Don't Mind Me. I'm discombobulated.

Apparently None of These Jokers Have Read The Tommyknockers, or Anna reviews 'The River'

2012-02-20T13:06:00.002-05:00

Okay so they went ahead and made several episodes of this television show and they've subsequently decided to show them and it seems that people actually do care about my opinions (You people must be really cracked, you know?) so I'm going to review/synopsise (Is this a word? It is now.) the second episode of ABC's 'The River'.

The second episode opens with a Christmas episode of Emmet Cole's television show and there is this creepy scene where Emmet gives the 8 year old Baby-Bear's 8 year old girlfriend a hat or something. I'm not really sure what they're trying to do here. It's like they're trying to set this up as Emmet Cole was as a father figure to this girl but it's just off-kilter enough that it seems a smidgen pedophilic.(Is this a word? It is now.) Because for some unknown reason the Good Dr. Emmet Cole never contacted his wife or his son on his last voyage but he was in constant contact with Baby-Bear's girlfriend and she seems to know an awful lot about him. Like where he keeps his hidden stash of tapes that show him, the Good Doctor, walking on water and summoning a fireball. Clearly he has found 'The Magic' that is 'Out There.' Creepers. Also he can control dragonflies. This is important later.

So they've finally got the boat working. AGAIN. Seriously, I'd find a find a new boat. And Baby-Bear's Girlfriend, whom we'll just call Hooker for the mean time, has figured out where the Good Doctor is by reviewing some tapes and analyzing a bug bite or something. For serious people, they make GPS transponders. Jesus.

It's the middle of the night and the boat cameras catch this dragonfly flying in the boat down the stairs, making a left, then a right, and finding Ghost Girl and crawling right on in her mouth and down into her stomach. Most normal people would wake up and be seriously pissed AND have a case of heinous indigestion but apparently Ghost Girl is a medium or something and lo and behold she is possessed by none other than the Good Doctor himself. But it takes the crew members at least 20 minutes to figure this out. I'm not sure why it took them that long because they all saw the same tape I did where the Good Doctor controls the dragonflies and I knew immediately. Then again I wouldn't go traipsing through the Amazonian Jungle on a budget-ass boat with a dried-up old Harpy screaming for her emotionally distant husband, I'm practical that way.

Anyways Ghost Girl, who is really the Good Doctor at this point, tells Mama Bear not to come looking for Emmet Cole. That he's trapped deep within in the jungle and it's super dangerous. Again I feel that most normal people would go 'Welp, we gave it the college try. Emmet says not to come get him. Let's honor his last wishes and go find the nearest hotel bar and get shitty.' But alas, they decide to go trekking out into the jungle and leave Ghost Girl on the boat with her dad the mechanic. Who is displaying a pretty normal reaction by begging his daughter to barf up said dragonfly.

Our wonderful crew go traipsing through the jungle and happen upon the creepiest tree in the HISTORY OF THE WORLD. IT IS COVERED IN OLD DOLLS. And not happy dolls, creepy dolls. And guess where they decide TO CAMP FOR THE NIGHT? Yes, at the creepiest tree in the HISTORY OF THE WORLD. Also, Baby-Bear's baby-bear, actual teddy bear, is tied to this tree and he steals his bear back. This becomes important later. If any of these jokers had read The Tommyknockers they'd be high-tailing it out of there to find a different fucking tree but noooooooo, they don't worry that the creepy ass dolls are going to come to life and fuck with people. I mean I get that it was the aliens in the The Tommyknockers but there are all those crackpots that swear the ancient Mayan's were aliens, or maybe that was the Egyptian,s but the point being is that something is in the mother-fucking jungle and these idiots are too damn stupid to just burn the fucking jungle to the ground and deal with the environmental backlash later. Or here's a thought: Maybe listen to the Good Doctor and GO BACK HOME.

Long story short the dolls start moving and in the middle of the night they try to steal Mama-Bear. But the crew rescues Mama-Bear and they decide that Baby-Bear needs to give his bear back and when he tries to the tree keeps throwing the bear back at Baby-Bear and they all run the fuck away. IN THE MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT, WHEN IT IS DARK. I swear to God if I ever have occasion to go camping again I'm taking a shotgun with me.

Apparently, the ghost of the creepiest tree in the HISTORY OF THE WORLD is a little girl who lost her mom so she steals Mama-Bear because she needs a mama. Talk about not winning for losing. If I had to pick a mom I certainly wouldn't pick one that had exposed her child to every known parasite in the tropical world by the time he was 6. There is something to be said for the constancy and safety of Surburbia. The crew then decides that the only way they're going to get Mama-Bear back is to dig up the grave of the little girl's Mama who has been dead for nigh on 150 years now. And miraculously they have shovels.

So they dig up this poor dead woman and throw her in a puddle and eventually Mama-Bear crawls out of the dead-girl's mom's grave and everyone is happy again. And they give up and go back to boat after deciding that the Good Doctor is not in that specific area. Surprise, surprise. Who in their right mind would really hang out at the creepiest tree in the HISTORY OF THE WORLD? Let's give the good doctor some credit.

So they go back to the busted-ass boat and Baby-Bear begs Ghost-Girl who is still inhabited by the Good Doctor to tell him where his exact location is but that would just be too damn easy wouldn't it? Just as Ghost Girl is getting ready to spill the beans she actually, literally gives up the ghost and the dragonfly crawls back out of her stomach and flies off into wilderness. Of course Ghost-Girl apologizes. Why, I'm not sure.

But they're all still alive and left to fight another day in this idiotic quest for a man that doesn't want to be found, and proceed down the river to the next episode which involves some dudes with no eyeballs who also lack proper hygiene and we see the true origin of river blindness.

*On a technical note, How the hell do they have any fuel left? I have not seen one single Citgo anywhere on this river. Also, I'm still confused as to where they poop?

Every ABC Show Needs a Smoke-Monster, or Anna Reviews 'The River'

2012-02-09T12:47:00.000-05:00

If you haven't watched ABC's newest show, 'The River', you should watch it before you read this or actually maybe you should read this first before you watch it; maybe you'll save yourself from the mind-numbing idiocy of the people in this show.

'The River' opens with this sad tale of woe about an explorer, Emmet Cole, who is lost in the jungle and pronounced dead. He had a wildly popular TV show that was on for 22 years and somehow he and his boat, the bastardized Magus (think 'mag' from magazine and add- us to it), just up and disappear into the Amazonian Jungle. Now it's up to Mama bear and Baby bear to go find dear old dad.

Here's the kicker, they all hate each other. Mom's is screwing the TV producer that is accompanying them on said journey who was miraculously left out of the last, final voyage of Emmet Cole and his boat for some unknown reason. Actually it seems as if everyone on the new expedition was somehow left off this last, final journey and they're all supremely pissed about it. God only knows why? You know your life has to suck when you'd rather be in some deep, dark jungle having your head shrunk by the locals than in civilization dealing with your daddy issues.

We'll skip to about the middle of the episode when they actually find the Magus and go aboard.

Of course they get there and it's almost dark. Of course. It wouldn't be fun if you couldn't traipse around the river in the daylight. Noooooooooooooooooo. Let's go in the dark! So they're standing on the deck of the boat and all of a sudden they hear this banging noise from inside the boat. Do they do the sane thing and say 'Welp, we found the boat and asked if anyone was here and no one showed themselves so let's be on our merry little way. I'm sure there is a Marriott down the river a ways.' No. They go inside the boat to find the source of the noise, which happens to be the panic room. The door is welded shut from the outside.

Aaaaaaand they decide to open the door because whenever they bang on the door twice, whatever is inside the panic room bangs back twice. I'm sorry but I'm gonna need a whole lot more evidence of intelligent life than some banging on some pipes. You better damn well know some mother-fucking Morse code and bang out your full name, occupation and blood type before I go opening a door that is WELDED SHUT FROM THE OUTSIDE. Meaning, obviously, that whatever is in the panic room needs to stay in the panic room. But these people are stupid and Mom is all like 'But it could be Emmet!' so out comes the grinder.

In the mean time the engine mechanic has managed to get the electrical systems on board and all of the cameras on the boat are working again. Why in the world they couldn't just look in the panic room with said cameras I don't know. The engine mechanic's daughter also happens to talk to ghosts and she's all like 'Dude, don't open the door. No bueno.' No one listens to her because they're all racist fucks and figure a 16 year old Brazilian girl can't know what the fuck she's talking about when they should be saying to themselves 'You know, we've been on TV for 40 minutes now and she is the only person on this boat that makes any damn sense, maybe she's right?' But they don't and they open the door and this thing flies out and cuts Baby bear's girlfriend on the leg. I'm not sure how the thing cut her because it doesn't really have a body so to speak, but it does manage to cut her and now the thing is hungry because it has tasted blood. Homegirl who talks to ghosts is essentially like 'I fuckin' told you so.' Oh and guess who is not in the panic room? That would be Emmet.

Now this demon critter is flying around the jungle and the crew is straight up panicking to get off the boat (Finally.) and their rafts have been sank. Imagine that. So now they have no choice but to get the boat running and get the fuck out of dodge. To do this they need to clear the propeller of debris. So baby bear and his girlfriend jump right on in the river, in the dark mind you. I have several problems with this: 1. No sane person jumps in an Amazonian river in the dark unless you're on fucking fire and you would rather be eaten by a 12 foot anaconda than be burnt to death. 2. Homegirl was just stitched up 5 minutes previous and she is in the river. Any sane person would have enough sense to stay out of the river with an open wound because I don't know, YOU DON'T WANT TO LOSE YOUR LEG? Who knows what kind of bacteria and parasites are swimming around in the stagnant water beside that boat. 3. PIRANHAS anyone? But they do manage to get the debris cleared and the engine working and they're moseying on down the river.

