Wednesday, December 14, 2011

Candy Babies! Is this okay?

Today I was surfing around on the facebook and I saw the following image on my ad-bar:

This is a giant hand holding little babies like they're peanuts.

Am I truly a psychopath or does this disturb anyone else?

My immediate thought was: 'Why are they making baby shaped candy now?'

My second thought was: 'Wait? Are those actual babies?'

This was quickly followed by: 'That is a very large hand.
. . .
I wonder what the rest of him looks like.
. . .
I guess that's kind of dirty.'

Also, what does this exactly have to do with ultrasound technology? Yes I understand that's how they come up with those creepy 3-D profile pictures of everyone who is and ever will be preggers from this point forward on the Facebook* but there are other things you can view with an ultrasound. Why not have a stock image of an actual ultrasound machine. Or better yet, a semi-pro medical professional in loud scrubs holding an imaging wand and looking pleased about gainful employment. That seems as if it would attract more traffic than a giant hand holding babies like one would hold M&M's? It's as if the giant has a bag of babies and he's just shaken a couple out into in his hand to devour for a snack.

This is truly disturbing! As I've mentioned. Who would decide to make baby shaped candies? Disturbed people, that's who! But way to go Facebook for adding a little creep to my mid-afternoon. I'll promise to stop deleting my browser cookies, if you'll promise to invade my privacy by monitoring my web shopping habits and go back to popping up customized shoe ads.

*On a side note I think I've figured out how to get gall stones so I can actually can post those ultrasound pictures of my gallbladder like when I first told you of my qualms about ultrasound images for profile pictures, here: It's your insides. Keep it to yourself. Yes, I'm considering giving myself gall stones to get an ultrasound and put the images on the interwebs for all of creation to see. Because that is acceptable now. I keep an open mind and I find it's discriminatory to other organs to exclude them from their own notoriety.

Tuesday, December 13, 2011

Find my iDignity

Tonight the couch up and swallowed my cellular telephone not once, but twice.

I know. Believe me I do. I figured that I wasn't stupid enough to lose it in the couch twice but alas.

While I was trying to find my phone and panicking about where my watch was (I totally lost my watch last Thursday and spent ALL DAY LONG sobbing about it; I cried harder about losing that watch than I did 'The Boy.' Yes, I am THAT shallow.) I figured that I would take full advantage of technology and use the 'Find my iPhone' application.

First I'd like to say that I spent a good 10 minutes trying to figure out how in the blue hell you actually use the app. Google it and see if I'm not right. The interwebs tells you all about how to set it up and what it can do but never does it actually say 'Go to website, log-in and follow the directions. Finally I manage to log into my iCloud account. I'm not really 100% on what an iCloud exactly is but I logged into it and apparently have some space there. Maybe they'll let me put down laminate flooring sometime in the future. From this point it was fairly easy to find my iPhone and I could even send myself a friendly message that says 'Gee Anna, you really are a dumbass. Again?'

This technology is creepy. You can log onto a remote server from the interwebs and not only find, but text, wipe and lock your iPhone and/or iPad. I see the novelty in this, especially as I lose things by the time I've turned around but if I can figure this out, you iPhone owner are officially in a shit-storm. Don't leave anything you don't want seen by the world on your portable device. Secondly,  I would like to know why in the hell we cannot do this with keys.

And maybe other less-tangible things? Can Apple create an app that prevents me from doing 87 of 100 things I do daily that make people cringe. Can I buy back my shame from Apple? Is it gone forever? Can I purchase discrete units of it and save it for future use? Or can it pinpoint my dignity on a map?

I figure that is the true connotation of the word. This is truly what they're trying to do to our society.

iCloud -- 'Everything you've ever been ashamed of; recorded digitally and saved for the rest of creation.'

Thursday, December 8, 2011

There is no sexy way to remove your Spanx.

Men, I blame you.

I have to blame someone and I certainly am not going to take the blame myself so I'm blaming you. You are the reason why I feel the need to wear the spanx.

'Hello God, it's me Anna.
. . .
When will I ever learn to love my body?'

If you aren't aware of what a spanx is I will explain. It's the wearable version of a battleship hull. It holds all the important parts in while letting the guns swing freely and giving the enemy a decent idea of what is in store for the remainder of the evening if they so choose to engage said ship. The makers of spanx call it 'shapewear.'  I'll leave it at that.

(Although I will say it does do wonders for a girls shape.)

Anyways I bought these Spanx to wear under my little black dress because I'm fat and blah blah blah and haven't been to gym lately because I'm busy blah blah blah and I'm a stress eater blah blah blah and they make mayonnaise in gallon jars blah blah blah. Let's just say that I have a demonstrated need for said spanx.

There is just one problem. They are not easy to get on or off but it's not so much the getting them on part that I'm particularly worried about. There's always mayonnaise in my house (see above), so in the worst case scenario we can slather me in mayo. My friends will hold the spanx open at the end of our bar and I'll just take a running slide down the bar into them. Wam. I'm in my spanx and ready for my dress all without messing up my hair. Booyah in YOUR dooyah.

But what if someone sees me in my little black dress, which is PHENOMENAL by the way, and decides they would like to take me home and see what's under my little black dress. Here is where I'm going to need to be creative. They don't just come off. You can't just pull them off. There is wiggling, and jostling, and some praying, followed by some hopping and hoping along with groaning, moaning, wailing, the gnashing of teeth and pushing. Yes you actually have to push them down off of your body, there is no pulling. And guess what? You've still got to get them over your ass!

Nevermind that that whole charade is less than attractive, much less sexy, but it takes a solid 10 minutes and 3-man crew to get the damn things off. And I'm not really sure why they're pluralized when there is only one garment. Praise the Lord Baby Jesus for that. If there were two of them I might just die. But seriously? Who wants to watch that? Who wants to watch a warthog try to escape from a sinkhole?  Maybe the warthog should have the good sense to stay the fuck out of the mudhole and just wear a fracking reasonable PANTSUIT. Who would want to see someone struggle out of their underwear?

'Why yes, I'd love to come home with you but first I need you to take these percocets, drink this whiskey and let me know when you're good and fucked up. Then I'll come in the room without my spanx on.' It is lying, plain and simple. Imagine if you took some broad home to have relations with her and when she went in the bathroom she was Scar Jo and when she came out she was Christina Aguilera at the latest music awards. And ladies imagine you're going home with Top Gun Val Kilmer and you end up with present day Val Kilmer*.  It's just not right; you can't do that to a person. People want to take you home and rip off your clothes and see that you've miraculously maintained your svelte shape. They don't want to watch you explode like the Stay-Puft marshmallow man.

Whatever am I to do?

I suppose I could always just cut a hole in the crotch.

That could turn out fun. Right? Less sexy but a smidge more disturbing.

Maybe I'll just wear pants.

*I still probably would. I'm not proud of it but I'm being honest.

Friday, December 2, 2011

Things White People should stop doing.

Here is a list of things that White People should stop doing:

1. Hip hop line dances. For serious ya'll, lets give the black people back the electric slide. Every time they come up with a new line dance we take it away. I'm going on record right now that never, have I ever, done or will ever do the cupid shuffle. Ever.

2. Any other dance-like movement besides the waving of one's hand back and forth in concert with other white people. White people. have. no. rhythm. I watched the announcement of the Grammy nominees the other night and watched white people try to dance to Grandmaster Flash and it just wasn't working. Not even a little bit. But they did finally manage to get the hand thing down.

3. Stop standing like this: Who honestly stands like this at a party? or anywhere really?

4. Coming to a complete stop to turn right. And braking on the highway. You bought that expensive ass Lexus SUV. DRIVE THE FUCKING THING.

5. Naming your children after inanimate objects. Quart is a measurement not a name.  Name your baby Adam and move on. Also names that repeat the same name: William Williams or Neil McNeil. Razor Death-Metal Jones is also not acceptable. Giving your kid a 'hard' name only cements their future in the illicit drug industry.

6. Theme Parties. Yes, they're still as asinine as they were in college. It's just that now we can't drink the shame away as easily.

7. Skiing. Think about it. Who honestly came up with this idea? 'You know what Muffy, I've just had the most splendid idea. We should strap sticks to our feet and slid down that mountain, in the cold mind you, in the snow at a rapid velocity!' I'll tell you who: White People. Black people have enough sense to know that if God wanted us to play in the snow he'd have given us fur.

8. Buying useless expensive appliances. I saw an advertisement on tv for a blender that can cook your soup after it has pureed your vegetable. If you are honestly too lazy or don't have time enough to pour your puree out of blender and into a fucking pot you need to just bite the bullet and hire some help. The same goes for that robot that moves around your room and vacuums your floors for you. If you're going to buy it, buy it to entertain your dog. The fat-ass probably needs some exercise. (Have you noticed that the obesity epidemic is moving to our pets now too? Geez oh pete.)

9. Camping. Yes, please let us venture into the wilderness so we can be eaten by bears and sleep on the lumpy ground. Only white people. Every other ethnicity in the world is trying to get out of the wilderness and we're trying to get back in it. All you can do is shake your head.

10. Watching reality television marathons. If I see one more episode of Storage Wars my head is going to snap off of my body. I went to the beach with my mom last weekend after Thanksgiving, because we're white and go to the beach in the winter -- obviously, and she made me watch no less than 10 hours of Storage Wars. I put my foot down before the marathon of Gold Rush and watched a Will Ferrell movie on TBS. I forget which one. They're all pretty much the same; that's a different list.

Monday, November 21, 2011

Just to continue the Snatch-tastic trend - A story.

So apparently my hormones have gone into full tilt boogie because out of the last five posts, 2 have included snatch, 1 was about food, and the other 2 were about illegal substances. I'm not sure what this says about me except that I'm very obviously extremely mentally disturbed and choose to deal with it in the only the healthiest ways possible.

But the guys over at A Beer for the Shower mentioned that I use the word 'snatch' quite efficiently. Which is true.

I thought I'd share a funny story about the how and when I started to use the word in regular conversation.

