According to sister Mary Bernice

I went to the mall yesterday. I realize the mall to some people is a sacred, holy place for buying sacred, holy things such as shoes and prom dresses and guns, or whatever you wacky people are buying. I am not one of these people. Driving home from the mall I started to think about how I wish I could medicate people at my own discretion. I mean how wonderful would it be to run around with a bunch of anti-psychotic drugs to inject or pass out as I feel necessary?

Then I thought about all the people I would medicate. Many, many people. Then I thought I could probably save on medication and just medicate myself so that I could better tolerate breathing the same air as all these people. Just a thought.

Anywho, guess, guess, guess where I am going in two days!!
I'll give you a hint. It's not Guam, and it doesn't involve a giant flying dog, some quicksand, or a horse. It does involve a big tree, lots of naps, and mittens. Isn't life grand?

Now all that’s left on my to-do-list is have dirty monkey sex with Steve Jobs in order to obtain a smooth, sleek new iPod of my very own. Oh wait! Cross that one off! I am now one of the cool kids, I have entered the world known (to me anyway) as Sticks And Stones May Break My Bones And Names May Make Me Cry For My Mommy, But I Have An iPod And You Don't So Stick It Where The Sun Doesn't Shine, and there is no turning back.

I tend to keep a lot on the Down Low

I want to start off by saying, because this just isn't said enough, I so wish I had thought of naming my band The Smashing Pumpkins before you know, they did. If I had a band, that is. And I really think having a band would help with my desire for a drug problem so maybe I'm on to something here. I could be the free-basing guitarist. Except I don't know how to play the guitar. So I guess that would make me the free-basing girl who's in a band but doesn't sing or play an instrument. Smells like a possibility to me!

And now for an example of why the world is going to hell. Listen closely so as not to miss anything. I was out having dinner the other night. No, that's not why the world is going to hell (well maybe it is, but that's between me and my therapist). Try to stay with me here. So I'm sitting there with my dinner companion (ok, mailman) and this little girl who is sitting at the next table starts talking to us. Her parents apparently forgot they had a child and so don't seem to care that she is telling us that her name is Madeline and she has 3 cars (one is blue, one is white, and one is silver!) and she's 7 years old and she wants some cake. Ever the conversationalist, I ask her if she wrote a letter to Santa for Christmas. Her reply? "Satan would kill me if I did that." Insert long, silent pause during which I, having been taking a drink at that exact moment, laughed, and having not yet mastered the art of laughing and drinking simultaneously, spit my drink out at mailman. She then says "And my friends. Satan would kill my friends, too. I have lots of friends". Ummmm, yeah.

Sure it's disturbing on many, many levels, but I'm so going to have to try that one out when I have kids. "Oh you want to go see Santa little Susie?" (except I wouldn't name my kid Susie, no offense to any Susies. I'm more looking forward to giving my kids porn star names) "Well you can, but remember Satan will kill you if you do. So it's up to you, honey." I'm going to be the best parent. Ever.

My editor just threw up a little

I (conveniently) forgot to mention in my previous post that when I was at the store yesterday I checked out some girl's ass. More than once. In fact, I couldn't stop staring at it. Her pants were so tight and it was oh so round and lovely. Good thing I'm comfortable with my sexuality and none of the following thoughts occurred to me: Does this mean I'm subconsciously attracted to women? Does this mean I have some sort of ass fetish? How did she get into those pants anyway and is there such a thing as the Ass Master, like there is for thighs?

Oatmeal is the devil's breakfast

I blow dry my hair while in the bathtub. Well it DOES save time. And what can I say, I like to live dangerously. It gives my otherwise bland day that added element of "Will I or won't I make it out of the tub alive?". And sometimes that's just what a girl needs to keep on keeping on. (Yeah, I don't know what I'm talking about anymore either, don't worry.)


Ok, here's the other thing. I buy things off eBay. No big deal, who doesn't, right? It's all fun and games until you end up with some dubious Eastern-European-looking adult movies (or as you may know it PORN) you have no recollection of bidding on them or buying them or setting them up on that special display case you apparently bought so you could show them off to all your friends who are, of course, not really  your friends, and what's worse, they don't even like you. In fact you're pretty sure they're poised to start a war against you, but you're too afraid to get close enough to find out since they seem to emit some sort of evil radioactivity glow, and frankly, you get enough of that from your microwave oven. 