They've still got the thing from the panic room to deal with though and ghost girl explains how they can trap it. The two cameramen that are on this 3-hour tour go out onto to the deck to try and get footage of the thing and this the point at which 'The River' becomes very much an episode of 'Lost'. The trees are snapping back and forth and there is this weird mechanical sound and you never really see anything; you just see the one cameraman eat it. I've often thought that the smoke-monster from Lost was really under-utilized and I have to admit I was more than a little excited when I thought that maybe, just maybe, he was making a comeback. Think about it. How much better would every show, ever made, be if it had a smoke monster?

Grey's Anatomy - The smoke monster could eat Meredith and we'd all be happier for it.
True Blood - What would bring the vamps, wolves and witches together better than a common enemy?
Law & Order: SVU - It would be a rape without evidence! That story arc would last at least 3 episodes.
The Housewives of Orange County - Oh come on, you know you'd like to see those tramps eviscerated by a smoke monster too.

Anyways, back to The River. They manage to trap the thing, which would be better as a smoke-monster, in a large pecan shell and it tells the Mom that Emmet is still alive by scratching her twice on the belly. (Yeah, I don't know either.) At this point Baby bear is convinced too and he and Mama bear decide they need to go deeper into the unexplored wilderness to find dear old dad. Baby bear, Lincoln, decides that whoever does not want to go should have the opportunity to get off the boat and not go. I don't mean to be critical but I'm not exactly sure what he was going to do with them if they in fact did decide they didn't want to go on this wild goose chase as they are in the middle OF NOWHERE. 'Oh you don't want to go with us? Well I'll just pull the boat on over to the river bank here and you can hop off. The nearest highway is only about 500 miles that way through the uninhabited jungle fulls of poisonous snakes and God knows what but here's a sandwich!'

Lo and behold they all decide to stay on the boat and go on further down the river to the next episode which involves some creepy ass dolls, ghost girl swallows a possessed dragonfly, and once again, they're all traipsing through the jungle in the dark.

*On a technical note, I'm not sure exactly how they plan to stay alive on Emmet's boat as they didn't bring any supplies from their original boat on the rafts nor do they stop for supplies? Also, where do they poop?

I'm sexual and It's awesome.

2012-01-26T17:22:00.003-05:00

I was reading this article* at jezebel.com about this girl who is 'asexual' and about how awesome it is and how she has all these great intimate relationships and how they're so awesome and then I saw a link on the side-bar about a dubstep cat and I immediately lost all interest I had in hearing said girl's tale of woe about not being respected as an 'asexual.' For serious, dubstep cat is the greatest thing ever btw. Check him out: DUB-STEP! Cat yo!.

For some reason this seems to be a hot topic lately, it even made it to an episode of House which I consider to be the epitome of the medical frontier. Asexuality, not dubstep. Although dubstep does seem to be quite popular these days...

Look, I don't care if you're asexual. Exactly like I don't care if you're heterosexual or homosexual or trisexual or whatever-sexual you want to be just as long as you shut the hell up and quit bitching about it. You, as an asexual, cannot even bitch about not being able to get married because you're aromantic and don't want to be married so exactly what are you complaining about?

Oh, you're complaining because people ask you if you have 'someone special' in your life? You're whining because people actually care enough about you to inquire as to your happiness? Aaaaand they're nice enough to not assign a gender to it. Should we just look at you from now and say: 'Gee Connie are you non-suidicidal today?' Count your lucky stars that you're mother doesn't take you down the kitchen accessories aisle in every store and gesture no-so-surreptitiously to the turkey basters and wink at you because even she now assumes you've got no chance in hell of scoring a significant other. According to you, you have a significant other. According to you, it's awesome being asexual. Why do you feel the need to write about it and prove it to people?

(I'm going to leave out my theories on your gender identity issues since you abbreviate your name to initials only. Not there is an issue with that. Own it, I say. Say it loud: I'm confused and I may be proud?!)

You've got a vagina, might as well use it right? Never mind that whole biological imperative business where we as human being, nay animals, have a biological imperative to procreate. Hell, even the plants have sex. It's the burden of being a higher order organism. Let us all shake our fists angrily at evolution and its need to introduce genetic diversity through this clever mechanism!

I think your general displeasure with the societal acceptance of being 'Ace', which is about the lamest pseudonym I've ever heard in my life by the way, is your general displeasure with life. Okay, you're best friends forever with a couple of people and you don't bone. You know what? The next time I get the urge to have sex, I'll think about you and feel sorry for you that you can't appreciate the richness that sexual activity lends to a relationship.

Congratulations on being asexual and owning it and willing to advocate for it.

I'm sexual and it's way awesomer than you remember.

*Here is the article if you want to read it for yourself. If you can get through this entire article without being distracted by dubstep cat you're clearly a psychopath.

I just spent 2 hours of my life Teaching My MOTHER HOW TO SEND A GD EMAIL

2012-01-24T00:13:00.000-05:00

Dear Lord Baby Jesus,

If you could go ahead send the harbinger of death to my house that would be great because I honestly do not think I can go on any longer. I simply cannot. I want to die, I need to die, I need a respite from this life of mine. Please bring on the sword of fire and the locusts and raining pig parts and what have you. I quite enjoy barbequed things.

I spent 2 hours of my life this evening, 2 hours of my life that I cannot get back mind you, teaching my mother how to send an email with an attachment. This is not an exaggeration or an extrapolation or an embellishment. I spent a literal 2 hours on the phone. IN TWO DIFFERENT CONVERSATIONS.

After the first hour long phone call she still managed not to do it correctly. I am the epitome of #facepalm.

Old people should be culled. All of them. They should be given a test and if they cannot or can no longer send an email, work the cable box or figure out when the fuck BONES comes on they should be put out of their misery.

Either that or their children should be given a complementary shotgun. Not so that they may kill their parents, but so that they may have the satisfaction of blowing their own brains out the back of their skull. Nothing is so satisfying as the cocking and the ejection of a projectile and immediate destruction of something from a shotgun, I imagine. (I don't know if that is actually true because up until this point in time I've had the foresight to not actually purchase said shotgun because I can't promise that people won't die. And it probably wouldn't be her.)

And the sad part about all of this is that I actually really do love my mother. I do. She's my mom and she has her crazy moments -- actually the majority of her moments are crazy moments; let's not lie to ourselves, it's easier to count the non-crazy ones -- but she's my mom and I love her. Some days it is because I have to but that still counts!

But I ask you Lord Baby Jesus, because you're the almighty, right? You've got an elderly parent, right? Do you have to explain how to delete the messages off of your father's cell phone or when Bones comes on?

My roommate knows when Bones comes on. Not because he watches it. Not even because I watch it. But because my mother watches it and I field at least 3 phone calls a week in which she inquires when Bones comes on! Do you have to do this? Do you have to memorize a completely different TV schedule than your own? No, you don't. Because your father, the Lord Almighty, has seen fit to make IT COME ON THE SAME TIME EVERY WEEK. And that whole omniscient thing probably eliminates a lot of the burden of dealing with an aging parent and stuff.

All I'm saying is that I'm throwing in the towel and if I could have your assistance with that, that would be great.

Sincerely,
Your very, very frustrated yet humble servant, Anna Gray

PS - I wasn't kidding about the barbequed pork though. I could really get down with raining barbeque.

The Best Advice I Ever Got, I Got From a Stripper

2012-01-20T16:22:00.003-05:00

When I was 16 years old my dad starting dating this 20 year old stripper from Tampa.

(I know, you're wondering how I'm so, so well-adjusted.)

Apparently, he was at the bar (Surprise, surprise.) and she walked over to him and mussed his hair. Read what you will from that. And voila a truly great 6 week romance began.

We went to dinner this one time, the three of us, and she was complaining about having to drive all the way to Orlando to go to work. She didn't know that I knew she was a stripper and she had this whole elaborate ruse going on trying to talk about her 'Office' and her 'Co-workers' and about 9 million mixed metaphors for the VIP room, any of which I cannot remember. I'm truly kicking myself about it too because some of them were pretty good. I then asked if she lived in Orlando and she said no, she lived in Tampa.

Well, I didn't ask anything then mostly because I was having a hard time trying to keep my dinner down from watching the two of them act like they were my age. Seriously, they played footsies. I know because I got caught up in the fray once or twice. (Again, you wonder why I'm not shell-shocked.) On top of this Stripper-Girl is carrying on this inane charade of trying to be mature and sickeningly maternal. Nevermind that she was a whole 4 years and some change older than me; she seriously wore a pant-suit and sweater. But she was a stripper so she just looked a whorey office stripper instead of a mature, matronly figure. Now before you assume that I hated her because she was a stripper I'll say this: I didn't hate her because she was a stripper, I hated her because she was stupid enough to date my father. And assume it wasn't going to end disastrously. I have no patience for idiocy for the sake of idiocy. And blatant denial.

After dinner and a refusal of ice-cream on my part -- Whaaaat? I know I refused ice cream and only loony tunes do that but there was no way in hell I was going to continue participating in this pathetic attempt at family normalcy or whatever it was they were trying to accomplish with this whole hanging out together business -- I finally inquired as to why she just didn't move to Orlando.

And she replied with the only honest thing I believe she said to me all evening: 'I work in one town and live in another so I can party and not run into my co-workers. I can keep my professional and personal lives separate.'

I imagine what she was really going for is that she didn't want to run into any of her 'co-workers' -- read clients here -- when she was dropping her kid off at kindergarten. I get it, it makes sense.

