I think my vagina is telling me to bake.

Everyone knows about Sex-on-Skates right? The hot ass neighbor whom I'm secretely trying to woo with pie and assorted desserts. And who appreciates my pie and assorted desserts and told me not so long ago he was mad at his girlfriend while I fed him and his friend pound cake. Yes, that's him.

Anwyho I had this dream last night, it went somewhat like this -- imagine swimmy stuff that indicates a dream sequence. There is no onomatopoeia for that. Let's just move on.

Me, room-mate, and another friend are sitting on a large porch of a Southern house that doubles as a dining establishment at one of those large family style tables. It's right about dusk and there is a pond somewhere nearby because the bullfrogs have started their evening chorus. We're drinking sophisticated drinks. There is probably Kentucky bourbon involved. A gaggle of well-to-do twenty somethings come and sit down at the table with us. I keep looking at this one particular blonde and thinking 'Damn she looks familiar.' Then guess who comes and sits down beside her? Sex-on-Skates. Apparently homegirl is his homegirl. Groan.

Some nebulous amount of time passes because in dreams time is always nebulous and somehow it's just me, roommate and Sex-on-Skates left at the table and guess who is aggravated with his girlfriend? Bingo.

We all decide to go back to our apartment and have a snack. So we teleport there because traveling in dreams is always left out unless you're flying or driving a run-away car. We're all sitting at our kitchen table and Sex-on-Skates reiterates his request for a snack. roommate says 'I have these Jello snack cups!' He hands them out and we begin to eat them. Sex-on-Skates is visibly upset; I inquire as to why. He petulantly tosses his jello snack across the table. I say 'Is there something wrong with your snack cup?' and he then says 'You couldn't even make me Jello! What the hell?'

I then wake up.

After some considerable dream analysis I've decided two things. Number 1 being that my vagina is telling me it's time to fire up the oven and get to baking. Maybe if I bake he'll come home, kind of like in that baseball movie, 'If you build it they will come.' 'Anna if you bake it he will come.' He's not been home in a while and I'm not exactly sure where he went. I say my vagina is behind this hub-bub because what else would be directing me to bake for Sex-on-Skates? It most certainly isn't my -- well, I'm at a loss for body parts that would want me to bake. My vagina though, it has a mind of its own.

Secondly I must have a subconscious need for Jello. So I made some. Just to be prepared, you know.

I am about 2 country songs shy of an apoplectic fit.

H-O-L-Y Hell ya'll. For serious. Shit is about to get real up in this bi-atch.

I have had it. With everything. EV-ERY-THING.

You can determine the validity of that state by the fact that I'm hyphenating all the syllables so that you can understand the emphasis on the words.

Apparently the state of North 'Our Governor is Related to Chickens' Carolina seems to think that I owe them monies from 2007. They said I didn't do my state taxes. While this is completely possible because I always do them by hand because I'm too cheap to pay Turbo Tax to file them for me I think it's complete bal-der-dash that I would owe the state money.

I know this because I AM POOR and SUCK AT LIFE. If I was rich and did not suck at life I would say that it would reasonable that I owe the state Eleventy bajillion dollars but I'M NOT. So this is buuuuuullshit.

Also it takes an act of God and congress to get copies of your old W-2's from your employer that happens to be THE STATE so that you can verify that you don't owe them money. Why in the hell would I cheat the state? I work for them, they could take my monies directly out of my pay check. Also they could have my first born child, nevermind that it will be a cabbage patch kid. And yes I do realize that that link links to the post previous to this one, but right now it is the one thing I can do correctly so just let me have it. The absurdity of this whole business just expands exponentially when I realize that my 2007 taxes are on my mother's computer. Apparently she broke the interwebs. God knows how? So I'm going to fetch my 2007 taxes and put them on a flash drive and do my taxes and then call the state and tell them to hold their mother-fucking horses because I have to wait on THEM being SLOW AS MOLASSES to send me my w-2's.