I mean seriously, is the radiation that I feel leaking out of my microwave oven going to impede my giving birth to a one-headed baby one day? It's like a warm sunshiny nuclear breeze blowing when I stand within 50 feet of it, I swear. Not that I care! The more heads, the more to love is what I always say.

Anyways, do you see a pattern here? Neither do I, but still I must be stopped! Before I hurt someone! So call Dr Phil and get him to help me. Oh wait, he only helps the orphans, that's right. Well still, for the price of a cup of coffee a day you could be supporting my precarious mental state. Or something like that. And if you're wondering what any of this has to do with oatmeal, you're not alone.

I evolution is wrong, I don't WANT to be right

Dear California,


I used to want to live there. I used to want to bask in your sunlight and drink the sweet, sweet nectar of your oranges. Oh wait, that might have been Florida. Anyway. I used to want to walk along your sandy beaches and dream not of California Girls, but of California BOYS. I used to want to rollerblade along Venice Beach, even though I didn't (and still don't) know how to rollerblade and would probably end up breaking at least one bone, thus requiring a trip to the local hospital. I used to want to go to Disneyland, Universal Studios Hollywood, and Sea World, even though my mother said Disneyland was the devil's playground. I wanted to live in Palo Alto (ok, this may be due in part to that is where "Felicity" hailed from, and what do you mean she was a fictional character on a tv show??). In high school I applied to several California universities even though I knew I would never actually attend them. I simply wanted to hold an envelope in my hand with one of your lovely zip codes on it, to see that "CA" return address and know that should I want you to, you would welcome me with open arms. I covetted your 'Golden State'. (Why do I feel like breaking out into song right about now, particularly Madonna's "This Used to Be My Playground"?)


Alas, my feelings have changed. I no longer covet you. Now you give me no choice but to mock you. Oh California, why did you have to go and change? I was really hoping that things could work out between us. You had such potential. I would say "it's not you, it's me", but there's one problem with that. It's you.


Don't worry, I still want to drink the sweet, sweet nectar of your oranges. Maybe we can be friends with benefits?


Fondly,
-Your Ex

Buy me a pony and I'll throw in the windshield

What do pandas eat? Pandas are stronger than they look, you know. And much like me, they use their cuteness to distract you, probably while they gnaw off your left arm. "Not the left one, not again", you'll find yourself saying at the Emergency Room, "I only looked at the panda cuteness for a second, I swear." 

Yeah, you would be afraid if a Pet Shop Boy-loving Panda was living upstairs from you, too.

 

Hmmm, tell me if any of this is normal. I mean, I know it's not normal, I just want to know if I should put up a fight when the men come for me with my very own perfectly tailored white coat or if I should call and reserve a private, padded cell now. Because sometimes I hear voices. Or a voice. When I'm doing random things, like mopping my floor (I had a maid, but you know, she got freaked out when she saw all the blood stains, and, you know, I had to kill her), and the voice says "If you build it, they will come". Only I'm pretty sure it's the voice of Charlie Brown, and he's not referring to a Field Of Dreams, because he also says "If you don't build it, they won't come, and then you should just devote your life to a god, but not the God, because let's face it, that god doesn't like you and you devoting your life to a god that doesn't like you would just be stupid, and you're really a smart girl, no matter what the rest of the gang says".

Whatever, it's not like I've actually built something. Like an ark, or anything. I was just hoping to get one for my birthday so I could tell the voice I built it and get Charlie Brown to shut the hell up already. So do I get sane points for that?

Either way nobody got me an ark. Dammit. Second year in a row too…I thought I was pretty clear about this last year.

I dìd however, get a stuffed panda.

I'm going to sleep now. In precisely negative 3 hours if I want to get a full 6 hours of sleep. You know what that means, don't you? Me either, I sure hope the crucifix I hung over my bed wards off any escaped convicts and/or pandas.

