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.

WHAT THE FUCK AM I SUPPOSED TO DO NOW? I LOOK LIKE I'VE PEED MYSELF AND MY EYES ARE BLOODSHOT AND I'M CRANKY BECAUSE I HAD COLD SPINACH FOR LUNCH AND I'LL NEVER LEAVE THIS PLACE BECAUSE I HAVE HAD EXACTLY ZERO HOURS OF PROGRAMMING CLASSES AND SOMEHOW I'M EXPECTED TO PROGRAM AND IT LOOKS LIKE I'VE PEED MYSELF. I cannot even go to the water fountain outside my office door to get more water.

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.

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.

Why I will not whine about weight lifting class again.

Here's a quick update on 'the-thing-which-I-cannot-not-speak-of': Apparently basketball camp is important but as my HILARIOUS friend Mickey told me the other day 'What? He cannot leave campus ever? He can't go to the Burlington Coat Factory? He can't go to the DOMINOES? Whatever. Tell him to make time for you.' it's not thaaaaaaaaat important. Seriously I should quit speaking of this, eventually I'll have to tell him about this blog and then I'll have to go back and redact all of the parts that I mention the 'the-thing-of-which-I-cannot-speak-of' and then those posts will just be utter nonsense and then I won't be near as funny as I think I am which is probably the case anyways but the point of all this is that 'the-thing-of-which-I-cannot-speak-of' SEEMS to be progressing along at a nice pace. But ya'll keep your fingers crossed and the prayers coming (Yes I realize that it is somewhat hypocritical for people to be praying that I continue to get laid but come on! I NEED this. I need to have some sort of physical interaction with another human on a regular basis so that I know that I am indeed a member of the human race because sometimes it seems as if I'm just wandering around as this asexual plant type thing even though I couldn't even be a plant as plants actually get to have sex! So that would make me one of those weird ameobic things that reproduces by budding itself off of itself, which don't get me wrong I don't see how the world having another me would be a bad thing but whatever. Gee I'm really tangential this evening aren't I? I apologize for that.) that this continues to work out nicely for me at least through basketball season. Of which I must admit I am very excited. Jesus I NEED TO SHUT UP.

Now I will continue the normally scheduled blog post about why my new favorite thing is my power lifting class at the gym.

Four words: My ass is phenomenal.

For serious ya'll those 9 bajillion squats they make you do that make you see stars are actually doing something for meeeeeee. My ass has never looked this amazing in it's 25 years of existence. Shut up I am too only 25. I was just really smart in high school and finished early. Sucks to be you, I know.

Normally I bitch about going to this class because I have yet to understand why people would put themselves through that much physical, actual torture and now I know why. To get a great ass. I kind of see the point in running/spinning until you want to puke because eventually those endorphins kick in and you could literally run 'til you puke but that does not happen in power lifting. The only hormones that show up there are the ones that realize there is way too much lactic acid being produced and that you need to chill the fuck out, drink some water and put down that heavy ass bar and eat some pizza. If that is indeed a hormone that does that; it may just be a regular chemical or something I don't know. I was always to lazy to really take to those signaling pathways.

Sooooo it just goes to show you, well me really, that with a little effort and some determination one can achieve their goals.

I'd still rather eat dirt than do shoulder presses though. Those can eat a dick.

You know what Saudi's love more than oil-money?

Tits.

Saudis love tits.

And pastries.

But mostly tits.

I know this because roomie and I were at the bar last night (surprise surprise) and we ran into one of the guys who lives in our building and his bff from California. They happen to be Saudis. Here I thought he was this nice guy and come to find out they both just looooooooove tits. Tits and loose women.

There was a bit of drama at the bar with a couple that lives here in the building. (They should seriously just move the bar to the lobby of the building, we tenets keep that place afloat.) Homegirl is sitting there calmly with her boyfriend and then our neighbor from down the hall (Not Sex-on-Skates) shows up with his friend and girlfriend just essentially leaps onto his lap and proceeds to full-on make out with him. In front of her boyfriend. Which of course caused boyfriend's Polish pride (I think he's Polish? He's got a funny name. shrug.) to become injured and then he gets pissed and leaves and then homegirl really lets it all hang out just in time for boyfriend to come back to 'Talk with neighbor/friend.' Needless to say he didn't get much talking in as neighbor/friend's tongue was preoccupied with girlfriend and boyfriend got escorted out of the bar. Roomie, the two Saudis and I (Doesn't that sound like an intro to a really bad joke? 'Hey did you hear the one about my roommate, two Saudis and I?') see all this go down and we remark about how shitty girlfriend is being and Saudi 1 says 'Shiiiiit, I made out with her last week.'