Someone take me to the batting cage. I need to hit something.


I hope this doesn't get me fired. Actually right now, I wouldn't mind the unemployment. 

Who's got baby fever?

Now before you jump to conclusions I need you to do one thing.

Sing 'Who's got baby fever?' to that punchy latin conga line beat and repeat it several times whilst shaking your bum and doing the conga arms.

Okay now that you've done that we can move on. You can go ahead jump to your conclusion and assume that it's me. But you'd be wrong. For the first time in a long time I don't want babies. At least not now. At some point in the nebulous future I'd be willing to entertain the notion of squirting a child out, maybe even more than one. I mean I don't want a litter or anything, just a nice smattering of offspring.

I think what I'd really like is to open the door to my apartment one day and find a baby in the hall. It'd be super convenient if Sex-on-Skates could find it at the same time. Then we'd have an equal obligation to spend the rest our so-attractive-it's-painful lives together raising said child. At this point I think that's the best bet I've got, well at least until peach season and then we can repeat the sex-pie.

It seems that every female I know and love and cherish is hankering to have a child right now. Someone buy me a cabbage patch doll. That can be my baby. While all of my girlfriends are preggers and oohing and cooing over baby stuff, and after I've bought them all duck-themed things, my baby can be hatching at the cabbage patch. Wherever that is. There's a Toys-R-Us down the street. That works right? Hey, it may not be real, it may not be alive but damnit I cannot be left out in the cold so that my nuturing, maternal instinct can wither up and die. At least I'll have something to mother.

That and I can totally tote it to the bar with me.

May I please have my claw hammer back?

Obviously lately my life has sucked large donkey balls and the universe does not seem to be cutting me a break.

Mayhap today I gave the universe the finger.

See what had happened was this. I went to the bank to take back my pounds that I had gotten to go abroad and see 'That Boy.' Like a dumbass I did not go to my normal branch because that would have been smart. No I went to the branch ran by retarded ducks and rabid beavers.

First of all the service manager liked to have an aneurysm when I explained to her what I wanted to do. She had to make a phone call. She makes said phone call and figures out that yes there are actually other currencies in the world and yes the company she works for actually does buy and sell these foreign currencies. 20 minutes of my life that I cannot get back are now gone. Okay, so she admits to me that she's only ever done this once before and she did it wrong. CLUE #1 I should have went somewhere else.

So she defers to a different teller who then takes another 20 minutes of my life I cannot get back trying to fill out the form online. Then she says 'Oh you can sit down, this is going to take a while.' CLUE #2 I should have went to the smart branch.

Homegirl finally gets it done and hands me the receipt telling me that the $171 of pounds I bought will now only render me $65 in dollars. I expected to lose some money as the buy back rate is a good bit less than the sell rate but this is stupid especially when I see her math. CLUE #3 I needed to go to the other branch.

I proceed to argue with them. Actually what I said was 'Can you explain to me how 100 multiplied by 1.52 is only 65?' They say 'Oh you have to divide by the reciprocal.' Then I say 'That is the same thing as multiplying the numerator. Your math is wrong.' I may or may not have said 'dumbass' at some point. The details are hazy. Damn tranqs. CLUE #4 Why you should avoid the branch on 4th street.

Unfortunately I am not in the most sound state of mind right now. There is a whole bunch of nonsense somersaulting around in my brain and stuff. Plus, I've never been 'stable' so to speak. You're surprised? I know it's hard to believe.

The good news is that I didn't leap over the counter and plant the business end of the claw hammer that I keep in my purse into the face of the teller, which is what I really, really wanted to do. Instead of planting the business end of the claw hammer I keep in my purse in her face, I threw it through the drive thru window. Then I lept onto the counter and screamed 'Give me my fucking money you stupid dickhole!' with my hands wrapped around her neck and shaking her body back and forth.