Aaaaaaarrrrrrrrrggggggghhhhhhhhhhhh!
Seriously.

Hell begins when the buzz wears off.

Remember when I was worried about my life resembling an episode of "The Mole" gone awry? I think I was wrong (You won't hear that very often, so soak it up while you can). I think in reality it's much bigger than that. I think I am a pawn in a board game.

Bear with me here.

I'm not a pawn in just any old board game either. I am a pawn in “Candy Land”. Only this is the ghetto version (hey, they have it for monopoly, why not Candy Land?). So I'm the gingerbread pawn and someone out there in the "real" world is moving me around. It goes a little something like this: He/She picks the right card and I walk with out falling flat on my face/have a good hair day/find my Flaming Lips CD/etc. Then there's always the "Oops, landed on the wrong square, Mailman takes out a restraining order on you" move. Never a good thing.

Anyway. I can't remember if I was ever going somewhere with this. I think I have ADD. So feel free to call in with your 'I like my mom too much/I like to have sex with barnyard animals/I kill people and then steal their shoes/I can only speak if I'm reciting Austin Powers/I get turned on by lamps' questions and we’ll get help together. Unless you fall into the last category. Then there's just no help for you.

Followed by fro-yo.

I am trying to read your mind. Except I'm in the present which will be the past when you're reading this and you're in the present which is my future and that makes it hard. Hello, McFly??

Either way, I know exactly what you’ve been doing (uhuh) and I want you to go in the corner and think about what you've done right. I'd say think about what you've done wrong, but from what I can tell you're all going to HELL (see you there, save me a good seat) so you'd be sitting there forever. So just think about what you've done right. Don't move until I come back.

Monkey see, monkey do, I am going to kalamazoo

How does that saying go, "Ask me no questions and I'll tell you no whys"? Ok, maybe not, but let's pretend it does, you know you want to.


So...why does my car only make that noise when I am alone in it, and not when I bring it in to the mechanic, thus causing him to think I'm completely off my rocker and/or making a desperate plea for attention because I'm in love with him (one of these may be true, but that's besides the point)? Do cars have a sense of humor and if so is this my car's idea of a sick joke? I am so not amused, car.

So now, I’m stuck with this "I'm driving and the back of the car is on fire, I know it!" fear. I'm convinced that the back of my car is going to be on fire one day and I'll be driving along oblivious to it. Just to be sure I've taken to wearing a flame retardant suit while driving now in hopes to combat this (it's actually quite comfortable). And God forbid someone beeps at me for any reason, like say because I hit them, ran a red light, ran their dog/cat/wife over, whatever, I instantly assume they are trying to alert me to the fire at the rear of my car, pull over, grab that fire extinguisher I keep under my seat for just that reason and jump out of the car ready to go all Backdraft on it.


Also, I cried my way out of a speeding ticket today. Whoever said women were the weaker sex was an assclown.
I’m just sayin’...

How Ken maintains that orange tan.

Last night in a "What the hell am I doing, Everyone hates me, I suck worse than a Janet Jackson song" panic attack I ate half a bag of strawberry Twizzlers and even then only stopped because I felt like
a.)It might not be a good idea to be vomiting red licorice all over my new carpet, and
b.)This could be another brainwashing tactic and what if tomorrow I wake up liking Justin F#cking Timberlake who for all I know has a song titled "Gonna Have You Naked By The End Of This Package Of Twizzlers"?!

But the thing is I sorta, kinda like the new Janet Jackson song. I know, I know, it's sick and you should lock me up and throw away the key. I talked it over with my lawyer though and we're going to go with the whole "Brainwashing Via Boob At The Superbowl" defense. So I'm confident I can be out in say, 50-60 years with early release for good behavior, as long as I can manage to avoid getting into any brawls or knife fights over whose turn it is to do "special favors" for Bertha the prison guard and/or who peed in whose pee hole (which really isn't how it sounds. At all).