And no this isn't like that time when I was eight and referred to a man's testicles as balls in front of my entire family while watching America's Funniest Video's and my mother passed out from shame. This actually was probably worse. It involves someone who is mentally handicapped. (And while I do sometimes wonder if my mother is mentally handicapped I know that she is not. She merely has the capacity for evil.)

I used to work in a local florist here in town my senior year of college because I was poor and needed money for booze. Duh. There was this guy that used to come in to the florist to buy flowers for his respective girlfriends and while he was completely nice, he was just a smidge awkward. Something was off about him and I expected that he probably had a mild learning disability. But he was totally nice! I stress to you that he was totally nice so that you don't judge me for being creeped out by the functional retard. But he leered at me. Often. And for a repeated length of time. Then it came to pass that he was starting to show up at the florist pretty much everytime I worked and then lo-and-behold he was showing up everyday asking for me, even when I wasn't there.

Then one day, he bought flowers when I was working and gave them to me on the spot. I was extremely nice in refusing to accept them but I explained that it wasn't something I would be comfortable doing because I wasn't interested in him romantically. It worked because he didn't show back up. So kudos to me.

Wait, I know what you're thinking. You're thinking 'How could you give yourself kudos? How did you know that he wasn't at home sobbing his eyes out?' I know this because after he stopped coming to the florist I started seeing him at the bar.  Obviously, he wasn't that hurt. With his mother. Whom I may or may not have had a drunken conversation with about how I really didn't want to hurt his feelings but I didn't want to lead him on either. I was drunk; I can't remember.

Needless to say we (Yes, my entire posse of friends.) switched bars and started to frequent the one across the street and once he and his mom figured that out we switched back. Musical bars as it were.

I tell you all of this to prove to you how creepy this guy was and how much it skeezed me out to be around him. Ya'll know I'm a busty girl but I honestly feel bad for being nice to people whom I know don't have a snowball's chance in hell with me, but simply cannot help themselves from being drawn into the gravitational pull of the awesomeness that is my chesticular region. (Modest, I am not.) And it embarrasses the shit out of me to know that I'm being stared at.

You're waiting for the snatch; Here it comes.

I'm at Border's one day many years later with roomie and we're perusing the DVD's and guess who I see, making a beeline for me while dragging his mom who is currently waving at me? Our friend from the florist.

I'm visibly starting to panic and I look at roomie and he just shrugs and I am stuck.

So they approach together and we begin our nicities to make polite conversation. Polite conversation which involves 'Oh are you going to buy some DVD's?' while I pick up the closest DVD and say 'Yes, I LOOOVE this movie.' I then actually look at the movie title and without even thinking say "I LOVE SNATCH!' Because actually I do really love that movie. But because I'm nervous and uncomfortable as hell I keep saying 'OH SNATCH IS SOOO GREAT' and 'I THINK YOU'D LIKE SNATCH TOO! You should totally get into it.' On and on ad naseum while his mother's mouth drops open even further everytime I say snatch and his eyes get bigger every time I say snatch and I'm already too far gone now to begin apologizing so I just keep saying snatch and does anyone stop me?

Why No. They don't. Our friend's mother just drags him away by the shirtsleeve, literally. All the while, I'm still yammering on about snatch. Actually by this point I may have been yelling 'SNATCH! SNATCH! SNATCH!' Similar to the chorus of that 'Shots' song by Lil' Jon. What? I was thankful that I actually found something that worked so I was running with it.

And That, my friends, is how the word snatch entered my vernacular. And also how I managed to scare away the creepy guy that followed me around.

Tuesday, November 15, 2011

I saw this one bitch's vulva at the gym tonight.

I know that I tend to hyperbolize things sometimes. But not as often as you'd think though. As sad as it, the majority of this shit actually does happen to me. Most of it is true.

Anyways, I saw this one bitch's vulva tonight at the gym. That's right. I saw enough into her snatch to see her actual vulva.

WHY was I looking at her snatch you ask? You ask this because you know I'm not one to actively seek out snatch and for the most part I tell people to put it away. See here. I saw homegirl's vagina because she felt it necessary to show it to everyone.

HOW you ask? Which you really shouldn't do because that shit looked straight up like a beef-n-cheddar from the Arby's. Not cute.

Homegirl had on the shortest shorts I think I've ever seen a person wear in public. Aaaand her legs won't even that cute. (For this to have the full effect you need to imagine me pursing my lips, snaking my head, and pointing in some abstract direction.) She was in the 'Knockout' class which is a synonym for that dumb kickboxing shit. In this class they begin by stretching, by bending over and touching the floor.

I'm not sure if you ever watched 'BET After Dark' in the late 90's when they had Too-Short on (They may still do this. I don't know. I saw it once and was scarred for life. Why was a 17 year old white girl watching 'BET After Dark' in 1999 you want to know? Two words: STUPID BOYFRIEND. I'm getting off-topic here. Plus my high school was kind of ghetto and he was kind of in a 'black girl' phase. Yes, I am aware I am white.) but the one time I did see it for a split second I saw this black girl with a giant ass and a g-string bend over and her thong went up the crack of her hoo-haa and you saw her labia hanging out the sides. Both major and minor. It was kind-of like when you get on a rollercoaster and they warn you to keep all arms and legs inside the vehicle at all times except no one warned anybody and EVERYBODY was hanging out the both sides of the cart.


From the room in which I take spin class, you have a downward prospective over the entire gym because you go up about half a flight of stairs to get into the room. So everyone on the bikes tonight in the 5:45 class saw homegirl's vulva. And so did the person behind her. Because she was having a wardrobe malfunction of great magnitude unless she meant to do that on purpose; if that is the case I believe she may be deluded about what kind of establishment our gym is. But here's the kicker. Did she stand up and pick her shorts out of her hoo-haa? No. She continued to repeatedly bend over and stretch and further her frontal wedgie (Yes boys, it is a thing.). I halfway expected her shorts to become a wedge and split her in half up to her ribcage. Every time she went to bend over everyone in the spin room cringed and leaned to their left to get further away from it.

But that's the problem with stationary bikes. No matter what the horror, you aren't going to get very far.

Thursday, November 10, 2011

The stuff a fat girl's dreams are made of.

I've gained approximately 10 pounds in the last couple of months because I quit going to gym in about July. My life just got cray-cray and I simply didn't have time and I haven't been able to establish a routine again.

So I'm now a fat girl again. I mean I wasn't a skinny girl in June but I was skinnier.

The other day I took a nap. Because not only am I fat, I'm also lazy.

Do you know what I dreamed of whilst I was asleep?

A buffet.

If I wasn't aware that I was fat by looking in the mirror I'm reminded of it when I dream. Of buffets. I don't even like buffets; I feel like it's a waste of money. Although it's kind of like that line in Shrek when Donkey says "I don't know nobody that don't like no parfait." I imagine everyone likes a buffet, most especially fat girls.

Le sigh. I feel shamed. 

Tuesday, November 1, 2011

HBO pushes the boundaries of television nudity with Paz de la Huerta's asshole.

Ya'll, I don't know if you watch Boardwalk Empire on HBO or not but I do. I'm not sure why because I never know what in the blue-fuck is going on but it's mildly entertaining and as much as I do not enjoy watching Steve Buscemi get it on I do enjoy gratuitous violence on occasion. And that new Irish kid 'Owen' is hawt.

But I am damn tired of seeing Paz de la Huerta's "Paz-de-la-Huertas" if you catch my drift.

Seriously, I have seen her vag more often than I have seen my own. HER ACTUAL VAGINA. I live with my own self and even I don't see my own self naked that much. And sometimes I even sleep naked. So I'm naked with myself so I see myself naked on a regular basis.

Take for example, yesterday's episode which we watched tonight. Homegirl is louging around in her lingerie, preggers as shit, and WHAM! Vagina. It's just sitting there, on the kitchen table. You're all like 'Aw poor, crazy Lucy Danziger. She's pregnant by a repugnant bastard. Wait? Is that her snatch? ON THE TABLE NO LESS?'

It doesn't help that the character Paz plays is bat-shit insane along with being annoying as fuck and then I watched an interview with her on VH1 this morning when I realized that she is essentially playing herself. Because the actual Paz de la Huerta is bat-shit insane too.

Case in point here: Coo-coo banana crackers. Bitch is cray-cray.

I know what you're thinking. I am a prone to having the same issue as you can read about here: No matter how hard you try, you cannot wriggle back onto your tampon after you've sneezed. But damn ya'll. Actually I have never done this. Although this one time in college I was particularly mad at my boyfriend's repeated sexual advances, even after warning him I was on the rag, so I told him that if he'd take it out with his teeth I'd give in. I was just being facetious; I did so enjoy watching him retch.

I cannot wait until next week to see what unexplored caverns of her body we haven't been shown by the producers at HBO. Joy.

Friday, October 21, 2011

Reasons why crackheads are not in parades.

If you're not familiar with the town I'm from let it be sufficient to say that like many other towns  it possesses good parts and not-so-good parts. Imagine that your humble narrator and protagonist sometimes used to drive through the lesser parts to get to her abode, which was humble by obvious extrapolation.

Imagine one Friday evening your narrator, that being me, is driving home from work from her second job that was in the ghetto. It's the certifiable ghetto; pizza places will not deliver there. I'm driving home down highway 52 (Which I may interject is still a death trap. Seriously, I have no doubts that my untimely demise occur on 52. The greatest likelihood would be that I was trying to exit Bus-40 onto 52 and some dumb asshole who doesn't understand the concept of merging will be poking along in the right lane and the idiotic asshole in front of me can't immediately get off the exit ramp so they'll just stop, because they're the kind of people that use their brakes on the highway, and I will have to figure out what Dumb and Idiot are doing and die in the process.) and get off onto my exit in the not nice parts of town and while turning onto the 3rd worst possible street in town, I blow a tire at 9:30 on a Friday night.

I'm talking to my mother on my cellular who proceeds to freak that I've blown a tire in the actual ghetto and instead of letting me off the phone immediately to call AAA she does her 'I'm-a-mom-therefore-I-cannot-get-off-the-phone-in-no-less-than-2-minutes' thing and finally hangs up. I call AAA and the fun begins.