The good news is that they aren't pressing federal charges because I wasn't trying to rob the bank, because I was only trying to get my money back the local police force is letting me off with a warning. That warning being: 'Why did you come to this branch? This is the 'special' branch.' (Yes the police officer actually did the air-quotes around special.) 'And we have to confiscate your claw hammer. Sorry about that.'

It's a mother-fucking potato salad cookoff!

Okay so right now I was supposed to be on a plane to the British Isles but fate or some English chick intervened and I'm still here because apparently I was meant to stay the hell home.

Reason number 1 that I was meant to stay the hell home: The Rapture!

Ya'll the rapture is happening this Saturday. Do you know what that means? That means I'll be eating barbeque, banana pudding, fried chicken and actual Biscuits for the rest of eternity instead of steak and kidney pie, blood pudding and cookies called biscuits which cannot be nearly as good as actual biscuits because think about the last time you had an awesome, buttery, flaky biscuit and said to yourself while eating it 'You know what? I'd rather have a cookie.' Never happened right? Of course not. Why? Because biscuits are amazing. The idea being that if you're yanked immediately into Heaven this Saturday you're probably going to spend a significant amount of time in the regional holding area because there are a lot of people in the world going to evaporate at the same time and I would definitely rather be in Southern purgatory than British purgatory. One word: biscuits. Tell me I'm wrong.

Reason number 2 I was supposed to stay the hell home: Potato Salad cookoff.

Yes I just said potato salad cookoff. Pick yourself up off the floor and dust your jealousy off because you're going to want to be here now. Apparently the last time I was at my aunt's house I commented on how much her potato salad tasted like mamaw's potato salad (Mamaw would be my grandmother for those of you that need a translation.) and this was a personal affront to my mother who has been secretly perfecting her own potato salad recipe and who is also on the way over here right fucking now with her finished product. And a lasagna because she is Southern and needs to feed someone. God I hope she put paprika on top of the potato salad. If I was on an airplane to England you know who would be eating potato salad? The dog. Another Win for Anna Gray.

Reason number 3 I was meant to stay the hell home: At least you can understand the words that come out of my mouth.

This really isn't a reason but a justification because I need one. Because I'm not done talking about this. Sorry, shrug. I've decided that if said chick exists which he says she does so that's got to be at least a 75% chance because I've met you boys and you can really only believe 3 out of 4 things you say. No hard feelings or anything. But this is what I've decided. I was talking to my one token Yankee friend the other day and explaining the situation to him and he said 'Oh but Anna, that English accent. That's sexy.' and I said 'Tim, that's bullshit. You cannot understand the words that come out of their mouth.' He then said 'Oh but wait! You have an accent' and I said 'Duh. At least you can understand the words that come out of my mouth' and he said 'I don't know Anna. It took me a little while to understand you. I never knew my name had two syllables until I met you.' Then I had to think a minute and I came back with the best retort ever, 'Whatever Tim. I'm fucking awesome and you fucking know it,' to which he replied 'Yeah you are but she's probably really young. You can't fight that.' Which is true. So that's what we're going with until we hear different. It's not that she's awesomer than me because let's face it, I'm awesomer than the most awesome person you know making me the superlative of awesome: awesomest. Plus the age of consent is younger over there so there's that.

Bingo. Bring on the potato salad.

Hi, my name is Anna. I have emotional bulimia.

You may or may not have noticed that within the last couple of days I've been somewhat upset. As understated as that is I feel I should probably explain something about myself.

I'm bulimic, emotionally bulimic that is. I can't figure out if it's because I have a vagina or if because I'm a pisces, swimming in opposite directions and all. Either way I have to talk about it. Whatever emotional trauma I ingest I must immediately purge. I have to get it out and whether that be screaming, crying (Which it most always is, today I cried for an half hour straight after I read a story about a baby elephant getting sick and dying at this wildlife orphanage which then just started an entire snowball effect of emotions. But it was a baby elephant. Come on now. That is completely sad.) or muderous rage, it always comes quick and without warning. It's almost as if the logical part of me just stops and gets out of the way so the emotional part can hurl.

