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.