Oh and yes, I have been dodging your calls. By "your" I mean yours, and yours, and well, everyone else's. I know I no longer have the locked cell phone or the lost charger excuse, but unless you are calling to tell me that I won the lottery OR I am your baby's mommy OR I am your long lost twin sister OR your name is Barack Obama and you're calling to ask if I will become your First Lady (Let’s forget about Michelle for a minute, shall we? I SAID shall we! ). I just wasn’t in the mood for people, no offense (again, unless you're Michelle Obama, in which case, Yes, Offense! Offense!).

But I’m ok now though, as I have realized that if you drink a whole lot of Diet Coke combined with taking just the right sinus medication you will suddenly become somewhat like the Energizer Bunny, gain the ability to leap tall buildings in a single bound, beat a drum until your neighbors' ears bleed, memorize the periodic table just for fun, and realize that "Idaho" is a registered trademark of the Idaho Potato Commission. It has to be true! I read it somewhere. All I need to know now is how to get a job on the Potato Commission, because I can so see myself saying "Oh yes, I'm President of the Potato Commission, what do you do?". And with that all my troubles will be solved and I’ll finally have a real career.

That is, if the whole Mrs. Obama thing doesn’t work out.

I may also be kin to this cheeseburger right here.

I think I ate a rotten potato. But I can't be sure. I have no symptoms, and it looked like a normal potato, but if I was a rotten potato I would disguise myself as a normal potato, too. Or maybe even as a normal human being. Ok, now I'm going to spend the night wondering who among those I know is really a rotten potato disguised as a normal human being. And I'm starting to see visions of Mr. Potato Head dancing around, wearing nothing but a smile, and really, that can't be a good sign. Can it?


In other non-potato news, I hate everyone. Especially myself, because I am dumb, dumb, dumb. I have socks that act more intelligent than I have been acting lately. As I’ve just been informed that John Lennon is in fact NOT dead.

Imagine that! Dead? Nope. Alive. He has had extensive plastic and vocal cord surgery, in an attempt to throw off would-be assassins, assumed the name Chris Martin, and performs with his band, maybe you've heard of them, Coldplay? You're probably thinking, umm, huh? Well me, too. But let's just go with it. Ok. Everyone knows John must have his Yoko, and so he does. Only it's not the actual Yoko, well it is, but she's taken over Gwyneth Paltrow's body in what I can only describe as some sort of Freaky Friday experiment gone horribly awry, sort of like when Lindsey Lohan and that girl from Halloween switched bodies. I know this is a lot to swallow, so I'll let it sink in a bit, but I thought you would want to know so you could put on your John Lennon Is Alive t-shirt right away and tell all your friends.


Also (she says, as if this is related to anything), I'm half convinced there is a homeless mass murderer living in the empty apartment above me. It's either that or an escaped Panda from China that goes by the name "Dim Sum". And what's worse is I'm not sure which would be better. And what's worse than that is I can't stop listening to The Pet Shop Boys and their 80's hit "Always On My Mind". And what's even worse is I think I heard the homeless mass murderer/Panda named Dim Sum dancing around to it up there.

Which is why I have this black eye

I know it's been about a whole month since I last posted, I know because my peeps keep telling me so, and about a billion people have de-linked me (oh The Horror! Cry for me Argentina!), but you know what they say, when someone doesn't blog for a month it's because he/she found God, got hit by a bus, caught Lyme disease, and/or had a psychotic breakdown.

I have to tell you, for a while there I was certain all the forces of evil were working against me. I mean, how many spilled cups of coffee can I take and how many pages can a person write, before they go completely coocoo and move to Chechnya to make wooden dolls or learn the Mail Order Bride business? (I know what you are thinking, that is why I added the word “completely”, see?)

Either way, back to my point, (I knew someday I would get to it! After all, it was only a matter of time), Absence Makes the Heart Grow Fonder. Well. My heart is fonder anyway. And Bob. A fitting replacement for the Mailman, but also the man who has been "fixing" my dryer for over a month now and who for some reason can only come over to do it in the middle of the night when I am scantily clad and who says things like "That burning smell, it's ok". So, I'm pretty sure he's feeling fonder, too.

As for the other two of you who still read this, don't make me come to your house with a box of Rice-a-Roni, a plastic spatula, and a wooden spoon, because it won't be pretty.

There wil be no peeing in this post

I AM NOT DEAD.