And That ladies and gents is why I work in one town and live in another. So that my co-workers are never privy to my drunken ramblings and stumblings and general debauchery.

But they've met me so I'm sure they're aware.

Candy Babies! Is this okay?

2011-12-14T02:58:00.003-05:00

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.

Find my iDignity

2011-12-13T01:22:00.003-05:00

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.'

There is no sexy way to remove your Spanx.

2011-12-08T01:12:00.001-05:00

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, whaling, 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.

Things White People should stop doing.

2011-12-02T23:52:00.001-05:00

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.

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

2011-11-21T22:35:00.001-05:00

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.

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

2011-11-15T23:59:00.001-05:00

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.

Shudder.

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.

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

2011-11-10T18:45:00.001-05:00

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.

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

2011-11-01T01:12:00.000-04:00

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.

One day, I'm going to go to the liquor store and not see anybody I know.

2011-10-29T12:44:00.002-04:00

The other day, roomie and I ventured to our local ABC store (Here in North Carolina the state controls the sale of liquor and you buy it at Alcohol Beverage Control centers conveniently abbreviated to 'ABC Stores' for us dregs of society, which invites lots of fun euphemisms for visiting said store. My cousin calls it 'A trip to Aunt Betty's Cottage.' I thought that was pretty clever myself; I just always called it the alphabet store. Maybe he should write this blog?) to obtain some supplies for our up-coming get together.

IE We needed booze. And we also needed a reason to go get it so we 'decided' to invite some people over for Halloween.

In an attempt to avoid seeing people at the ABC store that I know we drove clear across to the opposite side of town. I've had too much experience with the one that I normally go to which is only a hop-skip and a jump away from my mother's house and Lord, Help Us All if she ever caught me in the liquor store.

Seriously when she comes over to visit I still hide the booze. Somehow, I still, ALWAYS, feel shameful actually purchasing booze for the specified act of drinking it at home. I don't know why. Oh wait, yes I do.

I'm the only one in the family that doesn't not drink. Oh wait, except for the other people in my family that do, actually, drink.

Southern shame and guilt. That alone is reason enough to throw a party and drown yourself in the bottom of a bottle of whiskey. Never mind that if my mother caught me in the liquor store it would be because she's in the liquor store and I could hold her to same shame standard she's so apt to hold me to but then she'd probably be buying rum for a rum cake or something. Actually, no she wouldn't. Whenever my gramma needed booze to cook with, she always, Always, ALWAYS, got her alcoholic friend to get it for her. Since she was going to be there anyway. Yes, my grandmother actually looked this woman in the face, a face that went to great pains to hide her addiction and flaws, and said to this woman, who actually was a grumpy old bitty to my gramma's credit, 'Hey, since you're going to the liquor store later. . .'

Oddly enough after that conversation Elsie never showed up in anything other than a housecoat and slippers whenever she came to visit again. Once you let the cat out of the bag and what-not. And yes, her name was actually Elsie.

It's not like purchasing alcohol in a bar. There I'm at least inside sheltered from the public. But at the liquor store there are just too many people that know me and my family. Although most of the time I always see people that know my dad in the liquor store, which says something about my father, and you'd be correct in your assumption. Why else would I have a genetic pre-disposition to Jack Daniels? Still, do I feel shame?

Yes, yes I do. Because to be Southern, you must be hypocritical. And frown down upon your children who drink. Nevermind that they drink probably because you drink and that shit is IMPRINTED PRETTY EARLY ON IN CHILDHOOD FATHER. Sorry, it's kind of a point of intense contention for us.

Anywho, back to the other day when we drove 10 miles out of the way to avoid the liquor store where I'm guaranteed to know people.

We walk into this oh-so-out-of-the-way ABC store. And guess what?

There is only one other customer in the place and upon entrance to said store I hear:

'Anna Gray! I was just talking to your daddy the other day...'

Le sigh. I can't win.

Reasons why crackheads are not in parades.

2011-10-21T21:47:00.002-04:00

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.

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

2011-10-17T00:27:00.000-04:00

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:

'ARE YOU CRYING AT A FUCKING ZOMBIE MOVIE? YOU KNOW THIS ISN'T REAL LIFE, RIGHT? YOU KNOW WE ARE IN PUBLIC, RIGHT?'

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.

Bitches with Brazilians in Barroom Bathrooms

2011-10-10T21:09:00.000-04:00

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.

Anna goes to dinner with Conchis.

2011-10-05T00:09:00.002-04:00

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.

Badger Bait

2011-09-27T23:43:00.000-04:00

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?

Badgers.

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.

I wonned another award. BECAUSE I AM AWESOME!

2011-09-13T23:07:00.002-04:00

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.

Ahem:

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

sewNAmber

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.

2011-09-13T22:23:00.001-04:00

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.

You are not prepared for this.

2011-09-06T22:50:00.001-04:00

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.

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

2011-08-20T02:02:00.000-04:00

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.

Breasts are not conducive to push-ups.

2011-08-02T00:47:00.000-04:00

*<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.

And yet, I still continue to suck at life.

2011-07-31T02:56:00.000-04:00

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.

The point of this post being this: GO THE FUCK ON AND STAY AWAY FROM MY BARS. WE HAD A CONVERSATION ABOUT THIS AND YOU ARE CLEARLY AS FUCKED UP AS I AM SO WHY ARE WE DOING THIS? I don't go to your bar. LEAVE MY BARS ALONE.

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

I'M NOT INTIMATED BY THAT. MY RACK IS STILL BETTER THAN HERS AND WE KNOW THAT BECAUSE YOU VERY OBVIOUSLY RAN THE FUCK AWAY.

BOO-YAH BITCHES.

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

Mebbe I'll die soon.

Why is America obsessed with poop?*

2011-07-27T00:01:00.000-04:00

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 FOR SOME DUMB ASS REASON I WENT IN THE DAMN LIVING ROOM AND WATCHED HUMAN PEOPLE FETCH TURDS OUT OF THE TOILET AND SQUEEZE THEM ON A TV SHOW ON CABLE.

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.

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

2011-07-26T00:04:00.000-04:00

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:

1. HE'S HOT AS SHIT.

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?

I think It may live in my closet.

2011-07-24T02:29:00.001-04:00

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.

Ahem.

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.

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

2011-07-19T15:44:00.003-04:00

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.'

A Synopsis of the entire Star Wars saga and some thoughts

2011-07-03T01:44:00.001-04:00

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...

There 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 low 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.

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

2011-07-01T23:24:00.001-04:00

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.

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

2011-06-29T14:54:00.000-04:00

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.

2011-06-29T00:32:00.001-04:00

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.

2011-06-27T23:30:00.003-04:00

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.

2011-06-26T23:39:00.000-04:00

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?

2011-06-25T01:10:00.000-04:00

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.

2011-06-22T12:36:00.001-04:00

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!

2011-06-21T00:05:00.000-04:00

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.

2011-06-20T00:19:00.000-04:00

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.

2011-06-16T00:58:00.001-04:00

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.

2011-06-09T00:16:00.002-04:00

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.

2011-06-07T00:32:00.002-04:00

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.

2011-06-02T20:24:00.002-04:00

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.

I think my vagina is telling me to bake.

2011-05-26T00:41:00.000-04:00

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.

2011-05-24T17:18:00.001-04:00

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?

2011-05-23T20:08:00.001-04:00

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?

2011-05-18T12:42:00.000-04:00

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!

2011-05-17T20:02:00.001-04:00

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.

2011-05-17T01:17:00.002-04:00

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.

2011-05-16T12:49:00.000-04:00

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

2011-05-15T15:35:00.001-04:00

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

2011-05-14T18:30:00.001-04:00

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?

2011-05-14T01:34:00.000-04:00

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

2011-05-09T00:27:00.001-04:00

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

2011-05-03T00:02:00.000-04:00

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.

Why Your Luck Will Always Be Better Than Mine or, Anna makes another bad judgment call.

2011-04-26T23:55:00.001-04:00

I have the worst luck ever. Seriously, I went on a gambling trip to Atlantic City with 10 other people and I was the ONLY joker on the trip to actually lose money and not break even. The only one. Your luck will always be orders of magnitude greater than mine even if a live bird manages to shit in your agape mouth whilst flying by. It's that bad.

Tonight, I'm tired. I'm recording my show about the coral reefs narrated by David Attenborough, the greatest nature show narrator EVER, and I'm looking forward to climbing into my bed and catching up on some reading.

I climb into my bed and get comfortable and what do I discover? A wet spot. If only the cat had snuck into my room and peed on my bed. If only. Cat urine would have been easier to deal with than what it actually was.

Last week when I rushed my mother to the ER I left my lunch box in my office where it stayed at room temperature for exactly one week. In my lunchbox I had a freezer pack, which melted, half a container of hummus and a pyrex dish of some leftover green beans that I did not eat for lunch last Tuesday. When I got home this evening after volunteering at the homeless shelter I haphazardly tossed my lunchbox onto my bed and called my mother and dicked around for about an hour before I picked it up and dealt with the nasty green bean sludge it became. Guess what the cold, wet spot on my bed is?

Yes, rank green bean detritus. Gross green bean offal that leaked out of the pyrex dish and through the velcro and onto and into my bed. My lunchbox is leaky. Sounds like a personal problem, right?

So what do I have to do? Get out of bed strip all the linen off the bed, lysol the fuck out of the mattress and pray it quits smelling. Then I have to put down a towel and put new linen on the bed. Do you know the last time I had to put down a towel? Actually, now that I think about it, I do remember. It was shortly after I used my big girls words to tell England I liked him; it ended up being a fortuitous decision, as you can probably interpret.