If it helps, imagine it this way: Imagine 2 Annas. Anna 1 is logical, put together Anna. She's well groomed, objective and usually smiling to be polite. Then there is Anna 2. Anna 2 is a bit more irreverant and less put together. She can be moody and looks a bit unkept. Most of the time they peacefully co-exist because Anna 2 is often distracted by bugs, lizards and shiny things. Anna 1 runs the show the majority of the time or at least thinks she does. If ever there is an emotional crisis or even just an increase in the flux of emotions or hormones Anna 1 shuts down and Anna 2 flies into action. Anna 2's normal gut reaction to everything is puking and no matter how hard Anna 1 tries to step back in and regain control it will not happen until Anna 2 is done expelling her feelings.

It's the one benefit of being in any type of relationship with me, romantic or otherwise. I'm completely transparent and if something is wrong you'll know it because it is impossible for me to hide it and we will talk about it ad naseum and you will know how I feel. The good part about this is that I usually can recover from things somewhat speedily. The flipside of that being you'll want to choke yourself after 3 days of dealing with me because you won't be able to handle the emotional vomiting anymore. (I guess this makes me oral repulsive? I can't remember my Freud too well as it's been a while and he's a total quack.)

I guess what I'm trying to do here is somewhat passive-aggressively halfway apologize for my outpouring of emotions lately and apologize for subjecting you all to them. Then again, it is my blog and you don't have the read the parts you don't like. Although I imagine it would be difficult for you to determine if you don't like what you're reading without reading it. So just keep reading and if you don't like what you've read after you've read it you're more than welcome to send me an email or just don't re-read that post. But don't quit reading the blog all together. I'm still funneh. Sometimes, right? I promise soon I'll actually get over this business and will quit hiding my angst about the whole situation in the midst of seemingly unrelated posts. I know I said that yesterday but I'm working on it. For serious, I promise.

And maybe I'm moving towards halfway apologizing for being a righteous judgmental bitch. I'm not there yet and I may never be but I do feel a bit sheepish about my behavior. I was so stinking embarrassed and ashamed and filled with rage, that at the time that's truly what I felt. And still do to some extent, I am just saying that maybe, that's a big maybe, I should have waited a day or two to compose my retort and it would have been a little less hostile. My points are still completely valid though, that I will not relinquish. (Girls back me up on this. It was a shit thing to do. Especially considering how awesome I am and how rare it is for me to actually give a shit. I practically invented 'hit it and quit it.')

If ever there was a time for a grand romantic gesture, this is it, while I'm still vulnerable. Don't everyone jump at once.

Quick! Someone buy a yacht, name it after me and then drive it off the coast and sink it; proving that no one will ever be able to separate us. What? I can't physically go out on the boat with you, I get violently sea sick. Hellooooo, I'm emotionally bulimic not literally bulimic. I've thought about it though. It's got to be an easier weight-loss strategy than getting salmonella again.

(Please know that I'm being super sarcastic here. I don't actually think it's an effective weight loss regime nor am I condoning it. Everyone knows laxative diets are more successful anyways.)

Bob, my mother's kidney and her divorce.

This is Bob.

Bob, a kidney. I don't know why I've decided to call it Bob.

Bob, is my mother's kidney. Bob is sick and needs to be removed. Actually this is just a representation of Bob. It's not a picture of her actual kidney. Although I do have the CT scan if anyone is interested or is that a violation of HIPAA? Okay, on second thought just imagine that this is a representation of a representation of my mother's kidney that needs to be removed from her body.

Remember when she spent the week in the hospital a few weeks ago? This was why. Apparently her kidney is 'blown' and needs to be removed. Fortunately it's a relatively quick and easy procedure that can be done laparoscopically greatly reducing the recovery time.