Obviously.


But then again, I am not well either.
Blame it on the purchasing and the subsequent eating of quite a respectable amount of Oreos lately, if you will.

You know, the ones that look like they might be The Devil's Oreos, but are marketed as just plain "with the creme in the middle" Oreos.

It's gotten so bad that the cashier at the supermarket is starting to give me The Raised Eyebrow when ringing them up for me so I felt the need to explain myself. "I've been feeling kind of weird since it started raining like this. I don't know why I bought these. I don't even like Oreos... Oh your dad works for Oreo? I didn't mean that these weren't yummy. I meant, ummm, have you seen the rain?" And then I realized she hadn't been raising her eyebrow at me, her eyebrow was stuck that way and I had entered the Twilight Oreo Zone and I ran, ran, ran, as fast as my little Moon Boots would take me.


But really it's the thesis of hell that's killing me. Softly. With his words. And since my deadline is the 31st and the damn thing isn't nearly done, I've confined myself to the house. Something I should've done way sooner, but as you know even my cats have more self restraint than I do. Except when under the influence of Cat Nip. Them, not me, I mean. I'm trying to cut back on that myself. I can't deal with the blackouts and flashbacks.

The foil helmet just seals in the knowledge

Why aren't -I- badass? Why don't I have some ass-kicking html rockin the page? Who wants to do it for me?

These questions and more, after these messages.


So I still have, like, half an hour to kill, and my eyes hurt when I try to read, so that means a loooot of babbling. Just stop reading now and spare yourself the pain.

Today's thoughts:

-Apparently it's crucial that you not forget to add water when steaming vegetables. Apparently not doing so will cause your pan and stove to burst into flames. Apparently using your oven mitt to pat out the flames will only succeed in catching your oven mitt on fire, too. Right. So yeah, all cooking privileges have been rescinded, with the exception of my Easy Bake Oven, and that I can only use under the supervision of the Pillsbury Dough Boy himself. The sending of any baked goods, steamed vegetables, and/or food of any kind would therefore be greatly appreciated.
-I have this irrational fear of being clunked over the head and shipped to a country whose alphabet I don't know, so I'm trying to learn all these alphabets... I must be paranoid, I don't know.
- Currently stuck in my head: Brian Adams - run to you. oooooh when it gets too much, I need to feel your touch, I'm gonna run to you!
-Also, being called a home wrecker is no fun. Don't get me wrong, being called a home wrecker is fun if you actually are a home wrecker who seduced your married Ethics Professor just to pass the time. But that isn't the case. This time, anyway. This time it is all due to my Latent Alcoholism Gone Wrong. Which is a sickness and thus not/never to be made fun of. So there.


While we're on the subject of fun, I once saw this guy sitting alone in his car outside the pharmacy with all the windows rolled up, blasting Elton John's "Someone Saved My Life Tonight" and for some reason all I could think of was: That's a cry for help if I ever heard one, maybe I should duct tape his exhaust pipe and do him a favor. And now that guy is my LOVER and he calls me Sylvia and we only make the sweet monkey love while sitting in his car outside the pharmacy with all the windows rolled up, blasting Elton John's "Someone Saved My Life Tonight."

Or not really. I can't rule anything out these days. I haven't slept since April because of that damn thesis that's slowly draining me of my will to live and the line between what's real and what's not real has blurred. Wait, line, what line? Last night I ran over Brainy Smurf while driving home. I slammed on my brakes, but I'm afraid all the shock therapy has slowed my reflexes, and poor Brainy's smurf soul was already on its way to smurf heaven. Instinctively I fled the scene. You won't tell, will you? I can live with the guilt, I've killed before. And I'll kill again if you cross me! Oh. Hi. Let me be an example of what not to do. Don't forget to go to sleep at night. And don't forget to look both ways before crossing the street or you will give birth to a possessed plastic doll. I think that's like, one of the Golden Rules, isn't it?