Can you imagine how hard it is to sleep when your bed smells of rotten green beans? It's not easy. I should have thought about that and made the wise decision to carefully place the lunchbox with old, moldy green beans on the floor instead of tossing it onto the bed with the patented MJ jump shot.

Chalk it up to yet another poor judgment call from Anna Gray.

Walmart: Some thoughts, and a lengthy aside about zebras.

2011-04-22T15:40:00.001-04:00

Today I was the person I hate at the Walmart. You know, the ones who wear grimy, ill-fitting, baggy pants and a holey t-shirt while their hair is mussed and un-done. Yup, that was me. The odd thing being is that I still managed to turn heads. Apparently the men who hang out at Walmart are not discerning in their choice of females.

You know who I have exactly zero respect for? People with nasty kids. It's one thing if their clothes are tattered and ill-fitting because you cannot afford to buy new ones but wash their damn face. There is no reason what so ever why your child should roam into the public arena with lunch all over their face. God, I remember being drug, by the ear mind you, to the bathroom to have whatever it was I had last eaten scrubbed with vigorous force off of my face along with three layers of skin. All the while being berated for embarrassing whichever female (Mom or Mamaw) I was with because me being dirty was a sign of how cleanly they were and cleaniness being next to Godliness yada yada yada. And something about bad parenting thrown in for good measure.

Also I believe that Walmart has breached the carrying capacity for memory stores in your brain. I never can either find what I'm looking for (Today it was chewing gum and pedialyte.) or remember between visits where anything is. The Walmart is too damn big and the human brain cannot process all that information; even if we do have a parallel processing system. The employees at Walmart cannot do this either. Why else do they not know where anything is when you ask them?

I have concerns for the welfare of the fish at Walmart.

I have concerns for the welfare of old people at Walmart too. The poor things just wander around helpless like zebra's that have lost the herd. I wonder if people just drop them off at Walmart so they can run their errands unencumbered.

(That's true about zebra's though. They're stupid as fuck. That's probably why there's a blue million of them because they're too dumb to run away from the lions, that regularly eat members of their herd. That and they recognize each other by the patterns of their stripes but if those stripes are occluded, by maybe some mud from crossing the river, they have no clue who the members of their herd are. It's just 'This random little zebra is making zebra noises at me, do I know this zebra?' Seriously, I watched a wildlife special where a baby zebra spent all damn day trying to get milk from his momma but she didn't recognize him because he was covered in mud. Then he finally got smart, for the first time ever in the history of zebras, and washed off the mud. Then momma zebra is all like 'Where the fuck have you been all day?' Stu-pid. Imagine if they were to all get muddy at once. There would be mass zebra hysteria until it happened to rain next and then they'd all congregate again like it was a fucking herd reunion. I imagine there would be lots of paranoid ignoring going on. You know something like: 'Why is that zebra I don't know standing so close to me? I don't know him! I'll just turn my back to him and actively ignore him.' Bam, it rains. 'Oh, hi Steve. Where've you been all this time?')

Lastly, did you know you can purchase guns from Walmart? In the same place you can buy lube, hemorrhoid cream and alcohol. Is this a good idea? It seems to me that maybe it isn't.

The Emergency Room, Dumb Blonde Bitches and Raping Hamsters

2011-04-20T00:50:00.001-04:00

Do you know how long I've been in this little room in the emergency room with my mother? 8 hours now. 8 whole hours. We reached our 'together time' threshold 2 hours ago. After which we argued for an hour and I began to think of ways to entertain her while her heart waffles back and forth between deciding to pump the blood around her body or not. Apparently she's super dehydrated and her blood pressure tanked. She passed out today at the gym as a result of this and off to the emergency room we went.

Let me tell you what. These bastards almost caught a full fledged Anna Gray hissy fit. Let me enumerate what happened.

I pull up at the emergency room doors and oh, I don't know...I except them to act like someone in my party is having oh, I don't know...A MEDICAL EMERGENCY. Maybe because it is THE EMERGENCY ROOM! It probably isn't me as I'm the one driving and running around the car to get my mother out. Do they come out and get her? No. Is there a wheelchair outside to put her in? No. Is anyone mildly concerned that I'm forcibly dragging a semi-elderly woman into the emergency department? No. Do any of three bitches at patient check-in drop what they're doing because there is clearly one harried young woman hauling in one out of breath older woman? No. Does the stupid doe-eyed-dumb-cunt-bitch look at me funny when I screech 'Can you help us here?' Yes, actually she does. (I'm sorry for using the C-word but she totally deserves it. I almost killed her. I'm not even kidding. She should've seen her life flash before her eyes but that'd be assuming she has an IQ greater than 14 and a loaf of bread. And guess who's in training? Award yourself 5 bonus points if you guessed Bambi.)

Thank God the triage nurse had enough of a clue to admit her immediately otherwise I was going to start maiming CNA bitches until I got the results I wanted. In we go, which brings us to now. Onward to raping hamsters we go.

It took us at least 6 hours to figure out how to make the sound on the TV in the room to work so we watched 5 episodes of Law & Order: SVU with no sound. In order to bring some brevity to the situation I began to improvise a dialogue between Christopher Meloni and Ice-T. This dialogue began with them bitching about the DA's dumb hair. Mom says something along the lines of 'No, they have to be talking about sex crimes. Someone had to have raped something.'

'Someone raped something? Something? Not someone?'

'Well this show has some grade-A freaks.'

'Something like, a hamster?'

'A hamster?'

'Yeah, a hamster is a something. People could rape hamsters.'

'I suppose they could but it'd be a bad day for the hamster.'

'Gross. Thanks for that visual.'

'You're the one that came up people raping hamsters. What does that say about you?'

'No, I came up with hamsters. You came up with the rape all on your own.'

'I'll take half credit if you take the other half.'

'Okay. I can do that.' (I was trying to placate the woman. She's lying on a hospital bed.)

Thank goodness the lab girl stopped trying to draw blood from my mom because she almost had to pop a squat in the corner over the bedpan from laughing so hard. That kept us entertained for at least 5 minutes.

What the hell are we going to do for the rest of the 8 hours we'll probably be here?

* Because I'm not totally heartless here's an update: she's doing okay. They're going to keep her overnight to pump some fluids in her but they say she should be good to go in a couple of days.

How much better off you'd be if I was your drug pusher.

2011-04-15T16:45:00.001-04:00

I try really hard to be a grown up. Really I do. But like everything else I come up short and to make a long story short, I suck at life and cannot seem to make a decent living in a fulfilling career that I actually want.

I know, I know. I'm employed and I should be grateful blah blah blah. I am. Really. Can't you tell? I even appreciate being told I'm doing a good job accompanying the occaisional (I have no idea how to spell this word) cupcake.

I've been exploring possible career changes and/or supplements to my career because I am b-r-o-k-e.

I can't be a hooker because I'm too bitchy and people who smell creep me out. I can't be a stripper because they're all dumb cokeheads; I'm not dumb nor am I a cokehead so that rules that out. So I was thinking I could sell drugs. People make decent money doing that right?

Do you realize how freaking awesome I would be at selling drugs? Seriously! I've got access to the right clientele, example: I'm at the bus station twice a day. Clearly I'm easy to talk to because I cannot pay people to ignore me. Obviously I'm attractive enough. Do people buy drugs from ugly people? (My experience buying illicit substances is limited. I've only ever bought a quart of moonshine off a guy that I used to work with at that packaging plant and I'm reasonably sure I could have gotten away with murder with him.) I've got a good education and I can communicate effectively. I could totally set up a brilliant website about my drug-offloading buisness. (If you weren't aware I'm kind of a web czar. Well at least in my own mind. I'd link to what I can do but I don't think 'they' want to be affiliated with blogs who talk about crack, diarrhea and tampons on a regular basis. It's not really proper seeing as how they're a government entity and all.) I believe all of these to be adequate requirements to be successful in the drug pushing buisness.

You'd call me up and be all like:

'Yo Anna Gray, can I get some pot?' (Because when buy drugs you always start out with yo. This is the way it happens on Breaking Bad so it's got to be true.)

And I'd be all like:

'Totes, I can get you some pot! How much you need? I'm running a special this week, buy 2 pills get one free. They'll help take the edge off.'

Then you'd say:

'No, no, I'm good. I'm good. Just hook me up with some weed.' (I imagine that there is a lot of repeating of statements in drug pushing. That way everyone's expectations are clear as to what is expected of both parties. This is all speculation as I dont really know.)

Then I'd thank you for using my drug selling service and ask you to fill out a questionnaire outlining your experiences that day. What? I've got to maintain good customer service.

So instead of buying your drugs from 22 yr old Jimmy with meth acne you'd get to see my bright smiling face. Think of how much more pleasurable the experience would be.

Plus I don't own a gun, so I couldn't tweak out and kill you in a fit of hysterical paranoia.

No one wants to be the lone tampon in the jar.

2011-04-14T00:57:00.001-04:00

Ya'll. Shit is getting real up in this biatch.

You remember when Captain Cynical was mortally wounded and came back from the brink of death to recover her cynicism and reclaim her bitch card?

Well, she may have been dealt the death blow today. We all know she's not getting any younger and she spends the majority of her time in whiny uterus mode so it's only natural that she looks forward to building something with someone. You remember how she's flying across an ocean to have relations? Well yeah, that's actually going to happen. Lord help us all if it doesn't. Lord help us all if it does. Europe will never be the same. We're just waiting on the federal government to quit cock-blocking and on global warming to kick in in England and we're there. Say you what you will but I'm still not willing to freeze my nads off for anyone. Not that I have an actual set of nads but if I did I'd wait until it was warm. Because I'm a wimp. Hopefully he can deal with that. Hopefully he isn't reading this and if he is...I'm totally talking about Prince Harry. I'm gonna be his date to the royal nuptials. Miss you! Mean it! Hugs and kisses! Hide the whiskey and cookies, company's coming over!