Enter crackhead #1.

This crackhead was relatively mild-mannered and may not have been a crackhead at all but this story would be much less dramatic if he wasn't so we're going to assume that he was. The point was that he had a GIANT stick. Seriously this stick was more of a branch and was about 6 feet long. He stops at my car window and asks me if I require assistance and when I say no he moves on along. I was extremely relieved. IT was a significant stick.

Enter crackhead #2.

This crackhead was the annoying one and was an actual crackhead. He smelled like crack. (I know what crack smells like because we went to this bar this one time and my friend turns and looks at me and says 'This bar smells like crack.') By this point I'm currently talking to the AAA operator and explaining that I need someone to come and change my tire. This crackhead just beats on my window to get my attention and I crack the window to speak to him, because I may be a lot of things but rude is not one of them. Well at least not on purpose. Most of the time.

Now I'm currently having 2 different conversations. One, explaining what is going on and what I need done, with the AAA lady and one where I'm fending off the crackhead outside of my car who is telling me that I don't even need to get out of my car. If I'll just pop the trunk he'll get the spare out and change it for me. The AAA operator hears this and says 'Are you in a safe place?' Before I can answer her I say to the crackhead 'No, I'm not going to do that. You're just going to get the tire iron out and beat me to death with it.' The AAA operator then says: 'I'll tell them to hurry.'

Here is where it gets interesting.

I figure I can't just sit in my car and not inform someone that I'm about 3 minutes from death so I make a decision: 'I know, I'll call my dad! He'll come and sit with me until the AAA people come.' This is a brilliant plan.

Except, I'm me and my father is my father. I call him and he answers the phone and I explain to him the situation, mention where I am and that I am literally less than 10 minutes away from him, all the while STILL yelling at the crackhead outside of my window. By this point the crackhead has just lost all shame and has decided to just ask me for money outright. He seems to think that he is entitled to some sort of monetary compensation for staying with me and scaring off the other crackheads. Yes he actually said 'other crackheads,' I'm not making that part up. My father retorts with this jewel: 'Anna, you mean to tell me that you're 26 years old and cannot change a tire?'

I believe I may have said 'Excuse me?' to my father before I said 'Fuck you' and hung up on him. Nothing can deter that man from a blow job, nothing. Most definitely not his child, his ONLY CHILD, the only genetic evidence that he has on this earth, being threatened by a crackhead. I'm sure that the gem of a woman he selected to give him head that evening would have waited on him to go rescue his child. I highly doubt that her mouth was going to fall off in the 45 minutes he would have been gone. But then again he may have been paying her by the hour and he is cheap.

So here I am, with a crackhead, waiting on the AAA people to come and change my tire. By this point we've kind of come to terms with one another and I honestly feel that if we had been given the full 30 minutes that it was going to take AAA to get to my location we really could have become friends. But alas the police showed up and honestly I have never been more grateful to see the cops ever in my life. Up to this point in time this may have been the only interaction with the police where I wasn't arrested or ticketed.

I have a certain irreverence for the local law enforcement and apparently it shows.

The cop gets out of his car and actually has to tell the crackhead to leave me alone. Talk about brazen! Sargeant-major-police man then asks me if I'm alright and informs me that he is going to have one of his rookies come and sit with me until the AAA people come. It seems that the AAA operator called the cops. So they actually are worth at least half of the exorbitant price they charge you every year. Who knew?

Unfortunately the rookie cop wasn't that cute but I was glad to have to have company that wasn't trying to bludgeon me to death with a small tree or a tire iron.

'This is a nice story, but what does all of this have to with a parade?' you say.

I'll tell you what it has to do with a parade. In a parade you have to keep moving and crackheads have the attention span of magpies and stop to see every distraction on the way.

That ladies and gentlemen is why you will never see a parade of crackheads. It wouldn't go anywhere.

Monday, October 17, 2011

I hate movies that make you cry and how this relates to my ex-boyfrands.

I have had it.

I have had it with movies that make you cry.

Lord help, I do realize that I've got a pretty super case of PMS and that I'll shart blood out of my vag soon and thus aaaaaall of my emotions are all willy-nilly over everything but good people that still read my blog even though I totally said I was going to start posting more and here it is halfway through the month and I've written what 2 posts so apparently I really do still suck at life, oh sorry about that.

Avoid My Sister's Keeper.

I imagine the book would make you cry as well. Good God I sobbed like a child through the whole thing and I even stopped it in the middle and took a 6 hour break in hopes that it would dull the histrionics. Yea, not so much.

It started out with what seemed like an interesting legal posit and WHAM uncontrollable sobbing.

I haven't cried this hard at a movie since I Am Legend or The Notebook.

Yes, I realize you're now currently wondering why I cried at I Am Legend and I'll tell you why. That is a sad fucking movie. The dog gets bitten and turns into a zombie. I was doing pretty good until ol' dude aka The Fresh Prince starts screaming 'Sam! Sam! Sam! Samantha.' And when I realized that the dog was a girl I lost my shit and embarrassed the shit out of my bff who was sitting beside me and hissed:


To which I muttered incoherently: 'Yeah, but the dog was a girl.'

To which he said: 'What? You don't cry when boy dogs die?'

I then said: 'Yes. I cried when Old Yeller died.'

So if the Confederate Railroad* song rings true, then dozens of past boyfriends should have cried when I left but I'm not really sure that they did.

They may have cheered. I don't stop to poll them.

*If you're not familiar with this piece of Southern Americana here's a link to a you-tube video of a fairly patriotic trio singing the song I'm referring to.

And yes, I'm aware that I just admitted to knowing a Confederate Railroad song. For what it is worth I have like 3 black friends. So there.

Monday, October 10, 2011

Bitches with Brazilians in Barroom Bathrooms

There is an epidemic going on in this great country of ours.

Do not get me wrong. I support every woman's right to go have all of the hair ripped off of her vagina by an old socialist Soviet. This is America and it is still a free country.

My problem is more of a logistical issue.

You see when you have no hair on your woo-woo there is nothing to direct your stream of pee. It just kind of goes out in a spray, instead of down. Especially if you're half-drunk and do not have the proper muscle control to pee with enough velocity to force the stream down into the bowl.

So the next unsuspecting person trots into the bathroom and finds the seat besmattered with piss. I imagine this is a common problem with boys because I hear horror stories of women cleaning their bathroom walls because their boys, husbands, boyfriends, visitors piss on the walls instead of into the toilet. I do not know. I do not let men piss in my bathroom. If you comment on the picture on the wall above my toilet you are not invited back to my house. Plain and simple. You've clearly over-stayed your welcome because you shouldn't have had time to go pee before you put your clothes back on and left.

You're thinking to yourself: But Anna, you don't actually sit on the toilet seat do you?

No, I do not. Unless I'm half-drunk and do not have the proper muscle control to hold myself up while my lazy bladder tries to push out the 3.5 beers worth of pee that have accumulated in my bladder. By then I probably have forgotten because I'm trying too hard not to piss on my actual self because I've stood in line for 20 minutes waiting to actually go piss. I cannot multi-task whilst inebriated; I can only handle one thing at a time.

Ladies, if you're gonna go whole hog and go Brazilian down under, sit the fuck down on the toilet.

Wednesday, October 5, 2011

Anna goes to dinner with Conchis.

So I just recently finished reading this book, The Magus, by John Fowles.

I know, you're amazed I can read. 

This book is 656 pages of utter and complete nonsensical chaos. I will tell you about it now in a much condensed version.

There is this guy and he's a total cad. I didn't bother to learn his name because he is dumb. Really, really dumb. So dumb. He thinks he is God's gift to women and he does seem to pull the ladies quite well. Somehow he ends up shacking up with this Australian chick that comes to visit her friend downstairs and never leaves their building because guess what? They're meant for each other because they're miserable excuses for human beings. Ol' dude gets a job teaching English in Greece (Btw they live in England) and she gets to be stewardess. He goes to Greece and homegirl gets mad at him for leaving, even though he told her he was leaving and asked her on multiple occasions to not only go with him but offered to stay in England if she wanted him to.

Part 2: This is when shit gets real hairy.

Ol' dude shows up on an island in Greece that the best I can tell is populated by troglodytes and hermits. There is a village where 3 people, literally, live but there is apparently a super-posh school on this island that the Grecians send their sons to. I don't know, I'm not Greek, maybe it's a thing.

On this island lives this batty old rich guy that has more money than free time and he proceeds to torment the fuck out of our protagonist. The old man's name is Conchis, who is not to be confused with Ol' dude whose name I never bothered to learn. Ol' dude has dinner at Conchis' house every fucking weekend.