Since I'm not going to England now (Thanks for that. I'm still bitter and less hurt than yesterday but still considerably bummed.) we can schedule her nephrectomy for the near future. I guess this is the upside of me remaining in the country; I can attend to my mother's semi-urgent medical needs. Don't get me wrong, we had moved all of the procedures back so that I could have went to England for that week. I even had made arrangements with her on which friend of mine to call in case of medical emergency and my roommate was going to call her several times throughout the week while I was gone to check on her. Luckily for them fate intervened and they're saved the joy of having to deal with my mother and her irrefutable stubbornness where her health is concerned. It's just one more example of how I uprooted my entire life to have a vacation which I'm clearly not allowed to have. All I wanted was one week, just one week where I didn't have to fret over her physiological homeostasis and whether or not she was taking of herself and which doctor I was supposed to call and who I was waiting on return calls from. It was going to be a glorious week because to be frank, it was going to be someone else's problem. Now I'll get to spend that week arguing with my mother over whether or not Bob will be removed.  Because goodness knows we haven't covered every aspect of the surgery etc. over the last 2 weeks. I'm being sarcastic. If I have to say 'There is a giant bag of urine just sitting in your gut!' one more time I may puke.  (Sorry about that.)

I now understand why she stayed in a dysfunctional marriage for so long. I thought I was stubborn; she is a god-bless-ed stone wall. She will not give. She is also wily and nimble and can come up with an excuse for ANYTHING. Her latest excuse: 'If I do the surgery I won't be able to buy a car.' Nevermind that the woman could finance a small house on her credit card alone, I don't believe that it is requirement to have two kidneys to purchase a car in the US. I could be wrong about that but I'm reasonably sure that I'm not. Her willingness to hang onto sick, necrotic things is mind-numbing. You can make the connection about my father. I love him but he's a mess too.

The point of all this being is that I am currently not in the proper state of mind to deal with my mother and argue with her for the 42nd time about whether or not she wants/needs her kidney to be removed.  I just want to scream 'FINE KEEP THE FUCKING THING! SEE IF I CARE! IT'S NOT MY KIDNEY.' but instead I just say 'Let's go over the details again. What don't you understand?' At least if I'm talking her down off the kidney ledge I'm not thinking about the utter futility of my life.

The day after the meltdown

Today is the day after the earth stood still. Or at least it is for me. I have no doubt that the world kept spinning for everyone else yesterday and to be honest my world kept spinning too, I just watched objectively from an anger filled stupor.

Today, I'm a mess. A for real mess. Seriously it's one of the advantages of having a vagina. The amount of fluid a woman in pain can squeeze between her eyeballs could arm a flotilla. Seriously I have not cried this much in a long time and I feel like a bitch. Not a thug bitch but one of those puss-box bitches that cannot buck-up and defend herself in a fight. Even though we all know that isn't the case. I'm a tough bitch. Even if I do sob inordinant amounts. Sobbing is not indicative of a lack of toughness, in case you were wondering.

Today the anger is gone. Today the hurt and disappointment have settled in. I was really excited about seeing England. Shit I was excited about seeing whats-his-face. I cancelled my ticket today.

The thing I'm confused about is this. Why in the hell was I not important enough for him to say to her 'Hey, look. I've met someone and we've really hit it off so we're going to have to be friends.' Ugh. We all know why. She is there and I am here and he is there and I am not; that is why. It's not fair but it is what it is; it's still stupid. And it still is asinine and obnoxious. And it still hurts my freaking feelings. Even though I'm practically 30 years old and I've spent the afternoon crying like a bitch. Which makes the supposition that I suck at life all the more obvious.

Plus I feel a liiiiiiittle bad for eviscerating him on the interwebs. I mean he is an asshole and all and deserves what he gets but still, I just feel a little guilty is all I'm saying. I'm sure by tomorrow I'll be angry again and I'll have regretted feeling bad. I guess all I really want is an explanation. And a time-line. And the truth.

Hopefully I'll get over all this business soon and get back to being my normal catty, bitchy self and you won't be subjected to my emotional rants. I just need to get it out and it makes me feel better to get it out and this is the media in which I do it. So you're subjected to it and I look like a whiny bitch.