Go figure. I guess men are men even in Saudi Arabia. No judgment here, I just found it odd.

I have got to get a hobby.

So there is some pretty tragic shit going on in my life right now and I've pretty much bought the farm and gone cray-cray. There is the thing of which I cannot speak, my mom's upcoming kidney-ectomy and last night my gramma ran away from the assisted living place where she habitates. (No I do not care right now that habitates is not a word. It's where she be livin' these days. )

Bear with me while I'm crazy. I know it's a somewhat pain in the ass for everyone involved because unfortunately I go bananas and drag everything down into the quagmire of crazy with me. Most people go lovingly and some try and fight back but eventually we're all sitting around at the bottom of the crazy pit watching me smear mud over my body and lick psychedelic frogs. Good times ensue.

Anyways I found this article on Jezebel about what to do if you have a huge crush on someone. Here. and seeing as how I can only control one of the three crazy things in my life right now I figured I'd follow the directions and give it a shot. How bad can it be?


Step 1 directs the reader to stay away from Facebook. Check and done. We aren't facebook friends for this exact purpose. Plus I'm not sure of the rules on adding people on the facebook. Hence I don't 'add' people, they add me and I'm not sure he knows my last name because I didn't tell him. The only reason why I know his last name is, well I'm not telling how I know his last name. That's kind of creepy.

For step 2 you need to figure out your crush's day of birth which I've done. Then you're supposed to head over to this website to figure out your astrological compatibility. Don't do this! For some reason this website loads those repetitive porn windows that never close. Which I'm sure the ITS people will appreciate when they're reviewing my internet business. It will be like that time I was trying to buy a swim-cap at Dick's Sporting Goods and figured the website for this store would be dicks.com. Just a heads up, it's not.

Step 3, go to a different, more innocuous astrological site and see what they say. What they say is that we're doomed. Or more correctly: 'Both can be tortured souls in their own ways, and may need to channel their agony into a creative outlet. Without this, they can become depressed and self-destructive.' Oh joy.


Here are the next steps: 4. Email/IM a friend and ask what she thinks. 5. If your friend is not convinced you and your crush are soulmates, get annoyed with friend and email or IM a different friend. That's what we're doing here, in case you weren't aware. I'll only respond to comments in which you tell me whether or not you'll be able to attend the wedding. It will probably be themed.

Next I'm supposed to plug these dates of importance into a biorhythm reader. First of all it took me a minute to figure this out and I spent an entire semester studying the actual science of biorhythms and this whole website is probably a load of crap but the point is that the graphs seem okay so we're gonna go with it. Here they are:

We's compatible yo.

The line in the middle is where we're going for the graph peaks. Apparently we're super compatible emotionally and not so much physically but I still maintain that we were drunk and drunk people shouldn't have sex. It NEVER works well. Once I've got these graphs I'm supposed to email them to people, which I'm doing here. Again.


Step 8 involves staring at a picture of my crush and admiring their qualities. Which I'm not doing because that is creepy. I know what he looks like and if I do look at his picture it's only for a minute or two at a time because that is less creepy than continual staring. Right?

Step 9 involves imagining the perfect conversation: 'Your crush says something terribly clever. You're quick with a witty rejoinder that is both insightful and hilarious and makes your crush laugh, a deep, full laugh. But then your crush looks at you with a mixture of admiration and intrigue and says, "You're amazing, you know that? You have made me revaluate everything about my life."' I've already done half of this. I'm good with that whole 'witty rejoinder part that is both insightful and hilarious and makes him laugh a deep, full laugh.' We're still working on that whole 'You're amazing Anna, you know that?' part. It's coming, I just need to work harder. sigh.

10. Promise yourself you will stop obsessing.

I'm still working on that last step. It's not that I don't have enough to worry about it's just that I need something I can do something about.

Someone come and hide my phone from me. Every time I get a text message these days my stomach drops and I hope it's this person and it's usually not and then I give up and then wham it is and the whole process starts all over again. Jeezy Creezy I need a tranquilizer.

The bears are going to eat me Daddy!