My learned roommate tells me that this book is about the temporality of reality or the validity of reality or something. What this book is really about is that our author, John Fowles, had a bone to pick with his editor so he wrote the most convoluted book ever known to man to piss his editor off. Here is a bullet list of shit that happens whilst on said island with Conchis:

  • Ol' dude meets Conchis for dinner and learns about his fascination with dead things and the time/space continuum.
  • Ol' dude meets Lily/June/Skank-whore and her twin sister Rose/Julie/Evil-person.
  • Lily/June/Skank-whore gives Ol' dude a hand-job while skinny dipping in the ocean.
  • Ol' dude gets a hard on from seeing Rose/Julie's boobs.
  • Conchis convinces Ol' dude that Lily/June/Skank-whore is schizophrenic. That's why she has three names.
  • L/J/SW convinces Ol' dude she isn't schizophrenic.
  • Ol' dude becomes confused.
  • Rose/Julie convinces Ol' dude it's contemporary theatre and Conchis confirms it.
  • Ol' dude's Australian live-in girlfriend comes to Greece and they hang out for a weekend and shag and then Ol' dude breaks her heart by telling her 'There is someone else.'
  • Ol' dude is even more confused, Conchis doesn't help.
  • L/J/SW finally lets Ol' dude in her twat and Ol' dude is in looooove
  • Ol' dude's Australian gf commits suicide and he has kind of an emotional meltdown.
  • Rose/Julie calls off the charade and somehow Ol' dude still is a sucker and manages to get captured, drugged and possibly sexually molested for 3 days on Conchis' yacht.
  • There is what they refer to as 'The Trial' and I'll just say this: Just when you thought this book could not get any wierder, BAM! It hits you over the head with this sadistic bullshit. For serious, there is a man with horns. And an alligator head. And a witch. And of course, Conchis.
  • Apparently it isn't contemporary theatre, it's a grand psychological experiment in which they're essentially torturing ol' dude to get him to realize he's an asshole. Why? Because Conchis is not only a psychic but a psychologist. That works out well.
  • JK, Australian gf didn't commit suicide. She's alive and well and bff with the Bitch-Twins' Mom who also happens to be sleeping with CONCHIS.
  • Ol' dude goes back to England and the last 200 pages of the book are him arguing with Bitch-Twins' mom about Australian gf. Also apparently Conchis has been dead for 4 years. Yeah, I don't know either.
  • Australian Girlfriend finally comes back and the book ends with a fucking French quote that I was too pissed off to look up. I have no idea if Ol' dude and semi-dead Australian gf end up together.
There are a couple of points I'd like to make. First, this book would 650 pages shorter if Fowles would have just had his Australian girlfriend tell Ol' dude he's an asshole. Secondly, ol' dude never seems really angry that he was abducted, drugged and molested/tortured for 3 days on a yacht. Although I guess it could be said that if you're going to be molested and drugged it would be nice to be able to have Hector bring you a pina-colada to dull the pain? WTF man? Tertiarily (Is this a word? I know thirdly isn't. Maybe ternarily?) why in the fuck this dude still continues to GO TO CONCHIS' HOUSE is beyond me. Personally after about the 4th dinner I'd stand up and graciously thank Conchis for a wonderful dinner and then shoot him the bird, piss on his foot and bolt from the house of Hell.

My roommate says I'd be impervious to his tricks though. He says that Conchis would be waxing philosophically about the fluidity of reality and I'd knock over my drink and make some smart-ass comment about the fluidity of fluid, or I'd see a bug and get distracted. I forgot to mention that at least 30% of the book is Conchis waxing philosophically about the fluidity of reality and what actually defines reality. I'm sure there is an important point in it somewhere; I'm just not sure where it is.

I guess what a person can really get out of this is this: If your significant other is an asshole, tell them. And if you're gonna get random hand-jobs in public, don't get them from schizophrenic bitches. They're cray-cray.  

Tuesday, September 27, 2011

Badger Bait

Over the weekend sometime I was reading this news story about a midget, excuse me, dwarf, (or are they little people again?) that was killed.

The first odd thing about this midget was that he was an apparent giant in the world of English pornography. Poor word choice I know. For serious folks, this dude was popular. Why was the midget popular in English pornography you ask? Because he looked like Gordon Ramsay, the potty-mouthed chef with a inferiority complex.

Here's the second odd thing. Do you know how said midget/dwarf/little person died?


Yes, badgers. The English policemen found him half-eaten in a badger den. THEY ATE HIM. Well they ate half of him and saved the rest for snackies later.

... ... ...

I've done some research about badgers (Meaning I can use the google and the Wikipedia.) and here is what I've found out. Badgers are members of the weasel family, Mustelidae. Because this happened in England the badgers that ate the poor guy are in the subfamily Melinae This probably doesn't mean much to you, the lay-person, but, Hell who I am kidding? It doesn't mean shit to me either. I'm skipping to the good parts.

A few choice quotes. Please remember that I am quoting Wikipedia directly. DIRECTLY.

"Their lower jaw is articulated to the upper by means of a transverse condyle firmly locked into a long cavity of the cranium, so that dislocation of the jaw is all but impossible. This enables the badger to maintain its hold with the utmost tenacity, but limits its jaw movement to hinging open and shut, or sliding from side to side without the twisting movement possible for the jaws of most mammals."

This will be important later.

Again, another direct quote about the eating habits of badgers, specifically english ones:

"The diet of the Eurasian badger consists largely of earthworms, insects, and grubs. They also eat small mammals, amphibians, reptiles and birds as well as roots and fruit."

Well, so they eat small mammals. I'm just going to leave that one alone.

The Wikipedia article goes on to discuss the English government outlawing the hunting of badgers (A practice they may want to reconsider for the good of their little person population.) and that badger hair is used to make shaving brushes. Who knew?

Here is the kicker: "In 2007 suggestions that British forces deliberately released man-eating badgers near Basra, Iraq, to intimidate the local population were refuted."

Ah ha! So the fact that there are badgers out there that eat people is obviously a fact because why else would they cover it up? Plus there is a wikipedia article about a killer-badger; I've left the link above so that you can see and judge for yourself. We have also established that they eat small mammals. I don't think it's a stretch to think that a family of badgers could eat a small human being, seeing as how we are technically mammals and probably taste better than worms, grubs and roots and fruit. Maybe, I don't know that. For the record I do not eat people. But if I was to eat them I'm pretty sure that my jaw would unhinge because my lower jaw is not articulated to my upper jaw by a transverse condyle firmly locked into my cranium.

Badgers would obviously be bad at giving blow-jobs. For multiple reasons. Mostly because they'd probably eat your penis.

I don't know about you but this adds another whole dimension to my list of 'Unreasonable shit that I am afraid of.' Badger's could very well eat me; I'm only 5'2". In fact they could build a den under my bed and I'd never know because I don't go looking under my bed because I don't keep anything under my bed (The reason why is actually a really funny story that I'll have to tell you one day.) and thus have no reason to venture under there. They could just get hungry one day and pop out while I'm asleep or in the shower and then catch me unawares and BAM! I'm badger food. (Can badgers even climb?)

For Christ sakes alive people, watch your children. They may end up badger food.

Tuesday, September 13, 2011

I wonned another award. BECAUSE I AM AWESOME!

Yvone over at 'Attracted to Shiny Things,' a completely HILARIOUS blog, has given me an award. Actually she gave it to me a while ago. I am lazy and couldn't think of ten interesting things about myself in a quick like fashion. Plus I've been busy.

*Imagine that this is a picture of a blog award. I cannot figure out how to save the picture of the blog award to my iPad so when I get to a computer that I can actually do that on I'll include but for now imagine this as a blog award picture. ---> [] (It's square, like an actual picture would be. :D tee hee)

Blog award picture that I finally figured out to upload. Even if I had to do it on a laptop instead of my iPad. Technology. Schmeck-nology. Geez.

So to do something with this blog award I have to tell you 10 deep things about myself. I feel that this should be easy because you blog readers already probably know waaaaaaaay too much about me as it is. Here's some more stuff to make you feel awkward.


1. When I was in first grade I took my socks off one day because my feet were all sweaty and put them way back in the back of my cubby and left them there all year. On the last day of school the teacher was cleaning out the cubbies and found the socks and asked whose they were. I never admitted they were my socks. This has been secret for 20 some odd years now. Mrs. Priddy, they were my socks.

2. I'm afraid of Howard the Duck. Seriously.

3. I went black. And came back. So that whole posit is wrong. 

4. I hate cheersing people. Why in the world we need to clink our glasses is beside me. I think it's dumb and I hate it. I hate it when people make me do it and I HATE feeling like I have to do it because there is an expectation of some doe-eyed, grinning person across from me with their fucking hand out with a beverage in it. Don't they know that it's easily possible to actually clink your glass and lose the alcohol in your glass especially if it is still full because you haven't yet drank from it yet? ALCOHOL ABUSE. Stop being a puss-box and drink your fucking drink. Clearly I'm happy for you because I'm sitting with you, drinking, in a bar, or at a table. As long as we aren't under the table then things are good. Needless to say, I hate cheersing people. It's stupid and I won't ever initiate it. There may be a perfunctory chest bump after a really awesome shot but no, not ever, will there be a cheers.

5. Actually I have a list of things that I hate. I update it regularly. One day I will post it. 

6. One time when I was at my boyfriend's house in high school he asked me to get him some Sprite. And then he goes on a 3 minute tirade about how to pour the Sprite out of the bottle because apparently I cannot pour Sprite out of a 2-liter bottle correctly. I totally spit in the Sprite bottle and shook it up when he went away. Just for spite. (:

7. I'm afraid of ending up old and bitter and alone. I'll probably off myself at 30 to prevent this. True story. So enjoy the blog while you can.

8. Actually I could probably stand some pretty intensive therapy. Unfortunately the state just voted to up our mental health co-pay so it looks like I'll be self-medicating and espousing my paranoia here for the next, near future. Aren't you the lucky ones?

9. This one is going to piss some people off but here goes: I don't think OJ actually killed his wife. Shrug. I think he had it done but I don't think he was the one that actually did the killing. I think it was the wierdo house keeper Kato.

10. This past spring when I had Salmonella and I went to the doctor, she stuck her finger in my ass and didn't even buy me dinner. Also this was the first time anything has EVER been stuck in my ass. TMI I know but I thought that was point here. I anticipate that the only things ever to be stuck in my ass will be medically related and hopefully won't be for a good many years yet.

Now I'm supposed to pick some blogs that I read and think are totally cool and that you should read too:

Sassafras Junction

A Beer for the Shower

Secret, Spineless Whine


it's time I said something about this

Well there you have it. Blog Award, numero 2. :D

Thanks Yvonne!

PS - I'm reeeeeeeally sorry for taking so long to post this. I am le-lazy.

*If you haven't figured out that I figured out how to add the picture then there is A WHOLE LOT of figuring left for you to do. 

An unreasonable request.

I have an unreasonable request. First the back story.

Swimmy stuff indicative of a flashback-type thing. dooo doo doooo

(Yes, that is the proper onomatopoeia for flashbacking.)

Today I gave blood at work, because for some reason I feel compelled to be impaled (See what I did there? It's coming back to me! or maybe not. The ability to actually write, coherently.) by some angry nurse type person. Seriously? Are they real nurses? I should check next time.