Hugging is a chick thing, dude

Apparently it's National Drive Like You're Hopped Up On Crank Day (yes, I said crank. If you're gonna be hopped up on something you gotta do it do right). Here I am cruising along in my sensible ( and oh so orange) Mazda rocking out to The Bee Gees "How Deep Is Your Love" (hey, it was on the radio, ok? It's not like I was playing the CD. Or that I own it or anything like that. yeah. cause I don't. so.), thinking about one day stopping at that old folk's home I pass every day and picking up the random old person outside and saying "get in, gramps, it's me, don't you remember your own granddaughter?" and then crying hysterically until he gets in the car.

Not that I am in any way endorsing making old people question whether they have alzheimers or not. Because that would be mean. Anyway. It was just a thought.

So there I am. And there they are. The Crank Drivers.
Where are they going? And in such a rush? More importantly why was I not invited? Maybe I was, but didn't notice because I was too busy fantasizing about freaking out old people or wondering just how deep your love is.
But I'm getting away from myself here. Wow, too late, I totally got away from myself already and forgot my point.
Because surely I had one.

While I'm off the point here though, that movie "Xanadu" with Olivia Newton John? What. The. Hell. Is that about?

If someone finds my point, I'll give them some yellow m&m's.

An interesting fact about salad dressing

We need to talk. There are some things you should know.


I wasn't really working late that time I told you I was. I was really out free-basing Reese's peanut butter cups, dancing to "We Built This City" by Starship, and then I took the midnight train going anywhere.

One more thing. "The Tale of Cross-eyed Lefty from Tula and the Steel Flea" isn't really my favorite book, nor is Leskov my favorite writer. I suspect you already knew this, seeing how you've seen my "Hooked on Phonics" books lying around and know I can't really read. My therapist says I need to keep everything out in the open though, so I had to come clean. Either way, it’s not a LIE per se. I personally blame Amazon.com, who still have not delivered my copy of said book, so really, when you think about it, it might still turn out to be my favorite book. Amazon.com is now on my list of companies to take over and DESTROY when I become one of those people that do hostile takeovers.

I know you are doubting me, but you will see (and if you work for Amazon.com you will do more than see, you will beg and plead with me on your KNEES for your job...too bad for you I think Amazon.com employees are faceless robots designed to rid the planet of mankind and thus I can't take pity on you. Or your robot wife at home with 7 robot baby mouths to feed, so spare me the sob story).

Hmm, (scratches non-existent beard) I think I may have gotten a little carried away there. Hmm. Maybe Amazon.com is not to blame here (however unlikely that sounds) Maybe all of this was, once again, the work of the MOLE. 

Does anyone else suspect that their life is actually an episode of “The Mole” gone awry? Or is it just me?

You want more proof? Fine! I fell while walking out of the grocery store today. One could say I was wearing shoes that were too high. One could say that I am lacking in the graceful department. One would be right, only not. It simply reeks of MOLE, it does.

If they did a "The Mole: On Crack" I would be the mole. But I'm not the mole here, at least I don't think I am. But then again, maybe I'm just THAT GOOD.

Periwinkle fenugreek

By now you may have heard the rumors of what I’ve REALLY been doing for the past couple of months. No, not the ones about me and the guys from Sunset Tan. And no, not the ones about me cloning Lucky (of Lucky Charms fame). Those have all been grossly exaggerated.

I'll give you a hint. It's not Guam, and it didn't involve a giant flying dog, some quicksand, or a horse.

It did involve a big tree, lots of naps, and mittens.
Isn't life grand?

Well it was anyway, until I found out my darling Mailman has been fucking my chiropractor for the past couple of months, which has made me become extremely paranoid and occasionaly even a little violent, in the doing kung-fu on my friends, neighbors, and cats kinda way.
Example: I'm in Fnac, flipping through books (ok, so they were picture books). My spidey-sense is tingling. I keep moving my eyes from side to side to see if anyone is lurking about, waiting to take me down. Then I get dizzy from doing this and stop. A man approaches and stands behind me. It's all I can do to not flip him over my shoulder and onto his back. What stops me? I'm not physically capable of doing that. And he works there. So yeah. I need help.