Shrug. Oh well, if the shoe fits.

An open letter to you, Douche Canoe

This letter is to you, Douche Canoe. (See what I did there? God it hurts to be this awesome.)

*Fair warning to my regular readers. This is not polite or nice. It reeks of desperation, pain and general malice. And I'm going to thoroughly enjoy eviscerating the asshat who's made me feel this way. I cannot accurately portray how angry I am.

Today I receive a message from a certain someone in England about how he's 'unexpectedly' met someone and they've really hit it off. But that I'm still more than welcome to come and enjoy my vacation as we otherwise would have, but just in a 'friend' capacity. You know, the one I'm going to see on Tuesday. This Tuesday. 3 days from now.

First of all I have friends here in my own country. In my own state, my own town and even my own fucking swank apartment. Why the Fuck am I flying 3000 miles across an ocean to go the zoo with a 'friend,' when I can look out my motherfucking 10th-story window and see the birds? Oh that's right. I'm not. I was going to England because I actually had developed feelings for someone, someone whom I thought was looking forward to fostering those feelings and developing them further. My friends, the ones who live here, are way fucking awesomer than you'd ever be especially after you've successfully proven you're a douche-canoe who cannot wait two weeks to get his cock wet. Nevermind the fact that you asked me to come! Oh and I asked you on TWO DIFFERENT OCCASIONS BEFORE I BOUGHT THE TICKET TO FLY THE FUCK OVER THERE, BOY ARE MY ARMS TIRED, if you still wanted me to come? WHERE WAS AGATHA THEN? Where was the bitch THEN?

You, who then developed feelings for some gap-toothed English cunt (I apologize to my British readers. I don't honestly feel this way about all of you. Just this one.) and if she isn't English then she's probably in the airforce and guess who's in for a giant surprise there? Girls in the airforce like pussy. Everyone know airforce girls are les-bi-ans. Not that there is anything wrong with that but you're in for a rude awakening. Good luck with thaaaaat.

Secondly, I'm not fucking stupid. You know this. Your bitch can realize it too when she's reading the message with which I responded to you. I know your game. I knew when you met the bitch. I've known. I could probably even pin-point the day. Ask my friends, you know, the ones that live here and are actual friends. I knew.

What really is going on here is that you're fucking afraid. You're afraid I'll get over there and you'll realize how fucking awesome I am and how much you really like me and then I'll leave, whomp whomp, and you won't have any regular pussy and you'll miss me. So you're willing to throw the baby out with the bathwater, which by the way is fucking A-O-K with me because it saves me the trouble of sabotaging our relationship. Thanks for that. It can get really taxing sabotaging and such. You're willing to abandon me in lieu of regular mediocre pussy. Good on you. Enjoy that.

Mostly why did you waste my fucking time and money? Do you know that Sex-on-Skates paraded over here a while back and told me that he was MAD AT HIS GIRLFRIEND and I DIDN'T DO ANYTHING ABOUT IT because I was trying to be respectful. I didn't want to send you a message that said 'Hey, I've decided to fall in love with my super-attractive, more emotionally and physicially available neighbor. Deuces.' No, I'm not a douche canoe. I'm a nice person.

Just in case you can't follow the logic:

You = douche canoe.
Me = Not so much.

The fucked up part about all of this is that I was really excited. I really liked you. I really wanted to make something with you work and I was looking forward to trying that. Me, Captain Cynical, finally opened up and was vulnerable and you squashed me like a water-bug. Thanks for shitting on my heart. You're a fucking rock-star. I'm so grateful you're on an entirely different continent because right now it's doing me a lot of good to know we're not breathing the same air. That and there are at least 30 people who read my blog and will know what kind of pond scum you have for a heart. They may not know your name and they not know where you are in England but they your ugly, pitiful soul and I sincerely hope they forward this to 30 of their friends who then do the same. So that the exponential growth of people that know your true douche-canoe nature keeps you up at night.