Overall it went pretty well except my appointment to have my blood drawn was at 3:15 and I was walking out of the room where the blood drive was held at 5 PM. Yes, I was there for an hour and 45 minutes.

You may think that my unreasonable request relate to the fact that the Red Cross lackeys do not know the difference between an appointment and a walk-in. We've moved on past that anger.

Now, we, or I, am angry at the people whose genetic identity I share. Later this evening I went to the local homeless shelter to volunteer like I always do every other Tuesday and while I was there I became extremely light-headed and had to lay down in the counselor's office to keep from passing out.

Fast-forward to speaking via telephone with my mother whose current complaint is that her mouth is dry. Here is our conversation:

Mom: You know Anna, I'm not sure what I've taken but my mouth is so dry. I had to drink water ALL DAY LONG.
Me: You're supposed to do that Mom. You have one kidney and it only limps along.
Mom: Yes, but I had to drink water ALL DAY LONG. ALL DAY Anna.
Me: Well I almost passed out at the shelter tonight.
Mom: I don't understand why my mouth is so dry. I'm only taking one diuretic so that my kidney doesn't hold the water it collects. Why is my mouth so dry Anna?
Me: I don't know, you probably need to drink more water. By the way, I kind of passed out this evening.
Mom: I do drink a lot of water. It's all I do. The doctor told me I needed to drink lots of water. So I do.
Me: If you drank the right amount of water your mouth wouldn't be dry. I almost died tonight Mom.
Mom: I'm telling you Anna, that isn't it. I drink plenty of water. We need to investigate why my mouth is so dry.
Me: I am currently dead. I'm speaking to you from beyond the veil of existence.
Mom: And another thing, I've got this odd rash that I think could be from these antibiotics I'm taking. Do you think?
Me: Seriously Mom, I'm dead. D.E.A.D. Dead.
Mom: Hmmm, maybe not though. I was outside in the yard today with the dog. You know, the dog is awfully thirsty these days too. Maybe her mouth is dry too? I wonder if that's related to my mouth being dry?
Me: I'm also pregnant. By a gimpy, hobbly circus clown. We're moving to Guadalajara to run away and join the circus. We're gonna put a pumpkin on the baby's head and call it 'Pumpkin-Head' and have it in the sideshow. That baby is going to make us rich.
Mom: I guess it could be the change in the weather. You think?
Me: Sigh. Yes mother, I suppose it could be the change in the weather. Or maybe you just don't drink enough water.

Do you see that? Do you see that she is no longer my parent? Shit, she longer even listens to me; I am not required for conversation between the two of us, any warm body would suffice really.

For once I would like my parents to put themselves aside and do some actual parenting. Not for the rest of their lives or anything but if they could just take 10 minutes out of their busy self-absorbed schedule to say 'Gee, Anna. Are you alright? Do you feel okay now? Don't put a pumpkin on the baby's head. We'll love it no matter what.'

But I guess that is the true unreasonable request.

Tuesday, September 6, 2011

You are not prepared for this.

Seriously. I don't care who you think you are or how tough you think you are or even if you are hardcore.

You Are NOT Ready for what I'm about to show you.

Your paradigm will shift.

Your world will tilt.

You will probably pass out.

And this is totally and completely and utterly NOT SAFE FOR WORK. DO NOT OPEN THIS AT WORK as it may cause your head to explode and your boss does not want to clean your brains out of your keyboard.

Your mother on the other hand may be a little more inclined to do this service for you.

Are you ready? Go ahead and click on it. I'll wait.

You will be speechless.

Told ya.

Saturday, August 20, 2011

Anna Gray is not dead. But sometimes wishes she was.

Hola Blogger Nation,

I've probably lost my entire reading audience which I was proud to say was a not-to-shabby 36 people willing to read this here blog and here I am neglecting it.

My sincerest apologies but my sense of humor got up and left. And it hasn't really returned.

It has been nothing but a rollercoaster ride of visits to doctors and dealing with my momma for the last few weeks and I don't think that I have to you, blog reader, that I'm about 3 ticks shy of a full blown apoplectic fit.

Daily I talk myself out of maiming a relative. Sometimes multiple times in a day. Tuesday of this past week we, my mother and I, were asked to leave the physician's office and take our 'conversation' into the parking lot as we were screaming at each other at the top of our lungs in the middle of the waiting room. That was a little embarrassing but we bounced right back to re-have the same fight, the very same fight that we've been having for weeks now, again 30 minutes later. That ladies and gentleman requires talent.

What fight is this you ask? The fight in which my mother declares that she's going to die reasonably 'soon' and that, drum roll please, she's ready to 'GO'. The problem with this being mostly that SHE ISN'T DYING; she's not even reasonably close. Sure her wound won't close and her kidney function isn't great but not one doctor, and we've seen at least 5 different ones, has looked at her and said 'You know, this isn't looking good.' Mostly they roll their eyes, look at me with empathy and give me the name of yet another specialist I need to drag her to. Because they're trained to do that. And they're glad they don't see her everyday to put up with this melodramatic bullshit. So I do the normal thing and threaten to haul her punk ass to the ER because if she really feels THAT BAD then she shouldn't be at home. Of course that provokes an entirely different fight about how she's not doing anything she doesn't want to do. (Boy I'm gonna feel like a jackass if she kicks the bucket soon; I still maintain she'll outlive us all just for spite. She'd seriously do that. If only to piss me off.) Then I play the guilt card and she finally shuts up and we move on to the next topic.

There are bugs in her bed. Sometimes they even crawl in her ears.

Now, this is a genuine fear of mine (Especially when my bff's husband told m a story of his crazy friend Bob White who actually had a cockroach eat his ear drum. I went into convulsions in the middle of her floor and scared her dogs into peeing themselves.) so when that started I raced her to the doctor to have her ears examined for the presence of bugs, and maybe a brain. I then drug her memory foam mattress (Which is heavy as a mother-fucker.) into the yard and beat it with a stick. I then sanitized her sheets and bedding and still there are bugs in her bed.

There are no bugs in her bed. I've gone over it with a fine tooth comb. I've called the exterminator and personally directed him to spray every nook and cranny in and around that house. The dog hasn't been quite right since.

But that may be the steroids.

Yes, not only am I arguing with my mother to take her pills, I am now responsible for coaxing the dog to take HER pills. Hot dogs, I tell you. Dogs love raw hot dogs.

Do you know why I'll be forever single? Because my fingers smell like raw hot dogs.

And I have to talk to myself, out loud mind you, to not dis-member people in public. I saw this crazy woman in the CVS the other day and I asked the clerk if he'd like me to remove her from the premises and he looked at me like I was the one playing house with the gummy bears in the middle of the incontinence aisle. Whatever dude.

Anyways the point of all this being I'm not dead and I'm sorry for not posting and reading your blogs. I'm lame. I know. But if you'd like to arrange for me to be put in a vegetative-like coma for a few weeks I could totally get down with that. Or you could just come kill me and put me out of my misery.

But totally freeze me so I can come back once the woman has calmed down. What? I'm not suicidal. That's just plain morbid.

Tuesday, August 2, 2011

Breasts are not conducive to push-ups.

*<i>This is like the 9th re-try of this post. I kept screwing up the formatting. Sorry bout that.</i>

Because I cannot fetch a proper relationship I've been attending this weight lifting class. Actually I've been attending this weight-lifting class to tone and firm my body but I'm doing that for the aforementioned reason so there you go.

Please see my last post on whether or not I need/want a relationship. It's not that I really want one, I just feel that I need one. Mostly because I wake up in the mornings and find my uterus doing a jig at the end of my bed sticking its tongue out at me with its thumbs in its ears and proving yet again that I still suck at life. SCORE! Before you ask, yes I do find it odd that my uterus has ears. I don't know either.

And I feel that if I am indeed going to be reproductively successful I'd like to have a partner to do that with because we, as humans, have the reproductive strategy that benefits from the pairing of two individuals in order to raise a tiny human. And someone else is going to have to change the tiny human when it poops because I am not doing that. I am currently accepting applications for 'Tiny Human Collector of Poo.'

So I've decided once again that I'm single because I'm fat and not because I'm fucked up as a football bat. I do so enjoy making these decisions.

Except damn ya'll, I'm getting kind of HAWT. I hate to brag but damn. The waist keeps getting smaller and while as yet the bust is shrinking it looks bigger because my waist is smaller and my ass is just getting higher and tighter. God I look like Gena Lollobrigida (I have no clue how to spell this). Doesn't that suck? MWA HA HAA, Right, yes it does actually because I look like that in this, the 21st century. You menfolk think I'm fat.

Frack the lot of you.

Anyways. SO I'm doing this weight lifting class. And for our chest we do these flys with free weights and then about 9 million push-ups. And in the midst of doing these 9-million push-ups I glance into to the mirror and guess who I see in said mirror on the stair master staring into said room?

Oh that would be Sex-on-Skates.

Maybe you do not have awesome breasts. I do. Maybe you can do multiple push-ups. I cannot. I can do a bajillion flys and and a bajillion bench presses but apparently if I was dying and had to support my upper body weight with my T-Rex arms I'd die in about a minute and a half. Mebbe just a minute. They're awesome, my breasts, but it sucks trying to move them. I mean I can do it. I amm hardcore. I just cannot do it often right now. Because I'm a girl. And I have T-Rex arms. And breasts.

So anyways that is my opinion on why breasts are not conducive to push-ups and I don't think that I should have to do them. Not that I do a lot of them to begin with but still.

I'll leave you with this lasting thought: You know those uber-hard-core muscle bound women on those fitness shows that can do one-handed push-ups and all the other assorted sundry push-up type things? Do they have attractive breasts? Do they even have breasts at all?

Ooh! I just thought of something else! Chickens! Chickens have significant breasts, because they're genetically modified but still, and they cannot do push-ups either!

There you go. Conclusive proof that if you have breasts, you cannot do push-ups.

Sunday, July 31, 2011

And yet, I still continue to suck at life.

So you, blogger-nation, don't know this but the thing-of-which-I-must-not-speak fizzled into nothingness as he broke up with me before we even started dating. TRUTH.

