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.