Anywho, this bar that I go to always leaves tampons in a jar in the girls bathroom and I always feel sorry for the lone tampon left. It always seems so sad to me. Because at home, any sane woman buys tampons when she's down to her last three; you never really have one lone tampon unless it's in your desk drawer but it's cold and dark in there and that tampon probably deserved that punishment. The point being is that people are like tampons; no one wants to be the odd man out when everyone else has found a warm, dank place to hide for a few hours.

Does crack-cocaine actually give you diarrhea?

2011-04-12T00:18:00.000-04:00

I've recently started watching old episodes of Six Feet Under, Michael C Hall's old television show where he plays a homo-gay funeral director on HBO. Not to digress, but said funeral home isn't nearly as fabulous as it could be with a gay director. There has to be a market for it.

Anyways, what's-his-face's boyfriend Keith runs away on business and dude is all sad and stuff because his boo left and is totally having a bad day. He then pulls over to pick up a seemingly nice guy who needs a ride. Dude ends up being kidnapped and forced to do crack with this cray-cray white kid who seemed nice but is a total crackpot, literally.

Then Michael C Hall gets diarrhea and crazy white kid says something along the lines of 'Yeah, crack does that.'

This may come as a surprise to you but I've never done crack-cocaine so I cannot personally verify the validity of this statement. I tried googling 'Does crack give you diarrhea?' and all I really got were websites about drug addiction, blah, blah, blah, and no real answers to my inquiry. (Granted I had googled 'Is Bev Purdue related to chickens?' right before so it could be possible that I broke the Google. In case you were wondering, she isn't.) I did the next best thing. I texted my mom.

She was a teenager in the 60's. There isn't a whole lot she doesn't know at least a little bit about. Her reponse to my inquiry was this: 'I suppose it depends on what they cut it with. Why? Do you have diarrhea? Please tell me you aren't doing crack Anna.'

I should have been thinking ahead because now I'll spend the next 3 weeks convincing my mother that I am indeed not a crackhead. One of my high school best friend's nickname was Crackhead (God only knows why?) and I was questioned heavily on several occasions if she was indeed an actual crackhead addicted to crack. She wasn't. We were just assholes I guess. But the point is that now I need to convince my mom that I was really just trying to be a smart ass and that my sudden avoidances of her calls are just because I'm busy or that I don't need to talk to my mom 6 times a day and not because I'm blitzed out of my mind on crack-cocaine. Any suggestions as to how I could do this would be helpful.

And if you know the answer to this question I'd really appreciate it if you could fill me in. Only because I'm curious about these sorts of things.

Do you have the phone number for that creepy little woman from the Poltergeist?

2011-04-10T23:35:00.000-04:00

Do you have any idea why my woo-woo smells faintly of goat curry and tumeric? (I can't determine if it's red or yellow curry.)

We have a poltergeist. A smelly poltergeist at that. For some unkown reason my apartment, specifically my closet, smells like the kitchen of your local Indian buffet. Which makes everything in my closet smell of Indian food which makes my underthings smell like curry which in turn makes my woo-woo smell like cooked goat. Which depending on your point of view I suppose, could be a good thing. But probably isn't. I personally do not like Indian food. Hence I'm rather upset. (If it was Mac and Cheese..that I'd totally sign on to.)

I imagine people like to keep their food and sex separate. I mean, there are those wierdos that enjoy smathering each other in syrup, whipped cream and garlic butter or what not, but not me. Mostly because I loathe being sticky. When I was a kid I used to have to eat jelly on toast and it made me cry because it made the corners of my mouth sticky. This combined with my completely irrational fear of the United States Postal Service is a pretty reasonable explanation as to why yours truly is single.

Shrug.

Anywho, we've got a problem. My apartment smells like a food that I do not like, and all of my clothes smell of food that I do not like and that makes my person smell like sub-equatorial Asia. Not that there is anything wrong with that. If you get randy from Indian food, (I was going to use another Indian food ingredient but because I don't like it I've pretty much strapped my gustatorial knowledge of the contents of Indian cuisine with curry and goat and turmeric.) then I'm your woman. But seeing as I usually like to avoid those men with unusual fetishes, (Not that this ever works for me. I'll share the 'foot guy' stories later.) smelling of goat, not a good look. Seriously, we need someone to come and exorcise the Poltergeist.

I was going to make a joke about the poltergeist being a 'Ghandi ghost' because it's funny and alliterative but then I remembered Ghandi didn't eat and that's probably pretty insensitive. You know, insinuating that Ghandi's ghost would smell of food when the man made political statements by refusing to eat; that and my shameful lack of knowledge of Indian cultural figures. Sometimes I try. I really do. I guess it's not funny if I have to explain it.

If it was a normal poltergeist I'd totally let it stay. That shit doesn't really flummox me; I figure if there is an angry Native American ghost (Damn, there's another insensitive joke I could make.) then it's generally a good idea to just let it fucking be. That or move. As long as it didn't fuck with the TV during my weekly bonding with Don Draper/Jon Hamm. Otherwise it'd be totally free to come out of the TV and steal my roomate. He's been pretty busy at work lately; He could probably stand a vacation.

My ex boyfriend 'Joel'

2011-04-07T01:02:00.002-04:00

Lately I've found myself slipping into whiny uterus mode and in fear of being flogged by my best friend and roomate I find that it's easiest to combat this trauma with tragic stories of exes, in efforts to slay my thirst for babies and companionship.

Today I thought I'd share about 'Joel.' His name isn't really 'Joel' but that's the name I've picked and we're running with that.

I've always found Joel to be super cute even though he's not the normal blond hair, blue eyed, hunk of man I normally go for. He's waaaaay to skinny. And brunette. And has facial hair. And wears his hair long. Only one man can get away with that and he dresses as a pirate. Yum Johnny Depp! But every time I ever saw him, Joel, and even when I run into him now, I have to catch my breath. Something about him I find super physically attractive! And then he opens his mouth. (Then again I wasn't really in it for the titillating conversation. He was dragging me out of a shit relationship into a fun and fancy free existence of perpetual singlehood for which I'll be forever grateful.)

Nevermind that on our first real date he showed up in his duck hunting camo (I'm surprised he took off the waders.) and essentially proposed to me in the middle of a mexican restaurant, I still gave him a shot. (I've never been an ace at good judgment.) Joel, the sweetheart that he was, was in kind of a rough spot too. He wanted that 'picket fence idyllic life' and I wanted to shotgun whisky shots until I forgot about my most recent foray into romantic partnership or blacked out into oblivion, whichever came first. We should have been ships that passed in the night, but we gave it the college try.

I almost killed Joel one night. I wasn't drunk, high, discombobulated, unhinged, crazy with rage. I was completely and totally with it. Had I gone through with it, it would have been pre-meditated. I would have done serious time in the slammer.

You see, my dear, dear Joel snored like a banshee. Omg you can never grasp the magnitude with which his deviated septum interrupted my sleep schedule. I struggle to find words to describe the sheer volume at which he was able to project his snoring. It was like there was a fucking John Deere tractor in my bed. And of course the asshat fell asleep in 0.2 seconds so I never had a chance to get to sleep first and just sleep through it. You remember my plan to shotgun whisky into oblivion? This was the only way I ever got any rest around that man. Who knew that a person so skinny could have such a serious case of sleep apnea?

I'm a compassionate person, I didn't immediately resort to fantasies of asphyxiation. I rolled him over time and time again. Bought breathe right strips, slathered him up in vapo rub and made him sleep practically sitting up. Nothing worked. Still I suffered. He slept like an angel, a mouth-agape-tractor-shaming angel but an angel no less. He slept the sleep of the dead, almost literally. I used to finally just give up and go sleep on the couch in the living room. Oddly enough me getting out of bed was enough disturbance to wake him the fuck up! Into the living room he'd saunter and go 'What's wrong?' I punched him in the jaw once out of sheer frustration.

The thoughts of suffication came fleetingly at first. Just hints at the back of my mind that went away upon immediate dismissal. Glimpses really. Then they began to linger. I started to just sit upright in the bed and stare at him hoping that he'd wake up from the creepy 'someone is staring at me' feeling. He didn't and the next night we'd repeat this whole exercise over again, all the while these hints became malignant and began to consume my thoughts.

I distinctly remember sitting upright in my own bed, staring at the back of Joel's head (He slept on his stomach.) and thinking to myself: 'I could take the pillow and put it over his head just long enough for him to stop breathing.' I kind of muttered it out loud after thinking it because I needed to see how it sounded. It wasn't that I wanted him to die; I needed some fucking sleep. I needed him to stop snoring or to wake the fuck up or to have the bed open up and swallow him like in that Freddy Krueger movie, but I could not spend one more night on that damn futon in the living room. I simply could not do it.

So, I broke down into histrionics and sobbed and wailed and gave his god-forsaken snoring a run for it's money. Still he did not wake up.

Joel is the only man I've ever broken up with at 6:30 in the morning before he's even had time to brush his teeth. That day, I slept the sleep of the dead. And it was glorius.

I realized that night, that if I was seriously considering suffocating him then we were never going to work out. We could never be together because eventually I'd talk myself into it and the sane part of me that said 'Omg you just considered killing this grown man, in Your bed, which would make it a pretty open and shut case of pre-meditated homicide.' would eventually lose the argument.

I've given up pants.