Looking on the bright side though, I think I am now ready to join the CIA. I'm quite sure I fit the profile. I think I saw an ad in the local newspaper the other day - "CIA seeking crazy girl who can't keep a secret to save her life, no experience necessary". Although, I WOULD need to put a post-it on my mirror/door/forehead reminding me when I do join the CIA not to tell anyone, unless I want them to be murdered, otherwise I just might forget. Hmmm. Anyone reading this might have to be killed, too. I'm sure you understand, I can't have you blowing my cover and all. Ooh, and exercise, I'm pretty sure I'd need to start exercising.

Oh, well, there's allways next year.

Splinters suck.

Amount of money in SA Rand I found when doing my laundry: 0

Amount of money in Canadian dollars I found when doing my laundry: 10

How much I rememer of apparent trip to Canadialand: 0



The moral of the story is this, my little chickabees: When you snort too much shampoo, you may black out and go to Canada. Who knows what you will have done in Canada, but surely it's something that will:

a.) result in blackmail that will one day keep you from fulfilling your dream of becoming President (Shut up, it COULD happen!)
b.) involve some kind of memory eraser a la "Men in Black"
and c.) leave you with 10 Canadian dollars in your back pocket.

Let this be a lesson to you all.

Never try to squint at sea urchins.

So...

I am in Africa right now, I have indeed finally arrived. Yes, it is all it's cracked up to be and yes, internet access is kinda hard to come by. Who knew ?

So I haven't been killed by a psycho in a White Van, nor have I been abducted by Oksana Baiul and Aleksei Yagudin,that commie bastard figure skating axel of evil (see what I did there? Yes, wordplays are my bitch)

I'm just stuck in limbo with no internet access.

I want a dashboard jesus with a bobbly spring.

"You seem so distant lately."
Yeah, I do. It's because I'm plotting to kill myself, just so I won't have to leave on Sunday.

Also, besides the whole plotting my own death thing, I've become obsessed with finding the perfect vacuum cleaner. Because I just know that having the right vacuum cleaner will make everything in my life sunshiny and cotton candy-y and rainbow in every room-y. Not to mention less cat hair-y, because my current Vacuum (they don't call it a Dirt DEVIL for nothing) just stares mockingly at me when I ask it to please suck up some of the fur clumps that have accumulated on my carpet before I wake up in the middle of the night and become convinced my cats are multiplying even though as a precaution I stopped feeding them after midnight months ago and I never, ever get them wet. And no, I do not think I'm getting carried away.

Why do you think there are serial killers in this world? Because their parents didn't love them enough? Their schoolmates picked on them for having big ears and little feet? Please. No. They didn't have a Hoover SteamVac. I'm telling you, if I had paid any attention in that statistics class in college I could so map out the correlation between Hoover SteamVacs and Serial Killers right now, and you would be weeping into your nachos, you'd be so impressed.


I haven't slept in a billion and one days because of all the planning and careful consideration that goes into deciding what clothes I will and will not take with me on my South African Adventure... so now I must go freebase mass amounts of Salada Comfortime tea and hope it aids in my drifting off into a lovely Monchichi dream filled sleep and not just excessive bleeding out of my ears/nose/bone marrow/baby toe.

Once again, my logic is unassailable

It is entirely possible to go 72 hours with out watching Buffy or thinking about how life sucks monkey balls. It helps if you have bunnies and balloons and cat biscuits and a panda that can kick Bruce Lee's ass to distract you. Yes, it can be done. And it has.

In other news, I realized last night that I have a deep-rooted paranoia that somebody is going to abduct me. You see, I believe it all started when I was a wee lass, when mommy and daddy used to drive me to a populated area and then take off. They said it was to "hone my survival skills", but doctor, and you'd better be my doctor because if you're not why am I paying you $250 an hour, I think they may have been trying to get rid of me, and I can't help but wonder if it was because I was always begging to go to the zoo, burning things down, telling mommy about seeing daddy kissing Santa Claus and asking to eat with the monkeys.

Anyway, enough of this psychobabble about why, the fact is I was always petrified that I would be kidnapped when I was younger. I'm not sure why I was upset at the thought when really I should have just embraced it. I should have ran around begging people to kidnap me instead of screaming in terror anytime I saw a White Van (cue scary music, and no, for the life of me I can't remember why only people in White Vans were out to get me, but I'm sure there was an explanation, like maybe someone I knew was kidnapped by people in a White Van, but it's more likely something that I saw on TV. Hey, what color was the A-Team van?). 