Grassroot campaigns baby. They work.

Enjoy your week off. I hear chicks like the zoo.

The most sincere I've ever been in my life,
Anna Gray

Bruno Mars: Superstar?

Bruno Mars has an amazing cadre of work. His hit song 'Grenade' (A song about a girl that he doesn't seem to like because she kept her eyes open when he kissed her. Although if you think about it, how the fuck did he know her eyes were open? Oh, maybe because his eyes were open too? Does this song make any sense what-so-ever? Is what-so-ever even a word? Anyways he's all butt-hurt she is keeping her eyes open and won't die for him or what not, but who can blame the chick. You can't trust people who look to see if your eyes are open when you kiss. It's just not right. Plus if he is as whiny in actual life as he is in the song I'd cut his brake lines too.) is followed closely by a new song called 'The Lazy Song.'

Don't quote me on that, as that may or may not be the actual title of the song but give me a freaking break. This is not Sesame Street; I do not need a song directing me how to spend a lazy day. We've already been subjected to Rebecca Black's song where she reminds us which day of the week it is so we can put on the right underwear. Can't we get an adult themed song with violence (N.W.A.'s 'Fuck the Po-lice') or gratuitious sexual entendres (The Who's 'Squeezebox')? Is it too much to ask that grown-up's make grown-up music? Or at least that my radio station play non-douchey music?

That being said, be sure and keep on the lookout for his next hit reminding you to eat your vegetables with 'Asparagus (Your pee smells funny)' and his upcoming duet with Ms. Black reminding us that they're not just for light flow days, 'Pantiliners.'

Let me know when your testicles drop Bruno.

The Most Awkward Hook-Up Ever

I thought I'd continue in the 'ex-boyfriend' drama collection for this post. Although this story isn't about an ex-boyfriend. He's more of an ex-hook-up-partner, if that makes sense.

A few summers ago, I forget how many, I ran into this guy who I developed a liking for and we established something. I wouldn't call it a relationship because it wasn't and I wouldn't call it anything else either because it was really nebulous and somewhat unidentifiable. It was tenuous at best and downright uncomfortable at it's worst. We had this great chemistry we were just uncompatible sexually. Completely uncompatible. We just couldn't jive to the same beat.

Over the course of that summer we'd randomly get together and try to get the deed done, it just would never work out for one reason or another. We'd both end up a bit miffed and really confused at the end of an evening together and finally out of sheer frustration we kind of gave one another the proverbial finger and moved on. Fast forward to the following summer.

We both happened to frequent the same bar so we'd see each other randomly and after some time we began to be nice to each other again and it's really just a slippery slope from there. Nice leads to flirting and flirting leads to sexual mores which lead to inuendo and then an outright declaration of 'Let's do dirty things to one another.'

Off we trot to do said dirty things to each other. We're excited. Apparently we'd forgotten our past troubles or if we hadn't forgotten maybe our time apart had strengthened our resolve to get it done. My mind works like that. I will make sure the deed gets done out of sheer willpower. (Any deed, not just boning semi-friends from the bar.) If you want to guarantee I do something just let me fail at it a few times. At this point I was ready to take a literal leap of faith to get it done. If you catch my drift.

In the front door we walk. I open a piece of mail, toss it on the dining room table and we proceed to my bedroom. We didn't bother cutting on the lights, we just get started. We're making out and getting hot and heavy and peeling off clothes and things are moving smoothly. I remove the last stitch of clothes I have on.

I am completely naked when my friend says 'Oh God.' Followed quickly by 'I have to wash my hands.' He runs to the bathroom. I sit up in my bed lounging on my elbows and I say 'Okay,' quizzically. While in the bathroom he then says 'Oh shit! It's 1 AM! I have to go.' I say 'Okay,' quizzically. He runs out of the bathroom, out of my bedroom and down the hall and out the front door. I say 'Okay,' quizzically.