2011-04-04T16:51:00.000-04:00

Sometimes I have difficulty in making up my mind. Like any other woman.

Also like any other woman on the planet I have difficulty deciding to what to wear. Some days I could wear a burlap sack and be the sexiest thing to happen to burlap since potatoes or well, anything really. Other days I feel like I could wear Chanel and still the opossum/aardvark/armadillo roadkill would be more attractive than I.

And then there are days whence a girl just cannot make up her mind. No matter what she puts on, it just doesn't work. It's not hideous but it's not attractive. It just isn't 'it', it's not what you want nor is it going to be unless there is a shift in planetary motion or another violent mood swing. These are the days when I decide to just wear pants and clap my hands over my breasts and be done with it. I just drink all my beverages through a straw. It may seem tiring to you, standing there, elbows akimbo, all night covering your breasts but really it's not a problem. Actually it's quite comfortable. If you could ditch the pants you'd really...

This is what I've decided. No more. I'm throwing in the metaphorical towel and not wearing pants anymore either. But don't really throw away that towel. I'm going to need it to fashion a loincloth type skirt thing.

You know how I feel about bitches and their snatches hanging out. It's innappropriate.

Ha! I'm an award winner Bitches!

2011-03-31T14:22:00.001-04:00

There is no stopping me now! You should all begin to tremble in fear! I won an award! MWAA HA HAA

The author of 'Make Daddy a Sammich' (Which is a totally freaking awesome blog by the way and I highly suggest you read it. And not just because he gave me an award, even though it totally looks like that. It's not. I thought his blog was funny before the award. Okay I'm going to just stop now. Seriously, it's funny. Check it out.) gave me an award today!

Check it out here: Look, I'm an award winner Bitches!


Yeah, I'm beautiful. I know.

Since this is my first ever blog award I'm totally psyched. Apparently it's for beautiful blogs with that 'little bit extra.' In this case I'm imagining that the little bit extra is because I tell you, the blogosphere, all of the intimate details of my life that no one really needs to know. (See sneezing out your tampon and my whiny biological clock.)

I'm supposed to list 3 things that I love about myself.

Ahem:

1. I love that I'm awesome. You should love that about me too. Seriously, I'm kind of a big deal.

2. I love that I'm charitable. Seriously, I am. Actually seriously. Non-sarcasticly serious. Actually actual serious. You get it right? I volunteer twice a month at the homeless shelter, give blood and I've started to cook food once a month for the families at my local Ronald McDonald House. I also aggravate the shit out of everyone when we go to eat because I grill the waiter about the source of the fish I'm getting ready to order and then decide to get the chicken or the pork because I'm concerned about the status of the fishes in the ocean. Especially the large, piscivorous fishes. Our oceans are in trouble ya'll! Check out this page and sign the pledge to reduce your plastic consumption! Oceana.org

3. Can I mention that I'm awesome again? I think I'm awesome enough to warrant two points on this list? No? Okay. How about...I love my...eyelashes? They're super long and I'm pretty grateful to have them.

Next I'm supposed to pick 5 blogs that I read:

Just Married., This is my friend Brooke's blog and it really does truly deserve this award because she is insanely creative and talented and her blog/ideas/inclinations are truly beautiful. She's pretty good looking herself.

Sassafras Junction, This is my friend Susan's blog and it is fracking HILARIOUS. This is one funny bitch and if you don't read her blog you should.

sewNAmber, My friend Amber. Also another creatively talented woman and friend who really deserves this. I CANNOT WAIT until she opens her Etsy shop.

Things Liz Loves, Yes I do have friends. This is Liz's awesome blog. Check it yo. She's serious about this blogging thing.

Venom, Secrets & Lies, And just to round out the 5 with a total female sweep we have Venom's Hilarious Blog.

Thanks again Trash for the award! I totally appreciate that!

Thank you rain!

2011-03-30T09:16:00.001-04:00

Right now, as I type this, I'm standing in the rain avoiding my friend Ron at the bus station. That's right. I'm using the rain as a shield. If I wanted to stand under the overhang that'd put me directly in his personal space bubble.

At least I think it's him. Honestly I don't know. I haven't looked at him because I'm afraid he'll recognize me. I'm wearing my rain coat with a hat pulled way down with my hood on so as to discourage people from talking to me. I'm just assuming as much because this guy keeps creeping towards me. Maybe not though, because if it was him he'd probably be chatting me up.

Shit I spoke too soon.

Good news! He's getting his own place. (Where does he live now? Maybe with Damont and Howard. I don't know I didn't ask.) He's been busy. Apparently.

Yesterday when I got on the bus in Greensboro there was an older gentlemen that sat in the seat in front of me and said 'Watch out, here he comes.' Thankfully he was just poking fun at me (his words) because he saw me wave him off from sitting with me the other morning and found it funny. Actually he was very appreciative because he was tired of hearing Ron's damn mouth. The guy never shuts up. He's talking to the bus driver now. Can't a person enjoy their bus ride in the rain in silence so they could get in a quick nap? No, that's not going to happen today.

At least he's not sitting with me this morning.

Thank you rain.

This is my life.

2011-03-28T14:10:00.002-04:00

My mother, bless her soul, only ever wanted one child. I think. Whether she did or didn't is irrelevant because she ended up with only one child, me. She may look back on that decision and think that she should've wanted no child. I don't know.

Due to the fact I am an only child, all of the childly duties of maintaining my mother's household fell to me. This combined with a natural mechanical ability makes me pretty damn handy. I've installed laminate flooring, painted every room in her house, wired outside security lights, installed garbage disposals, laid down carpet, everything but hang wallpaper. That I cannot do. My uncle once said 'Anna can do about anything she sets her mind to.' This was a nice way to say I'm too damn obstinate to give up and admit there actually may be something I cannot do. I'm thinking of quitting my day job and install tile professionally. Just for a change.
The past two weekends I've spent painting my mother's bedroom. It wasn't too bad except for the fact that she interpreted 'You'll have to get all the stuff out of your room for me to paint it' as 'I'll just move piles of stuff around and make it look like I'm doing what she wants.'

I'm not sure if you've ever painted a bedroom with the full antique bedroom suit still in said bedroom but it isn't easy. I cannot count the number of times I screamed 'Damnit Momma! I'll be damned if I'm doing anything for you ever again.' I liked to killed myself at least twice. Literally almost died. (This is much funnier if you imagine my exaggerated Southern drawl. Go ahead, I'll wait.)

(Hang in there, we're getting to the point of this story shortly.)

Now the room is painted. She just needs to buy a rug. (Why anyone would cover those hardwood floors is beside me but I have no doubt that once I've got whatever rug she buys installed she'll decide to re-finish the floors.) A large area rug which is really freaking expensive but never mind that because she just has to have one and she has to have it this week. The other thing she has to do this week is go to the beach.
She has this grand plan of ordering a rug and going to beach. Guess who is going to be at her house to receive this rug and lay it down?

Bingo, was her name-o.

Here's the fun part of this story.

We go to the locksmith to get a key made for me so that I can do just that. (Not that I mind because honestly it's a lot easier for me to get things done at her house if she isn't there.) Can you believe that my mother lost her house key in the lobby of the locksmith's for 20 freaking minutes? SHE LOST A KEY AT THE LOCKSMITH'S. How, in the name of all that is Holy, do you do that?

You seriously cannot. Make. This. Shit. Up.

I finally found it in the coat of her pocket which I told her to check no less than 42 times. This, the futility of it all, is my life.

How to win friends at the bus station.

2011-03-24T18:19:00.001-04:00

Answer: All you need to have in your possession to win friends while at the bus station is a nice rack
.
Today started like any other day. I got up and fiddled around until it was time to go catch the bus and headed to the bus station. I've carefully timed my arrival at the bus station so that at the most I wait 6 minutes if the bus is on time. Today the bus was late.

We've had some amazing fucking weather lately and normally I would be the last one to complain but for one fact. They let the loonies off the farm when it's warm. Today I met 'Ron.' (Yes, 'Ron' is Ron's real name. Normally I use pseudonyms when depicting people here but I'm not going to do that today. Only because you need to be prepared if you happen upon Ron at the bus station.) Last summer when I started riding the bus I wore my mirrored aviators and listened to my iPod as loud as it would go as kind of like a sensory-deprivation/crazy-person-deflection thing. If I just ignored everyone no one was the wiser because they couldn't make eye contact or talk to me.

I rolled over my iPod dock with my desk chair and broke it so not listening to them isn't an option unless I dig out my old school Discman which is God knows where. I also wear my glasses in my winter-time which that prevents me from wearing my aviators. I need to schedule an appointment with the eye doctor ASAP and get some contacts.

This morning, I'm standing, sans lunatic-shielding, at the bus station beside Ron. Both he and I have an adequate amount of space in our personal space bubble which is where he caught me off guard; judging from this behavior I was unprepared for the onslaught of Ron to come. He asked if the bus was late and I said yes. This next step is where I went really, really wrong. He wondered if it was because of the bad storms we had last night and I said 'Gosh, they were pretty bad, weren't they?'

I should have never responded. Next thing I know Ron introduces me to his friend 'Damont' who just got out of jail and 'Howard' who after having some difficulty finding a job as a convicted felon has finally found some success. Congrats to Howard. And I pray for the bus to come. Ron inches closer to me and begins to invade my personal space bubble.

Ron apparently can talk to a brick wall. He talked and talked and talked, right up until the bus came and I finally had some hope of escaping Ron and his story about the tardy Time-Warner cable guy. No, Ron gets on the bus. This joker rides the same bus I do. Go fucking figure. Guess who sits down right beside me on said bus? That's right. Ron. Who remarked upon seeing me on the bus 'Oh, you saved me a seat.'