So I get that yesterday was Father's day and I meant to have posted this yesterday in honor of Pops but I didn't get around to it. Eh, it is what it is, our relationship is tenuous these days.

My parents separated when I was round about the age of 5 in the most mature way possible. I went to school from one house and came home clear across town and my gramma broke the news to me by saying 'Anna, you moved while you were at school. Ask your mother about it.'

I was an intuitive child so I knew how to roll with the punches relatively early and shrugged it off and ran with it. I stayed at the same school so it wasn't too big of a deal and honestly my new house had a sweet new play room that was all mine so I wasn't too nonplussed about the whole thing.

The point of this being that my father had this unyielding need to prove that he was still my dad and was still going to be in life and the first manifestation of this was that I was going to learn how to ride my bike without the training wheels.

I had the most awesome little girl bike EVER. It was purple and had purple tires and purple streamers. Seriously I was in love. I think he bought the purple one because it was my mom's favorite color, I wanted a red one but I was so stoked about the whole thing I didn't argue because hey, I was going to learn to ride my bike without the training wheels!

So off to the middle school we would go. The middle school (Which I eventually attended.) had a dirt/gravel track down in a gulley. The area I live in is moderately hilly so flat things normally end up in a depression or a gulley for those of you hip to the North Carolina vernacular. This track was surrounded on two sides by steep hills going up to the school and the other two sides sloped mildly downwards and had a nice smattering of trees between the school property and the adjacent neighborhood, this part is important later in this story.

We would go there on every other weekeend and I would tear around the track a couple of times on my training wheels proud as hell and then Dad would coax me into allowing him to take them off and then we'd argue for a significant period of time about whether or not today would be the day I'd actually get on the bike without the training wheels because I wasn't stupid, I realized that even though I loved my purple bike it was nothing but a death trap and I wasn't having any of it.

I was a somewhat obstinate child. Surprised? I'm sure you are.

Eventually his patience would wane and he'd pick the bike up and climb up the hill to the car and I'd stomp up the hill angry and disappointed. I wanted to learn to ride my bike without the training wheels I just didn't want to die is all. Or I would have also gone along with just telling everyone I had done it without really having done it. That would have been ideal as well. This whole bike riding thing seemed unnecessarily dangerous.

Time goes by and we repeat this whole exercise ad naseum weekend after weekend and finally Father dearest gets fed up. Today, dammit, I will ride my bike without my training wheels because by God, he did not buy me a bike to ride it like a wuss my entire life. Why in the world he was ready to throw out my entire future because of this I'm not sure of but I always got the feeling he'd much rather me have been tougher than I was. Luckily for him it wasn't his constant nagging that made me so damn hard-nosed in my current old age, it was his stupid decisions and bullshit ideas that made me that way, so in the end he still wins.

He takes the training wheels off of my bike and threatens my life unless I get on the damn thing and ride. Of course I do because at the tender age of 5 I still wanted to make him happy, this went away several years later. The first time around the track he held onto the bike and we went very slowly and it was brilliant and I was super proud of myself and ready to call it a day and what does he, in his infinite wisdom, decide? TO LET GO OF THE BIKE WITHOUT TELLING ME.

I'm tearing around the track at pretty much full speed that a skinny 5 year old can muster and I look back to say 'Look Dad aren't you proud?' and he is GONE. I of course begin to freak and as I'm round the second corner heading down the back straightway I lose control of the bike and I fall to my right and land at the edge of the woods upon which I immediately scream,

'DADDY DADDY THE BEARS ARE GOING TO EAT ME! THE BEARS ARE GOING TO EAT ME DADDY!'

Look, I was 5 and had read enough children's nature books to know that bears lived in the woods so it was a completely logical assumption that bears would be living in those woods and would be hungry as it was after lunch and I was kind of hungry.

Does my father come tearing across the field to save me from the bears? No. He leans over and laughs so hard he practically heaves his lunch onto the track. After what seems like an eternity upon which I've had to crawl on my hands and knees to escape the ravenous carnivores he ambles over, still laughing mind you, to tell me that he'd be surprised if jackrabbits lived in those woods but there were definitely not any bears and I was definitely not going to be eaten. I remember this distinctly because I wasn't aware that rabbits were named Jack and I wondered if all rabbits were named Jack, even the female ones.

But in true female form I got up dusted myself off and stomped across the field and up the hill and sat at the car until he brought my bike up the hill because I refused to ride it anymore after that. Especially if he wasn't going to protect me from the dangers of the woods.