Why, he did this I'm not sure because what I had said was 'Let me know. We'll stay in and watch a movie.'

I'm sorry and it may be because I'm old but I seriously thought staying in watching a movie was in 'Single' vernacular code for: Let's fuck because I'm afraid of commitment and do not want to go out into the public where people may see me. Apparently he thought differently. I'm not sure why?

So I've been brave. I've been resuming my normal schedule, which right now is not my normal schedule because I'm dealing with my mother's gaping, open wound twice a day and freaking because she's halfway running a fever and I'm scared to death she's going to DIE because that is how my life works. She'd be fine and then I'd trot my happy ass over there one AM to change her bandage and she'd be dead. Because I SUCK AT LIFE AND TO PROVE IT THEY'D KILL OFF MY MOM. Oh God I'm a mess.

So anyways, fast forward to this evening and the complication of tripe that is my emotional status right now and I make the ever prudent decision to invite the one person I know would go out to have a drink with me because I self-medicate like any adult person. Guess who shows up at the bar? The obtuse bar out of the way? OH IF YOU GUESSED COACHY TYPE PERSON AWARD YOURSELF 40-MILLION BONUS POINTS. I had even forgotten about him because I'd chatted up this HAWT undergraduate who had majored in Philosophy and thankfully I remembered some shit about teleological ontology. Seriously that is all I remembered. The actual phrase. I have no clue what it means. But he was interested in me because he waved at me when he left. I'm having roomie FB stalk him tomorrow. Roomie doesn't know this yet because he's in bed but he's graduating soon and he's majoring in philosophy and he is a total fucking hipster which I totally hate but he's suuuuuper cute and told me I wasn't old when I told him my real age. Plus he was this total ugly fat girl. I can say that because she was plumper than I and guess what ya'll? I apparently am hot bitch status. BOO-YAH. So Roomie: (The rest of ya'll ignore this part) He's at our alma mater, you know which expensive southern private school that is, and he's majoring in philosophy and Dr. Lewis is his major advisor, brunette, about 5'11, glasses, HAWT, probably interested in shit that Dr. Lewis would be interested in besides flax seed oil and silver plated things. So now that we're done with that we can continue our conversation about COACHY TYPE PERSON AND HIS OBVIOUS LACK OF TASTE.

It is one thing for him to show up at the bar that I frequent that is ACROSS THE STREET FROM MY HOUSE on the one night THAT I TOLD HIM WE GO THERE. It is another thing entirely for him to show up at the random bar out of the way on a Saturday night and then RUN THE FUCK OUT THE DOOR FOR HIS FRIENDS TO SETTLE HIS TAB. And maybe he's not cut up over me, that is completely possible. Then maybe if he wasn't he would have a sac and walk over to me and be like 'Hey Anna, how's it going?' like I did last week after the whole 'Hey I'm not looking for a relationship debacle?' And he was all like 'Why wouldn't we be cool?' That really is an admirable quality about you menfolk. You forget shit in 0.48 seconds. Oh I sent you a text message breaking up with you before we even went out, why in the world would we not be cool? I'll stand here awkwardly and stare longingly at your tits and kick myself and then proclaim 'WHY WOULDN'T WE BE COOL?' After I've approached and asked 'Hey, are we cool?'

Clearly he has not met me. I invented 'Hit it and quit it.' Seriously that new song 'Toot it and boot it.' I get royalties from that. If I wanted a real relationship I'd have one, why? BECAUSE I'm too damn stubborn to not have what I want. Yes, I bitch and moan about being single but you should all thank THE LORD ABOVE I am still single otherwise this blog would be much less funneh and much more 'OH GOD I AM GOING TO WITHER AWAY AND DIE!' because I'm in a an actual relationship. My favorite relationships are the one's I don't know I'm in until I'm preggers.

Oh damn, that's right. I'VE NEVER HAD ONE OF THOSE.


UGH. OR AT LEAST GROW A SAC AND SAY HELLO. You're talking to a bitch in a romper.



Except you don't really care do you? GOD MUST I STILL SUCK AT LIFE.

Mebbe I'll die soon.

Wednesday, July 27, 2011

Why is America obsessed with poop?*

You guys remember that '2 girls, 1 cup' video from a few years back right? Well here is the story of my viewing it. I had heard about it on the local radio show and they were planning this big event in which two of the morning show radio personalities were going to watch the video and they were going to videotape their responses. And there was a tidal wave of people calling in talking about how the radio personalities were going to flip and wouldn't be able to handle it. I promptly went home that afternoon and said to roomie 'There is this video on the internet that we need to watch. You queue it up and I'll be back in a few minutes and we'll watch it.' (This was back in the days of DSL so it took a minute.) I'm sitting on the couch catching up on the OC or something else soap-opera-y and my roommate walks into the living room and says to me: 'You cannot handle this.'

Do you know why I cannot handle it? BECAUSE apparently I am the only person left in the continental 48 that gags at the site of poop. I don't really think this is even an odd reaction. Poop is gross. Really gross. Thinking about it makes me want to pass out. I'm not really sure what in the hell I'm going to do when I do manage squirt life out of my vertical smile because I will not be able to change its diapers. Heaven forbid we go hippy dippy and do cloth diapers because I really may just roll over and die. Have I mentioned that poop is really, really gross?

Did you happen tonight's episode of Tosh.O by chance? Seriously, can he please make an episode without poop? PLEASE. I literally screamed at the top of my lungs tonight. Literally. A long, blood curdling scream. (And the sad part is no one came running. whomp whomp. Thanks for that Sex-on-Skates, I could have been being murdered.) I walk in the door after being gone all day and all evening and roomie says to me: 'I kept Tosh.O for you on the DVR. I think he meant this episode specifically for you.'


And then I yakked for 10 minutes.

Back to the '2 girls, 1 cup' video story: I proceed to argue with roomie for a few minutes about my hard-cor-edness and insist on watching the video. He finally agrees for what reason I assume is to shut me up. I made it about 7.2 seconds into the video and passed the fuck out. Just passed the fuck right on out. My brain simply could not take it.

I wake up to roomie cackling and we learn the real reason why he agreed to let me watch the video, because he thinks it's funny when I spaz about shit.

*Please ignore the fact that I have 2 different posts dedicated to diarrhea. They're really more so dedicated to cocaine and its causal effects. It's more of a scientific thing with me and at least I'm not actually showing you diarrhea. Hold on, I have to go puke again.


Anyways, cut me some slack. Shit is gross.

**I'm not sure why blogger is being douchy and not letting people post. Obvi it hates me. If I was a better person I'd go digging through the code of the blog and figure it out but I'm not there yet.

Tuesday, July 26, 2011

I wore heels to the surgeon's office today. I am 'That Girl.'

Christ Sakes alive ya'll I'm really pathetic these days. I seriously wore heels to go see my mother's surgeon today. Why do you ask?

Two reasons really:


2. My toenails are all janky because I haven't had time to re-paint them. And I'm too broke to go get a pedicure and pay actual professionals to do it.

What? I didn't want him to see my janky toes and I was wearing my nice jeans because all of my bum-around jeans are dirty. I haven't had time to do laundry so I'm seriously scraping the bottom of the clothes barrel here; I couldn't wear my tennis shoes. Hence I wore my new neutral pumps. Because they're pretty and mad me feel better about my janky toes and having to drag my mother into see him yet again for what was supposed to be a relatively minor and easy surgery. Oops.

And guess what? He totally touched my shoulder and said he'd see me again soon.

Granted that could be because the woman, my mother, has been without a kidney for 21 days now and we've been to his office 5 times since she left the hospital. Yes, 5 times. (And now he's saying she might have to go back under. ugh. FML.) He probably does actually anticipate seeing me again soon as I can only imagine we'll back later this week.

Do you think I could get away with wearing a dress to his office? Or is that too much?

Sunday, July 24, 2011

I think It may live in my closet.

Apparently while I was in blogger absentia the folks at Blogger/The Google went ahead and changed the format of the blog posting engine and now it will not let me blog from the Safari browser on my iPad. Not to worry, I think I have gotten around it. Maybe? If you're reading this then it apparently worked. If not, then you're not reading this and you're probably actually doing something meaningful with your life instead of reading about the tragedy that is my life.


It, yes IT, from that book It, lives in my closet. I know this because I just finished the book this afternoon after a good 3 weeks of slogging through the fucking thing. Good God it liked to have never have ended. But anywho last night I was sitting in bed reading trying to finish the last 100 pages and that is kind of the creepy part where they're crawling around in the sewers and that crazy-psycho kid that they all knew from when they were the 'Losers' (Who seriously would call themselves that and/or own up to that? They clearly have some psychological issues that need evaluating. I'll prove this point again later.) is chasing them around and hunting them down and shit. It is kind of Creepy. I'm sitting here reading this book silently wishing the damn IT thing would just hurry up and eat the stupid children already because really? Do we need yet another book with a happy ending? Aren't they more fun when the main characters get eaten at the end? I mean, we've clearly had enough time for adequate character development because the fucking book is over 1000 PAGES LONG. EAT THE DAMN KIDS ALREADY. IT is clearly not very effective at being a monster because it has had 900 pages of opportunity to eat these clearly 'affected' children and still IT cannot get it done, and we're supposed to feel sorry for these children? WHAT-E-VER. But anyways I'm sitting here wading through the muck as the children wade through shit (This right here is a brilliant case for why they all need to be eaten and/or committed. Seriously who wades through shit? Not this girl. Heaven forbid I be in that club, which I never could have been in anyways because I'm way too cool, because I would have been the one that would have said 'You know. If a giant spider thing wants to eat the children of this town then maybe the children of this town should be a little more introspective and figure out what is wrong with them because I am NOT wading through raw sewage to save anymore douchebag little children. FUCK THAT NOISE.') and then WHAM! Something falls off the shelf in my closet, and we all know that my closet is prone to committing suicide but that wasn't the creepy part.

The creepy part was watching the collection of unused hangers that I keep on the lower shelf sway back and forth for what seemed like forever. I have UNUSED HANGERS IN MY CLOSET.