Normally Ron gets off at the first stop. I know this because he told me he gets off at the first stop. Today he didn't get off at the first stop because he was having such a good time talking to a sweet (Translation: young), attractive (Translation: Damn, you've got a nice rack) woman (Translation: Gurl, if we weren't in public. Mmm. The things I'd do to you.) This means I get to sit crammed into a bus seat beside Ron for 20 more minutes within which he regales me with details of his cousin's incarceration due to repeated 'grand theft auto' and 'possession with intent to sell' charges. He also mentions that he's seen me on the bus many times before and has been too shy to talk to me but today just seemed different. On and on he goes.

Here's the coup de grace of this whole story.

Ron asks me for my phone number.

Normally I come up with a fake name for when people at the bus station ask me my name but when Ron first asked me this morning I just thought he was talkative and less-lecherous than he turned out to be. So he already knows my name. Actually he thinks my name is Hannah; I'm generally too lazy to correct people when they assume this and when anyone at the bus station thinks I've said something different for my name than what it actually is, I roll with that. Normally I give random men who ask me for my phone number the number to the Papa John's near my mom's house. I figure they can eat their disappointment once they discover I've purposefully mis-led them. It's these little compassionate gestures that make me a real catch in the relationship department. For serious! But upon careful consideration I gave Ron my real number. For this reason: If he actually called and got Papa John's I have no doubt that Ron is the kind of person that would ask me about it the next day when he saw me on the bus, since he clearly sees me every day and what an awkward conversation that would be. At least this way I can still ride the bus and make nice while actively ignoring Ron and after repeated calls that go un-answered and not returned maybe he'll get the hint.

Then again he doesn't seem like the type to take a subtle hint. Does he?

3 reasons why I need a pet pig.

2011-03-23T16:58:00.001-04:00

1. Out of all the people you know who'd look cool with a pig, I'd look the coolest. Why you ask? Because I'm awesome.

2. It could be the first-ever service pig. If people can have depression puppies, I can have a boredom pig. That way when I get bored at work I could just play with my pig. He would have a ball and a rope and pillow for naptime and his name would be Beaureguard. And he would be awesome. And medically necessary. My doctor would totally prescribe me a boredom pig. That man owes me one.

3. I need something to scare the giant rabbit my best friend keeps threatening to get me. For serious. The next time you get a yin to be scared google 'Flemish Giant', and imagine opening the door to your apartment one day and that thing come flopping down the hall at you. Scary stuff I tell you. Scary stuff. Anyways Beau would totally root that rabbit out of hiding and protect me.

4. (I know I said 3 reasons but I came up with a 4th.) Whose life wouldn't better with a little, pink pig with a curly tail? Plus I looooove Ham at holidays.

Frustrated Anna is, well, frustrated.

2011-03-22T17:40:00.001-04:00

I'm having trouble sleeping these days and have been for a while now. I'm tired and all but then I get to bed and I just lay there. Turning over and adjusting pillows and huffing and puffing until I finally just get up and do something or read until I'm tired again and the whole process repeats ad infinitum.

I cannot figure it out. I've never had issues sleeping. Never, ever. I could seriously sleep through the next World War. I have no doubt about it.

Except for now. Now I'd be awake to fight it. I'm not sure whose good fortune that would be but if WWIII pops off anytime soon we're good, as long as we fight it from the hours of 1-4 AM EST.

After doing some pseduo-serious soul searching (I tend to not do it a lot because what I find is somewhat disturbing. Not crazy ax-murderer shit but enough conundrums and circular logic to drive any sane person batty. It's easier just to stay out of it and let it be.) I've discovered that I, Anna Gray, am Frustrated.

Yes, Frustrated with a capital 'F.' An all-encompassing frustration that is indicative of a proper noun. I don't believe I need to spell it out.

But what is a girl to do? She tries to combat the Frustration with exercise and that helps but it really doesn't get to the crux of the problem. No, this is a resolute and unyielding frustration.

It looks as if our hero Captain Cynical will be waiting it out because that seems to be the only solution that has presented itself currently. Either that or I can get over myself and invest in that whole 'Skype' thing.

As for the sleeping issue I'll just try a double shot of jack and a tranquilizer or two. That seems reasonable.

The Wristwatch

2011-03-19T01:45:00.001-04:00

I learned something new tonight.

We were at a certain alternative lifestyle club and I was asking my friends certain questions about strippers. For example, here in NC you cannot get fully nude at a club that serves alcohol. That's only at a 'juice bar' which seems like a total waste of money. Not only do you have to purchase your own alcohol and bring it with you, you then have to pay people to serve it to you. Where's the logic in that? I don't know, I've never been to a stripping establishment. I'm off topic.

Anyways I was asking questions of my friends about stuffing socks in your underwear. Like where does the sock go? Between your kibble and your bits? Or in front of it? This was somewhat a point of contention as we couldn't decide on a definitive answer and from the look of the go-go dancers here, they wouldn't know. Which believe me is a shame for everyone involved. You'd think their friends would have looked and them and suggested a different career path or at least handed them a tube sock or two.

I got to talking out loud about how much fun it would be to have a penis. If I had one I'd just take it out and play with it. Upon this revelation I was compared to every 3 year old boy. Apparently they get bored and play with it a lot. Giggles ensued. So I quizzically asked what they did with it.

After a quick mention of the 'helicopter' and a hilarious pseudo-demonstration then the 'wristwatch' was introduced.

Yes boys. I'm guessing you've all done this at least once in your life because let's be honest, if I had one I'd do it! For some reason the idea of every man I know flopping his member over his wrist at some point cracks me up to no end. Think about it.

Boys.

All you can do is grin and shake your head.

Then this point was made: 'Well, really only the well endowed ones can play the wristwatch game.'

Snort.

There's a novel idea.

2011-03-17T11:44:00.001-04:00

I woke up this morning to the sound of my room-mate's cat yakking all over my bedroom. That's how I know she loves me.

Then on my way to the bus station I almost got hit by the meter maid in his little car. I guess he's really a meter butler because he's a man but he was going to the run the red light and almost damn near hit me but finally stopped. And then flirted with me. Really? You almost maim me with your meter cart and then hit on me? Thanks, but no thanks.

Fast forward an hour and I'm on the bus going to work and another bus driver gets on the bus and strikes up a conversation with the bus driver driving the bus about where to eat lunch that day. It's a perfectly nice conversation to which they require no input or external opinion. Then passenger 'Lisa' speaks up.

She starts yammering on and on and on about all the places to eat in town and where they are and how she apparently knows the owners of all of these places and guess what? 'They're all super nice!'

What-the-fuck-ever.

I'm going to warn you about what I'm going to say next as it is quite possibly one of the worst things I will ever say and I'm totally driving the bus to Hell. Get on if you want.

You know why everyone is super nice to Lisa? BECAUSE SHE'S A CRIPPLE. Seriously, who is an asshole to cripples? I'm just putting that out there. I've worked in the restaurant industry and people that own and run restaurants are not nice. They're fucking asshole coke-heads with a superiority complex and a point to prove. They usually end up drowning in the bottom of a whiskey bottle followed by 8-balls and dirty hookers.

Lisa then goes on and on and on about this one pizza joint on the corner (It isn't that great.) that is apparently owned by 'Kyle and Leo' and quelle suprise! They're Italian and from New York.

Imagine that. Italians from New York running a pizza joint. There's a fucking novel idea.

At my house, two's a crowd.

2011-03-16T14:39:00.002-04:00

My best friend is also my room-mate and he is an interesting person, to say the least.

He's scary smart and uber-anal retentive. I'd say he'd probably have some penis envy just to keep in line with the Freudian-isms but he has a penis so I guess that's the end of that. Please insert some smart comment about Kant or Hegel. What? I told you he was smart. He's into philosophy and teleogical devices or something. I don't know. I'm a scientist I figure Nature is the way it is for a reason.

He's one of those people who can identify what is misplaced in his room faster than any normal person could stand on one leg, squawk like a chicken and lay an egg. Seriously, you could just walk in his room and just re-arrange the books on his shelf, you don't even have to remove and hide them, just move them around and he can re-arrange them in 10 seconds flat. It's scary.

We've been friends for 12 years now which is also scary but only because that makes us OLD. I'm not sure if he's turning 25 or not this year...But everyday that I spend with him I learn many new and different facts about him which never cease to amaze me. I've always knew he was smart but the fact that he can be actively smart and process all this extra random shit is truly a testament to his excelled mental faculties. Seriously, it's scary.

One day I didn't go to work and when he got home he looked around the apartment once and said to me: Did you enjoy your day off? I sometimes get home before him and I was dumbfounded as to how he could have known because I made a special effort that day to keep everything in it's special place. He saw the lumpy pillow and knew that I had been reclining on it. He saw the grocery bag on top of the washing machine and knew I'd been to the grocery store and could tell by the absence of circles under my eyes that I'd gotten an adequate night's sleep. Go figure.

Generally I think he's a good influence on me. He tries to keep me organized, sane and together. I think it's probably the one thing that he's failed at. I probably won't have a place to live next week because he'll have kicked me out because he's a perfectionist and will not accept failure. Well except that one time I was right, but I probably negated that by throwing that book at his head. It was kind of a thick book. Oh and also the time I swore he'd set up the DVR to record 'A Fish Called Wanda' and he said that he hadn't because it wasn't in the queue. We went back and figured out that he had indeed set up the DVR to record but the channel wasn't available so it didn't. If you're keeping score the tally is now up to: Him: 37,482, Me: 2. It's rare that he's ever wrong, so all of our friends have that one story where they're right and he was wrong and we relive these stories regularly. It's really the only way to stay sane.