Oddly enough I never rode my bike with training wheels again after that, I just picked it up one day a few weeks later got on it and rode down the road.

So I guess in a somewhat convoluted way I have my father to thank for my ability to ride my bike. Even if the whole experience was marred by fear, violence and sheer embarrassment.

Thanks for that Dad.

My closet just committed suicide.

Number 1 I just looked at the word 'closet' and I feel like I spelled it wrong. That may be because I'm residually drunk/inebriated. Of course.

The point being that Sorcia came over today and we tried to lay out in the gale force winds snd that didn't work out so she decided that I needed a big girl room to accompany my big girl bed so she rearranged my room.

Here is the awesome sauce part: the roommate likes it.

Here is the part that blows: My closet honestly committed suicide whilst I tried to get some shoes down.

It honestly said 'Screw you Anna Gray. Fuck you and the horse you rode in on. Get rid of some of these clothes. I refuse to hold them up anymore.' So the entire closet mechanism came out of the wall and kamikazied itself. (Is that a word?)

So now I have this awesome grown up room and my closet literally represents an upchucking of my winter clothes. What the hell am I supposed to do now? Oh that's right, move on with my regular life because now my closet is an actual representation of my emotional state. You already know that my emotional response to anything is to either puke or sob so we're good there.

Hence the bulimia.

But on another note of the thing of which I cannot speak, we're slowly inching forward. We *almost* had a breakthrough tonight but apparently basketball camp is really important around these parts. Shit. I've said too much. Never mind that. Fuck, now people will google my blog and find it. Shiiiiiiiit.

I'm used to sacrificing for the good of the team but good God, this is a whole new and different commitment to the good of the basketball team. What did I get my Dad for Father's day you ask? I didn't fuck the assistant coach of the local basketball team so he could concentrate.

We had better be decent this season. I've totally contributed.

Seriously, Happy Father's Day Dad.

And if you want a giant wool coat, I have several. I'm having a suicide sale. Cheap cheap cheap.

Because I cannot think of anything to blog about and I'm running behind my self-imposed blog schedule.

Well let's see. I've been super busy lately and there is kind of something I want to share but I can't yet because it might jinx it even though I'm reasonably sure I already did that by shaving the ol' snatch-ola but anywho you're just going to have to wait on that one. So sorry.

In the past week I was insulted at work by sexist assholes who assume that you can't let a woman loose with a hack-saw. Of which I finally ended up with and everyone survived with all of their limbs intact. Surprise surprise. And I even managed to cut the cable I was trying to cut to begin with, before the two hour argument about the oppression of women in the workplace. Guh. I'm a hardcore bitch. It's a very good thing I left my claw hammer at home that day otherwise I would have proven how fucking handy I am indeed.

I bought a mattress and bedding and have officially reached adult status in doing such. I may or may have not done this while the moon was full and in a frenzy about the thing of which I cannot mention. I get cray-cray when the moon is full. P-s-y-c-ho.

Also I purchased and downloaded the full version of Angry Birds to my iPad which is probably the majority of the reason I've been slack about blogging. That and The thing of which I cannot speak to avoid jinxing it even though God knows I've thought about it enough for the Universe to continue it's perpetual shit-storm on my hopes and dreams. I fully expect my favorite rock star to be hit by a truck next week thus ending my happiness. (If that is what you call this.)

Also I put together an entertainment center for spite to prove to myself that I am indeed handy.

That is really all I have. A bunch of pretty mundane shit and the thing of which I cannot speak. Maybe one day soon I can speak of it. Until then just use whatever clout you've got with the powers that be to make said thing of which nothing must be spoken work out for me. I'm kind batting under 500 right now, I need this.

The maiming will begin.

I went to a small, extremely expensive, private school for college because I had to prove that I was better than everyone else in my high school. Because I'm a stuck-up bitch. Congratulations Kyle (ex-boyfriend adoringly revered to as Ding-Dong) you were correct.

Due to this fact I am about a jabillion dollars in debt. I have a loan through a company that will remain nameless but their name rhymes with 'ShittyBank.'

Christ Jesus on toast, Heaven forbid you be 6 days late on your payment because you're lazy and generally suck at life, they send the fucking cavalry out.

Today I tried to pay my student loan payment. I tried really hard. Do you know that these yahoos do not accept credit card payments? You MUST have your routing number and account number. Honestly, ask yourself if I seem to be the kind of person that keeps this stuff handy?