I roll over to get up to go lock the door and what do I roll over into? A wet spot. Yes. Dude jizzed on my bed and ran away. Did you get that? Dude jizzed on my bed and ran the fuck away.

By this point my paradigm has shifted. I honestly felt it move. I was so freaking clueless as to what just happened I couldn't even process. So I just texted him and apologized for it being so late to which he responded by telling me good night. You really have to respect a person for that. Being able to be polite when you've prematurely ejaculated cannot be easy. Rather than be pissed about the whole situation I just took it as a compliment. It's not every day you cause an eruption just by getting naked.

What it did do was gave me even more drive to get the deed done, which we still haven't accomplished, but I'm willing to accept that this may be one of those situations beyond my control. I personally cannot help that I'm a freaking hot bitch and I shouldn't hold it against other people. But it did kind of disappoint me for at least 6 months afterwards when other men didn't immediately lose it when they saw me naked. That was kind of a buzz kill.

Eight Dollar Karma

First some housekeeping: I apologize for being a bad blogger lately. I haven't been keeping up with everyone's blog including my own because I'm busy (Read: Lazy.) and have lots of random shit (Read: Buy shit to go to England.) to do before the summer comes. I apologize. I promise I'll do better soon (Read: Probably.) and catch up with all my favorite blogs and post more on my own blog. Because I'm presumptuous and assume you care.

Secondly, yay we killed Osama.

Also, yay Kate and Wills got married. Actually, sigh, Kate and Wills got married. I was totally holding out for a last minute proclamation of love. From Wills, not Kate.

Enough current events. Now to the story.

Last Friday was kind of a bummer of a day. Some dramatic shit happened at work but I decided to roll with that and I left a bit early to go get some necessaries for my upcoming pilgrimage across the sea to the mother country. (Actually, this week Mom swears we're of Inuit descent, yup we're Eskimos, so that may not be an accurate statement. But as Alaska is in the US now I guess that makes this trip an act of defection? Who knows?)

What a fortuitous trip it was! I bought a super cute dress on sale and a pair of shoes to match that were three times the amount of the dress because that is the way, I roll.

Cut to Macy's. My bff and I are standing in the luggage section and I'm pretending to stroll through the airport with my super cute tote and matching suitcase with the fun, jaunty London Fog pattern and I decide to buy said pieces. Sales girl waves us over to the counter to complete my purchase.

Enter crotchety old lady buying gifts on the registry who totally breaks in line in front of me. Seriously, for an old woman she was quick. So, sales girl deals with her and whilst dealing with her I happen to look down at the ground beside her feet and what do I see?

I see a wad of rolled up money. I look up, make eye contact with my bff and open my mouth to say something to crotchety old lady and yet, I am stopped by something. I stand there gazing at my bff for a millisecond or two, mouth agape, and do I ever mention the money at her feet? No. I quickly shut my mouth, smile at bff and then turn to discuss the hideous Mikasa china patterns. All the while trying desperately not to crack up. Crotchety old lady leaves. I walk up to the counter, place my foot over the money, drop my purse on the floor, bend over to grab wallet out of purse, take advantage and snag the wad of moola out from under my foot. Total prize: $8.

I know what you're thinking: 'Anna Gray, you totally scammed an old woman out of eight dollars.' Maybe I did. But take into account that she technically broke in line in front of me and also that I don't know that the money wasn't there before her so it may not have even been hers. Plus I was really, really thirsty. That eight dollars bought me a soda and a bottle of water for the bff with enough left over to buy a cheeseburger later. I tried to give bff half of it but she wasn't accepting the 'blood money.' I figured it was the least I could do since she was an accomplice to the seizure of assets. It would have been rude of me to not offer.

Turns out she's going to let me work off the $8 of karma on my own. I even mentioned that she could have the $4 and I work off the $8 of karma all on my own. No dice, she wasn't having it.

How many dollars of good karma do you figure moving a beetle off the sidewalk will get me? I need more bugs in compromising places.