You know what It would look like to me? An empty closet without clothes, shoes and purses. That right there is truly scary. But it was creepy because the hangers did sway back and forth for what seemed like forever. Like IT was taunting me because I clearly need to go shopping and buy more things. That and it was 3:30 in the morning and something clearly and obviously leaped off the shelf in my closet. I still don't know what it was. I haven't been in there to look yet.

Tuesday, July 19, 2011

"When you say 'we' do you mean 'me'?

So my mom called me last night and had decided that she was indeed going to survive so I can blog again.

As some of you may or may not remember Mom had her left kidney removed two weeks ago today and boy what a long, strange trip it's been.

Here is a synopsis of the past two weeks from my point-of-view:

Mom, get back in the bed. No Mom, you need to stay in the bed. Stay in the bed. STAY IN THE BED. I am not yelling at you. NO I am Not yelling. I AM NOT YELLING AT YOU. GET BACK IN THE BED. STAY IN THE BED! Will you please eat something? Wake up Mom. Eat this. Please? Will you please eat this? Eat this. You need to eat. YES YOU DO. EAT THIS! Mom, please get back in the bed. Yes I am sure that the Duke Power man does indeed mind that you don't have on pants. Mom, it is 2 PM, you cannot go outside without pants on. Mom, come back here. MOM GET BACK IN THE BED. GET BACK IN THE BED! Mother, please, you cannot go to jail with only one kidney. You'll get shanked in general population and then you'll need my kidney and I'm kind of partial to it. MOTHER! MOTHER, GET BACK IN THE BED! I AM NOT YELLING AT YOU, I JUST WANT YOU TO GET BACK IN THE BED. WHY DO I WANT YOU BACK IN THE BED? SO YOU DONT DIE! Please, get back in the bed? Please? FINE! I DON'T CARE WHAT YOU DO. Are you cooking? Did you make something? YOU CANNOT COOK IF YOU'RE TAKING THOSE PAIN PILLS! YOU ALMOST BURNED DOWN THE DAMN HOUSE! GET BACK IN THE BED! 

On and on ad nauseum.

Here is a hint: Do not let pretty people operate on you or your loved ones. Seriously, if your surgeon walks in the room and you have to restrain yourself from launching yourself at said surgeon, genitals first, tell them to go ahead and put the scalpel down. I'm not saying that Mother's surgeon wasn't capable. She survived her surgery which I suppose is their number one goal. He also removed her kidney, which was the number two goal. I think he quit after two goals because it's only been two weeks and we've been back to his office twice, he's called in no less than 6 prescriptions and I am now confident that I could stand shoulder to shoulder with any wound-care technician in the area and do just as well.

My Mother is now the proud owner of a gaping, 6-inch hole in her gut. She popped her stitches and rather than sew it right back up he declares yesterday 'We're going to pack it twice a day for the next 4 weeks and re-assess then.' We, he says. We. I'm sorry but I didn't see him this morning bright and early when I was standing over my mother with gauze, sterile saline and a pair of forceps because if I had I'm reasonably sure that I would have launched myself at him, genitals first, but only so that my vagina could beat him up and then I would have taken advantage of him, but totally beat him up first. Only because my vagina is crying on the inside because I'm reasonably sure that my sex life is dying a long, slow, withering death. I now get to spend no less than an hour a day with my mother and I'm reasonably sure that won't work in the whole 'Hey, you wanna go to my place?' 'I'm sorry, I can't. I have to get up in the morning and go pack my mother's gaping wound in her gut. Maybe next time?' dialogue. Riiiiiiiight. That's my mojo working.

Not to mention that in 4 weeks after seeing my mother twice a day repeatedly I'll be ready for the funny farm and no one likes a crazy girl. No one. I mean I have enough issues as it is, I'm not sure that prolonged exposure to my parental unit will help any of that.

I, not we, am suffering this burden because I'm happy to do it. Because I love my mother. I swear I do. I just don't think it's fair for Dr. Pretty-Surgeon-Pants to say 'we' when he means 'me.' 

Sunday, July 3, 2011

A Synopsis of the entire Star Wars saga and some thoughts

So because of unnamed reasons I'm stuck at home tonight bored to tears and I thought I would blog about Star Wars because my roommate keeps making me watch all 92 of them over and over again because for some reason they're on repeat on the Spike TV channel. I will begin with the 1st one which apparently is really the 4th one. I'm not sure how George Lucas has stretched the space/time continuum to fit his literary/theatrical needs but he has.

Star Wars 1/4: A New Hope, or something.

So there is this kid and he comes by these droids in the desert from these wierdo people and the one droid has a bad hologram, which by the way if you pay careful attention is in color. Let me ask you this, how in the hell did they have color holograms in the 70's when they made these movies? Hmmm? I'm just saying. Anywho this kid is a whiny bitch especially when the storm troopers kill his family who he was just mad at 10 minutes previous. He and this old dude run off to town and go to the bar, like any sane person would do if he came home to find his favorite aunt and uncle fried hard. Here is where the movie actually gets good because Han Solo shows up and he is really is the only reason why I continue to sit through these movies. Yummy yummy Han. Come to find out they have to go rescue some dumb ol' princess who gets her home planet blown the fuck up because she's got a horrible poker face. They get to the ship and Darth Vader tries to send them out with the trash which doesn't work because I think R2 saves them. I don't rightly know. Then Obi Wan gets in a brawl with Vader and to be such a damn amazing Jedi warrior he sure goes down pretty quick and pulls a witch from the Wizard of Oz and disintegrates which is a pretty handy trick. Some other shit happens and I think this is the movie where Luke uses the force to blow up the death star, yay! I think? Honestly all the scenes without Han Solo I'm pretty much lost at. But boo-ya, foreshadowing, like any good bureaucracy, they have 2.

Star Wars 2/5: I forget the name of this one, but it's the best one.

This is the best one mostly because at the end when the bounty hunters catch Han Solo to take to Jabba, they put him in the carbonate shirtless. This is all that really matters but because some other shit does happen I'll tell you about it.

Rebel rebellion is happening in a cold, cold place with a stupid name. For lack of a better name we'll call it Canadia. Imagine that, rebels rebelling. They sort of win and Luke has to spend the night in a stinky elk-type thing because he cannot stay out in the elements in Canadia as it's too damn cold. He actually cuts it open and crawls inside it. Actually inside it. I'm not sure why he didn't just send up a flare and call his homies to come get him with the 'force.' He is pretty dumb. Then he runs off to someplace called Degoba (sp?) to find Yoda who does a good job as functioning as comic relief. Degoba is a swampy, rainy place and for some reason R2 is left out in the rain and weather for their entire visit and really needs a bath by the end of the movie. The other weird thing in this movie is that while Han, Leia, Chewie and C3PO are running from the Imperial Battlecruisers by hiding in the gut of a cave monster, Luke has supposedly spent weeks and weeks with Yoda. There really is no time continuity here. You're led to believe that the crowd on the Millennium Falcon is having a harrowing few hours and Luke is spending ages in a swamp moving rocks with his mind. Ya okay. Fast forward, some quick thinking by Han gets them out of the battlecruiser's sights and onto some mining facility (How they mine anything that far in the air is beside me?) and surprise, surprise his old friend sells him out. Luke has some puss ass vision like dear, old Dad did and runs off to save them and really doesn't do anything resembling saving them. In fact Lando is the one doing the saving here because he was the one doing the betraying and he picks Luke up off the rails, they never find his hand, and off they go to get Han back from Jabba. Oh yeah, and Darth Vader is Luke's father and there is an awkward Luke/Leia kiss. I personally have always thought Luke was of the homogay persuasion but that's just my take on the whole thing.

Star Wars 3/6: A Waste of Time or A Bunch of Midgets Get Jobs

Somehow this rag-tag band of dumb-asses manages to rescue Han but only because Chewie is awesome. But I must say Jabba was pretty damn smart to make R2 hand out drinks. R2 seems like he could make a good cocktail. I'm just sayin...

Then there are the Ewoks. This is the quite possibly one of the stupidest movies ever made. Long story short, the rebels tromp through the woods with midgets dressed as bears, which seems really denigrating to midgets in general, and win. Yay. Luke ends up turning his father back to the good side; the emporer kicks the bucket and Leia ends up with Han in some wierdo coronation/wedding/medal awarding ceremony. The only cool scene in this movie is the squid general.

Star Wars 1/4: The Phantom Menace

I don't really know how all this drama starts but this guy Qui Gon ends up on a planet named Naboo where the Trade Federation, green people with giant heads, have invaded and their Queen who is somehow elected, is in need of an army. So he, Obi Wan and Jar-Jar Binks, the clumsiest fool ever to walk the galaxy, go to the underwater city to recruit help and almost get eaten by a fish. They somehow manage to get the king of Waterworld to agree to help them fight the droid army. Then they go to Tatooine for some reason and end up meeting Anakin Skywalker, a petulant child that is clearly in need of a strong male influence. This entire mess could have been avoided if Anakin's mom would have shacked up with some dude that had enough good sense to beat that child on a regular basis. Qui Gon fights Darth Maul (I think?), a stand in for that rap group ICP, and wins. Anakin wins his freedom by winning a pod race and runs off to be a Jedi on that planet that is one big city. Somehow he manages to get Padme, queen of Naboo, to fall in love with him as an 8 year old child and all of the adults in his life ARE OKAY WITH THIS. Uuuuuuuum? Oh and there is a fight on the plains of Naboo between the water people and the Trade Federation Droid army. I don't know who wins.

Star Wars 2/5

I'm still confused about this one. Some shit happens and Padme and Anakin get married.