No, of course not. That would require forethought and intelligence. Apparently neither of which are in great supply these days. I finally got it set up in my online bill pay but only after three failed attempts to speak to an actual human person on the phone, two failed attempts to download current statements from THEIR WEBSITE, and one prayer to the Lord Almighty to grant me the strength to not mail them botulism. Or crabs. Both of which I can totally order from the interwebs. Mom came through for me and found my stash of old college documents. From 6 years ago!

Then comes the real freaking drama. My bathing suit came in. Not a good look. I seriously hate people. Here I was all excited and shit and then wham! Reality does a great big 'Let me fuck you while you've still got your pants on. And when I'm done, I'm gonna let my crazy cousin Lenny do it too. Boo yah.'

But for the first time in a long time I'm all like 'Let's handle this like an adult. I'll call and exchange it for a different size.' Reality says 'Oh no, look at that. You got a whammy. Whomp whomp.' They don't have the color I want in the size I need and the sizes I need are all backordered until September because apparently every other bitch in the continental 48 with a great rack has enough sense to order her bathing suit early. Go me. I'm the rockstar now.

Now I get to lose 5lbs before I can go out into the public without a burqa. (I looked it up that time. That is the authentic spelling of that ethnic word.) Plus guess who came back home? Of course. He would show back up while I resemble an odd-toed ungulate. That would a cow for those non-biologists out there. A big, ugly, slobbering, stinky, did I say ugly? Cow. C.O.W.

Cow cow cow...cow cow cow...camel. I think camels are even-toed ungulates, but I'm not sure about that. At least I don't have a hump! There is always that. Sorry I got distracted. I do that easily when I'm upset. And another thing, why in the hell is the apostrophe not on the same screen on the iPad 2 as the letters? That is really stupid. Oh, moving on along...

The point of all this being is that I am ready to maim something. Someone, quickly, find me something to maim. That way before I start I can holler 'Let the maiming begin!'

Well, it's definitely summer now.

Yuppers. I flashed a guy at Target. It is officially summer.

It totally wasn't my fault though. It was Memorial Day and I'm reasonably sure that it was the first drunken weekend of debauchery out of many that will occur this summer. I forget why we went to Target but I reveled in my ability to wear a dress sans underoos because it was the first day of summer! Yay hot North Carolina summers. Half of the female population in the South run around without underwear in the summer. Probably more than that but I digress.

With my totally cute new sundress (Thanks Sass.) I also wore my cute sandals because I was being extra girly that day and I had spent the entirety of the day at the pool and I NEEDED to show off my bangin' tan.

So I'm doing my flouncy girl thing and flouncing around Target trying to be cute and sassy and then WAM! I stub my pinky toe on the mother fucking cart and damn near rip the ENTIRE toenail off.

If you have never done this I encourage you to obtain the closest steak knife and repeatedly stab yourself in the face and then pour salt in the gaping wounds and hit your toe, any one really will work, with a claw hammer and then feel free to be empathetic.

My gut reaction, without thinking mind you, was to scream, actually oddly enough it wasn't an obscenity, and grab my foot and hug it. Yes, I can hug my foot to my chest while hopping up and down on the other foot. Actually I can put it behind my head but I felt that skill was a little uncalled for in the middle of Target.

So, to the preppy father of two that most likely saw my ya-ya, I apologize. Kind-of.

Does anyone know how those missed connections things on Craiglist work?

You know, I get myself into some weird shit.

I, Anna Gray, king of awesome decisions and questionable morals am quite possibly the dumbest person I know.

I, Anna Gray, who is incapable of saying 'No' to people have made the greatest decision ever.
I'm going on a date with He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named's best friend.

Because I make good decisions. Obviously.

It's not because he isn't a nice guy. It's not because I find it extremely satisfying to stick it to my ex by going out with his best friend, even though I'm fairly amused, it's because I'm afraid of an ambush.

I'm afraid this is all a ruse and that he'll come pick me up and drop me off in some undisclosed location with Dipshit and then I'll be forced to do my maim and murder routine.

Seriously if I could honestly get away with maiming and murdering someone I'd give it some serious consideration with He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. He's worse than Ding-Dong, Douchebag and Douche Canoe combined. Scum of earth, scourge of the heavens, general asshatery abounds within he.

I'll let you know how it turns out.