait until around midnight (I'm a night owl reader) and then do the "growl at nothing" or bark like there's an axe murderer in the next room.
Nice huh?

Hippety hoppety

What is with American toilets?Seriously people, why so much water?I mean, why would you want to see anything floating around in there? Really? I think there's just something really, really wrong about that...

And another thing:
I’ve been mistaken for German a few times. But maybe that’s just because I look REALLY German. When my cheeks are red, I look like I should be on a Kinder wrapper or something… Damn my amahzing good looks!

The evil handpuppets are omnipresent...

I know I was supposed to study today and to be honest, I DID give it a fair shot today (as I did yesterday), but I just can't seem to bring myself to open a book and get to it. Yes, well, maybe tomorrow, right?

So this is what I've been doing today, instead of the horribly important task of actually getting some studying done.

-"getting ready", which involved, lying on my bed, painting all but two of my nails (not deliberate)as well as some showering/hairdrying/clothes-choosing basics.

-I lay in the garden watching the freckles land gently on my arms for a while before I got frostbite on the tip of my nose.(I refuse to stay inside, it's May allready for fuck's sake!)

-I talked to my parents for a while. (you see what kind of sad, desperate, excuse for a lemur I have become)

-I thought long and hard about shoes. All kinds, sexy shoes, retro shoes, vintage pumps, wedge shoes, ballet flats, GoGo boots, mary janes, platform shoes, stilletto's, stripper shoes,...



(I am finding it difficult to write anything, due to the fact that there is a man opposite me in the Internet café who keeps popping his head over the partition and waving cheerily at me. At first I smiled cautiously but politely back, and now I am studiously ignoring him. It is most off-putting.)



-messing around on the Internet, talking on the phone and other such unrelated activities.

-Writing 'BOOBIES' on my calculator many, many times.

- Making confetti out of the hole-punch debris I made using the hole-punchy-thingy.

-Developing a different characters for myself every day to send via text message to my friend Fruit. These have included Greta the evil German scienist who is semi-narcoleptic and fervently believes that sperm is good for the skin and hair, Tulip the Colombian flamenco dancer and Sally-Ann the apple-picker from the Mid-West, who has six fingers on her left hand and four on her right and can crush whole walnuts with her thighs.

-Perfecting my plans to take over the world via the medium of ponies.

-There are others. But mainly I have just been trying to stay awake.

So, all in all, I would have to say this has been quite a productive day indeed!

Sois belle et tais-toi (shut up & look pretty)

Yes people, I know I might seem a little boy-crazy lately.

But I can't help it, I'm a libra and we like to have nice things around...

Butterfingers

I hate this weather we're having lately.
It's all cold and rainy ánd it makes my hair go all poofy.

Pony love

Long time no see right?
Ah, yes, I have to say, I quite missed this little blog and due to popular demand I've decided to start it up again...

I have also gotten back into the habit of ridiculing myself in front of an audience...
But, I swear the tripping over every possible little thing and as a result of this falling flat on my face quite often, is entirely due to a middle-ear problem I seem to have.

It is a serious affliction, I am NOT CLUMSY.

Seriously people, try to remember, okay?
You know you should really not make fun of the handicapped.

Although, the falling and skidding over the floor would have been pretty funny, if only it hadn'd happened to me...

Ah, well, at least this time, a really cute guy had the decency to help me up. Score!

In the beginning...

Ugghhh...Ladies and Gentlemen, I'd like to introduce you to Stephanie. She is adamantly against online diaries. She wonders what compelled her to start one. She'd like to explain it to you, but only if you are naked. That's better. Now we can begin.

Exhibit A: Stephanie's Recurring Boredom. Why else would I (she) be talking in the third person? Anyways, this is a good place to dick around when I COULD be doing some actual studying >insert rant about crappy motivation<.
This is for purely my own entertainment. Ya know how people talk to themselves sometimes? Yeah, it's kind of like that. except web-core. So if you are reading it, wonder to yourself why I gave you the link. I was probably drunk. Slap yourself.

Exhibit B: There is no Exhibit B. Exhibit B chose simply not to exist There you have it, an exhaustively researched essay on Stephanie's tendency to waste time by writing long-winded, verbose essays for her own humor. Time for a short break. Don't touch that dial!