Star Wars 3/6: Revenge of the Sith

Okay, the emporer has cloned Jango Fett (which by the way is the funnest name ever: Jango.) and made an army. Count Duku buys the farm and General Greivous, who is part droid and part lizard with 4 arms has a pretty cool fight with Obi Wan. The emporer wants Anakin to be his liaison with the Jedi Council and the Jedi Council wants him to be a double agent and all he really wants to do is fuck so in the end the entire universe gets fucked. Padme shows up preggers and then ol' Skywalker starts having visions of his beloved buying the farm during childbirth. He goes to Yoda and Yoda pretty much says 'Dumbass, this is why we don't have wives' without really saying that. He's pretty unapologetic because he's Yoda and totally awesome-sauce. Anakin keeps freaking the fuck out and they don't let him be on the council and he has a grade A hissy fit and goes sulking to the Emporer who says 'Come to the dark side and you can bite off my toenails' or something which he does like a dumb ass. At some point Yoda and the Emporer get in a fight in the senate and that is a cool scene mostly because Yoda is pretty limber for a 900 year old dude. At some point the emporer throws Samuel Jackson out a window because Sam fucks his face up, because after all Sam is a bad mother-fucker. For some reason Anakin goes to the volcano planet, because that seems like such a lovely place to go. Oh yes, let us go to Hell, that would be lovely and of course Obi Wan follows him and so does his bitch ass wife who is getting really annoying by this point. They fight, Anakin ends up in the lava. He is saved by the emporer who turns him into Darth Vader and ol' whiny pants Padme squirts out her children which are delivered by a robot that says 'Oooooba' and lo and behold! There are two. Because they have the technology to have light sabers but no sonograms. Sure. Padme is too distraught over the loss of her husband to the dark side to give a rat's ass about her children which is really sickening and just gives up on her will to live so she dies. Damn, there's a loss and the remaining Jedi masters separate the children and send them away. Yoda goes into hiding and Obi Wan goes to spend the rest of his days on a desert planet to watch over a child that ends up being just as much a pain in the ass as his damn father and he even has sufficient male supervision. Go figure. I guess it's just bad genes.

So that ladies and gents is my synopsis of the entire Star Wars saga in a blog post. And for all of you Star Wars buffs out there I really don't care which parts are out of order and such because it doesn't honestly matter as it isn't real life.

Friday, July 1, 2011

That's no hobo, that's just Anna.

Guess what guys?

I have outdone myself yet again in the realm of 'Shit, I really did that.'

Last night roomie and I wandered across the street to the bar as we're known to do to celebrate Thursday, a wonderful day. We insituted our normal 2 drinks only by drink number 3 we had forgotten our rule. So we were drunk. I'm still not sure how in the world I got that way because I was fine and then all of a sudden I was dr-u-nk as Heeeeeeeeeeell.

On a side note I did see coachy type person, the other half of the thing of which I cannot mention, and thank God I was a sane person at that point in time. Let's just hope he never reads my blog. We made plans to see one another later in the weekend. Grin. Aaaaaaand here's the awesome-sauce part: When he came over to talk to me he was, wait for it, agrin. :D Roomie said it was really cute because he kept having to catch himself to stop grinning like a damn fool. If roomie says it was cute then it was really cute because roomie is not the type to like cute things. I didn't notice as I was trying really hard to be a normal person and I was dr-u-nk so I had to concentrate doubly hard. You know, being hungover isn't nearly as bad when you're all atwitter and aflutter. Now, pretend you did not read any of this because it is the thing of which I cannot mention. And I'm sorry for gushing. Kind of.

(One a side, side note: Is too early to break out the Sex-Pie? I made an apple pie tonight for dinner for some friends that came over and I need to make a second one because pie shells come in twos. I know, I know, I just didn't have time to make the crust. So what do you guys think? Too early?)

Then we meet some people that live in our building and we head back across the street and up to the pool to hang out and drink Coors Light. Because that is always a good idea. Putting cheap beer on top of Bombay Sapphire. Yum.

At some point in the evening I realize that it is waaay late and I need to go to bed. So I tell roomie and peoples I'm going downstairs to go bed. Roomie asks if I have my keys. I don't know what I told him but I didn't have them. Why we don't keep our door unlocked I don't rightly know. It's not like he hasn't met me and doesn't know I lose my keys every 20 feet.

Somehow in the time it took me to come down from the pool on the roof to the tenth floor I forget that roomie is upstairs at the pool. I begin to pound on the door and get unnecessarily mad at roomie for not getting up out of bed to come let me in. I knock and pound and cuss and knock and pound and cuss and finally just lay down in the floor in the hall. Classy, I know.

Round about 4 AM roomie wanders down and finds me, collects me and puts me to bed. Thank God he did because I really don't think I'd ever recover from the shame of being found, still drunk mind you, in the hall in the morning by Sex-on-Skates. Just so you're aware there are no homeless people in our building, just drunk people that cannot get in their apartment.

Wednesday, June 29, 2011

Why yes, in fact I do regularly pee myself at work.

I'm having kind of a rough day.

I spent 20 minutes explaining to my mother how to copy and paste files into a different folder in Windows 7. Somehow she thinks that Windows 7 is SATAN and whether or not I agree with her is beside the point. The point is that she has been using Windows nigh on 16 years and STILL CANNOT WORK IT.

Then I ate cold spinach for lunch. Because guess who was up at 5 AM this morning scarfing down tortellini as fast as she could shovel it in? That would be me. And guess what today is? Weighing day. Yes I weigh myself on Wednesdays and I'm kind of excited, well I was excited, because I'm sure I've lost weight and that my diet is actually working and shit. So I had a carrot and spinach for lunch. Do you know how hard it is to eat something that physically causes you to gag as you're chewing? IT'S REALLY FREAKING HARD. But I do it. Because damnit, I will be skinny. Damnit.

I'm teaching myself Perl and trying to write CGI scripts and my compiler says that my syntax is right but I can't get it to work on the web because the interweb gods HATE ME. So I've fucked around with that for a solid 3 hours already and then guess who calls again?

Yes, my mother. She can't find the folder where she put her files.

Insert apoplectic fit here.

I went up to the greenhouse and looked at the plants for five minutes because they calm me down.

Then I come back downstairs and continue my trudge through the UNIX server to find my fucking SMTP mail settings file and go to drink my water and guess what happens?

If you guessed that I would dump an entire 20oz bottle of water into my lap to prevent the watery death of my brand new expensive iPad then award yourself 10 bonus points.


I wonder if I can take my pants off in my office?

I did a little cocaine and got a little diarrhea.

After perusing my blog stats I noticed that my number one post is still 'Does crack-cocaine actually give you diarrhea?' and the google terms that directs people to my blog the most are 'cocaine and diarrhea', 'crack diarrhea', and on and on in never-ending succession. Apparently this is a common topic and was popularized by Seth MacFarlane on Family Guy -- a show I do not watch because the only parts I find funny are when Peter smashes his toe on something and says 'Ow' for a solid 3 minutes. For some reason that cracks me the fuck up. The point being is that it seems that people are reading my blog or at least visiting it, but they're doing so only because they're googling crack-cocaine and diarrhea. Don't get me wrong, I love me some crackheads, I mean I hang out at the bus station periodically. I just wonder if maybe I'm not reaching my target audience.

Hence, I'm doing a little experiment to see if I can create an increase in my blog traffic.

Okay, so I'm not actually doing crack or cocaine or crack-cocaine as it is; I'm just doing that Ouroboros thing where the snake swallows its tail. And for you dirty minded readers no I'm not doing that. What I am doing is making a new post about cocaine and diarrhea and then I'm going to come back in a week's time and measure the percent difference in visits to my blog overall. I realize too that I could become expeditiously more eloquent in the next few days but you've read my recent posts, I'm in a slump creatively (Mostly it's because I'm obsessed and not eating right now, at least that is what I figure. And I'm too damn embarrassed to continuously write about the thing of which I cannot mention of which I ACTUALLY AM MENTIONING NOW. DAMMIT! ), so we're going to attribute any measurable amount of change in visits to the fact that I've blogged about cocaine and diarrhea. Shit, I'll even run stats on it and calculate significant difference because I care about you blog audience, I really do. If you ask me to calculate p-values and do t-tests then you're going to have to pay me because even though I can do it, that shit is kind of convoluted and I'd actually have to exert some effort and damnit my time is worth something.

So stay tuned for the results! And if I happen to run across some coke between here and next week I'll do a line and report the actual results of the query.

Monday, June 27, 2011

Hope is just another four-letter word.

If you tried to access this blog about a minute ago and found a blog entry titled 'HO' please feel free to make the appropriate jokes, my wireless keyboard quit synching and fate obviously intervened.

You know, I've figured out my problem, the source of my crazy. I'm hopelessly hopeful.

Seriously, it's kind of stupid the amount of hope that I carry around in my heart that everything is going to be okay and that things are going work out and people will be better and blah blah blah. No matter how damn cynical I am and how realistic I try to be, force myself to be, there is always the small Anna cheering for me, or you, or whomever in the back of my head.

Sports games, I'll watch until the end because the team may come back from the blowout. Funerals creep me out because I actually then have to admit that so-and-so is actually dead and didn't recover. When my relationships end (excepting a few) I always have this feeling that said person may realize the atrocities they've committed and come running back to me. They never do and I'm enormously grateful. Eventually.

Well except for that one that kept running back and we were just too damn caught up to realize we should have left well enough alone, which he finally realized and everyone is eternally grateful. And that first relationship I was in for four and a half years which was four and a half years too damn long. That one I wasn't hopeful about; the only hopeful thing about that was that I wouldn't end up with some long-lasting venereal disease. Praise the Lord and say amen we (The woo-woo and I) were clean. Also there was that other relationship with he who-must-not-be-named where the only hopeful feelings I had toward that was that I would maintain my sane stance that it is still illegal to maim people in the great state of North Carolina. Aaaaaand that other one, I was just hopeful that he would one day forgive me for being a total asshat. Okay, so maybe it's just the relationships that I don't end that I retain hope for. Go figure.

I mean I get over that whole hopefulness in the ones where I keep it pretty quick because raging bitch stabbing warrior-princess takes over pretty quickly. Things usually get better from there.

So in lieu of anything else, I'm remaining hopeful. A little self delusion and humiliation never hurt anyone and it sure as hell isn't like I haven't lived through it before. Props to that bitches.