Anyway, I thought that I had outgrown this fear. But apparently not, because two things happened when I was leaving the house on this dark and stormy night (so what if it wasn't stormy! It was dark! Bad things happen in the dark!).

First there was a man walking ahead of me who suddenly stopped and started fidgeting with his pockets, like he was looking for something (A knife! I know it!). If I had continued walking he would have been behind me, and there was no way I wanted to turn my back on this guy so he could hold a knife to my throat and throw me in his White Van and speed away with me, possibly bringing me to The NeverLand Ranch or worse, the home of Renee Zellweger's bastard son. No way. So I stopped, too, which caused the person behind me to bump into me (yeah, there were other people around, but still, do you think serious kidnappers let a little thing like witnesses stop them?), but too bad for that person. I was saving the world here (Because I am the world, I am the children, I am the one who makes a brighter day, so let's start giving! And that concludes the musical portion of today's post, now back to your regularly scheduled blog). So yeah, a few moments later the man stopped fidgeting with his pockets (going for his knife!), continued on, and then so did I. Crisis averted.

But THEN. Then. What do I see parked on the driver's side of my car? A White Van. I think at this point I let out a little cry, but I can't be sure because all I could hear was the voice in my head (Napoleon Dynamite ) screaming "White Van! White Van! White Van! Run! Run! Run!". And while I'm crazy enough to be paranoid about stuff like this I'm also worried about people thinking I'm completely off my rocker, so I didn't think dropping my bags, running, and screaming "The White Van is going to kidnap me! Help, Help! I don't want Michael Jackson to touch me in that special place!" was such a good idea. I instructed my brain to hatch some other escape plan all the while chastising myself for never finishing The Gift of Fear (The last chapter was probably the chapter on How To Not Get Kidnapped By A White Van) and promising to read it when I got home, if I got home.


Did I escape? Or am I writing this from a tiny cream colored room inside Renee Zellweger's satanic son's home?

• If you think I escaped by pretending to call someone on my cell phone (what kidnapper wants to abduct someone while they are on the phone? No kidnapper, that's who!) and am writing this from the confines of my home where I am listening to that annoying "Bubbly" song (if you can even call it that), flip ahead to page 568. 

• If you think the White Van spirited me away to Zoo Boy's compound while I was attempting to put my purchases in the car and am now writing this from a 2x4 padded room with nothing but a monkey, a banana, and a TV that plays Jerry Maguire 24/7, flip ahead to page 641. 

• If you don't really give a damn what happened to me, flip ahead to page 666, where you will be tied up and forced to watch reruns of The Nanny for all eternity! With Fran Drescher sitting right beside you! Spoon feeding you! Spoon feeding you liver! HUMAN liver! YOUR human liver! 
  

I munch on cannibals

When I was in fourth grade one of my friend's older brothers liked me.
Liked me, liked me.

I (as per usual) didn't figure it out until I was at my friend's house hanging out and he asked her to go get something in the other room. He used this opportunity to shut the door, put on a Lionel Richie tape and sit next to me on the bed. (That's right, Lionel "Say You, Say Me" Richie... I can only assume this was a feeble attempt to make sweet baby Lionel Richie love to me)

Now, I have just a few words of advice on this. If you're creepy as it is, fortheloveofgod do not put on Lionel Richie when you try to make your move.

I think I got up and ran out of there as fast as my little pink Converse-ed feet would take me, but truthfully I've blocked most of The Incident out, so we could have gotten married for all I know, with me walking down the aisle to "Hello, Is It Me You're Looking For?" while my parents wept silently for the loss of their only daughter from the front pew of The Church Of Latter Day Lionel Richie Saints.

I don't think so though, because I ran in to him yesterday, he didn't say anything like "Hey, Well I'll be damned, it's my long lost child bride". He didn't say anything at all. Which only leads me to believe Lionel Richie a good marriage base does not make. Say you, say me, say it together, naturally.