I think I'm a good influence on him too. I just haven't figured out how yet. Unless you count the rigors of walking in on your room-mate in the midst of certain sexual acts on the couch in the living room. Hey, he wasn't supposed to be home for another hour. I was eventually going to my bedroom we just hadn't made it that far yet. Luckily out of the three of us involved I was the most embarrassed. The room-mate thought it was hilarious and the Boy was mostly upset he was interrupted but once the deed was finished he was quite amused too. Although he did kind of bust my balls for shrieking, jumping up, grabbing the blanket and running away which left him to make nice with the room-mate and gather our clothes. At least he'd met the room-mate the night before otherwise that could have been reeeeeally awkward. I think he's rooting for you by the way.

The other day the room-mate says to me: 'I'm taking Thursday, Friday, Monday and Tuesday off of work. I'm going to need you to go to work at least three of those days.' This was directly after I'd set off every smoke alarm in the apartment and we'd had to call the building manager to have them cut off. I tried to placate him by reminding him that our next door neighbor, Sex-on-Skates, was in Mexico and that at least I hadn't caused the evacuation of the entire building like the asshats on the third floor did a few weeks ago with their burnt fucking popcorn. See here. He still wasn't enthused. I'm not sure why, we only have one neighbor and he was gone and no-one actually had to leave nor was there an actual fire. He's a stickler for details. Details like there never should have been reason for the smoke alarm to go off in the first place but I figure I pay rent there, that entitles me to set the smoke alarm off at least twice a year. I'm going to get my money's worth, damnit.

Needless to say I'll probably be met at the door in the morning with the cat so I can take her to work with me because at my house, two's a crowd.

No matter how hard you try, you cannot wiggle back onto your tampon after you've sneezed.

2011-03-15T01:11:00.001-04:00

You've seen it happen in action but maybe you just didn't notice it. But you've seen it. Every woman, or at least every woman who wears tampons during allergy season, has done it.

There is a particularly violent sneeze, a pause, a face-scrunch to one particular side, a odd wiggle-type shimmy and a groan. Yes, you've just witnessed a woman with good kegel control push her tampon halfway out.

I'm here to inform you, the public, that it is impossible to wiggle back onto your tampon. Goodness knows I've tried. Of course with me this always happens when I'm out in public without a spare on me, or heaven forbid I have a spare but it's one of those God-awful Ob tampons that don't have applicators. My mom bought me an economy size case of them from Walmart one time because they were on 'Sale.' One fine spring day she calls to tell me she's bought me tampons and is so proud of herself; she's finally accepted her only daughter wearing tampons.(She's always thought I was trashy because I refuse to walk around in what amounts to the 'Juniors' section of adult diapers. You get comfortable in a maxi pad and it's a slippery slope from there to urinating in your undergarments because you cannot miss a single episode of the Nanny marathon. Because you haven't seen them all.) I go to pick up said tampons and immediately shriek in terror and loathing. She hands me some line about looking a gift horse in the mouth and I explain that they don't have applicators. She processes that and then says 'I wondered how there were able to fit 500 of them in a Kleenex box.'

Ever observant she is. Ever observant and facetious. I still maintain it was her way of sticking it to me for being a skanky modern woman who doesn't relegate herself to a dark corner of her basement room if there is a pool party while on the rag. By the way, the code word for the string hanging out of your bathing suit is 'Ice Cream.' Next time you're at a public pool and an adult woman screams 'Ice Cream,' she's not trying to incite a riot among the 10 and younger crowd. She's informing her friend that her tampon string has become the newest accessory to her bathing ensemble. It doesn't hurt that screaming 'Ice Cream' normally distracts every child and adult male long enough for the affected party to recover the rogue pull-cord. Anyways the point being is that my mother associates my usage of tampons with the lack of a hymen. Which may or may not be true.

In general it sucks being on the rag. Gone are the days when the men shut the women up in a tent with one another and let them sit for the better part of a week giggling and carrying on.

I figure this is why whenever you get 3 or more us together at a time in a space sans men we always have period talk. This is quickly followed by a close comparison of the member of the person with which we had out last sexual encounter with, as we're wont to do. Complete with diagrams, gestures and comparisons to random food items. Cucumber good, cinnamon stick bad.

So the next time you see a girl sneeze, stop and psuedo-break-it-down to the 'muzak' in the department store you'll know she's on the rag and just partially shat out her tampon. Or she's clearly psycho because she appreciates the muzak. In which case, take that girl out and introduce her to some applicator-less tampons. She can waste some time figuring out how that works and maybe become less socially awkward.

The Xanax fairy came and I missed it.

2011-03-04T20:21:00.001-05:00

Today I went to a funeral. There was a death in my family and it was tragic and sad and I'm truly sorry for my family and their loss but I have a bone to pick with these people.

My entire family was fucked up. Seriously. Apparently these people have had enough grieving so they got in line at the Pharmacy counter and partook. Granted it was nice that they didn't sob their brains out but where else can you sob your face off and grieve than at a funeral? That would be the appropriate place for crying. Not for being fucked up. Then again maybe they just needed their own way to self-medicate. I guess we all do it.

Another thing and I really hope I don't offend anyone here because I don't mean to be malicious but can I please go to a Baptist service one day and not have 3 different people tell me they're concerned about my immortal soul? and try to baptize me*? I get that's what they do but damn ya'll, can we talk about the deceased and how we can help his family move on? Instead of forming a queue at the baptismal submersion pool?

Just a thought.

Back to the Xanax thing, here is the last thing I'm going to say about that. If my mom wouldn't have made us late I'm wondering if we'd have got in line too? Who knows? Probably not. Someone had to drive.

*For those of you that are concerned about my immortal soul, I'm Methodist. I was baptized at birth and yes it does it too count.

The Federal Government is totally cock-blocking me.

2011-03-03T11:42:00.002-05:00

You'll remember my new year's resolutions:

Insert the word 'mother-fucker' into my every day lexicon. Check.

Books with pictures. Kind-of-Check. I haven't read a whole lot of anything this year.

Get a passport...I'm trying.

Now you have to make an appointment to get a passport which means that I unnecessarily went to the post office, which I am afraid of, only to have them tell me that I need to come back a different day. Actually I did not talk to them, my mom did. (What? Yes I took my mother with me to the post office, I told you I was afraid.) Needless to say that I have to go back AGAIN next week.

It's not that I'm in a hurry, I'm not. The only place that I'm really anticipating going is the UK (You remember when Captain Cynical was mortally wounded, well it just so happens that said antagonist of Captain Cyncial happens to live in the UK. Because I cannot find someone to sleep with here in the contiguous 48. I have to be difficult, you've met me. Plus I kind of dig him. He only reads this blog sporadically and hopefully this won't be the week that he deigns to read it. That would be AWKWARD. But if you are reading this, 'Hey! Miss you! Hide the whiskey and cookies, company's coming over!' Jesus I am such a dweeb. ) and I'm not going there it's at least 65 degrees (Fahrenheit. Not Celsius.) for a significant period of time. The only other place that I want to go where one would require a passport it's warm all year long so no hurries there. Except for the fact that they're all on an island in the middle of the ocean and global warming seems to be ticking along at a reasonable pace so I need a passport within the next 20 years or so.

Now I have to get up the gumption and the courage to go visit the Post Office again and I know my mother will not go with me a second time. She didn't want to go the first time, something about me being 'a grown woman' and about 'how it's time to put away those childish irrational fears' and what not. Geez, whatever Mom.

I'm blaming the Federal Government for this one. It's just unnecessary.

Anna Gray cannot make up her mind.

2011-03-03T00:17:00.001-05:00

Today I went dress shopping because I needed a really great dress. Normally this would have been an all day affair but it is my opinion that Hell has officially frozen over because I went to one store, tried on 5 dresses and bought the first one I put on.

HELL HAS FROZEN OVER. The end is near. Nevermind the Mayan calendar predicting the end in 2012, I bought a dress, that I like mind you, in under an hour.

No worries though. You've still got some time to wrap up your affairs before the apocalypse and his riders reach us. There is still the issue of shoes. . .what to do, what to do?

I couldn't decide on one single pair of shoes so I bought 3 pairs of black leather ankle booties. I know, I know. No one needs three pair of black ankle booties but I just couldn't decide. One pair has ruffles (pro) but are suede (con). The other two pairs are normal leather (pro) but one pair has this really cute bow (pro) but are a little casual for my current purposes (con). The last ones I think I'm definitely going to keep because they're definitely dressy enough (pro) but then again I should take at least one pair back, right?

Then again I am the person that has 3 of the same black strapless dress. What? They're each a little bit different but I'm a big fan of sticking with what works. You know I hate change and besides I like to think of it as design loyalty.

Plus it's way easier to make a decision if you already know what it looks like before you've worn it before. Think of it as an example of efficiency.

I have to start remembering to piss before I leave work.

2011-02-28T16:41:00.003-05:00

I'm not sure how the highways are around your parts but around these parts, they're bumpy. And full of pits, pocks, and pot-holes. They're lumpy, hilly and bouncy. Especially at an advanced speed in a giant, rattling tin can.

When you have to pee and you've forgotten to go before you left work and pounded a Coke on your way out the door, they're damn formidable.

Don't even think about going at the bus-station. That's simply asking for crabs or some other creepy venereal critter. Labia lobsters or something. (A quck aside: Are you aware that you can search the Merriam-Webster online dictionary by voice? I do not recommend however that you voice search the Merriam-Webster online dictionary for the word 'venereal' to confirm your spelling of it while on the afternoon commute home. Unless you're in the comfort of your own vehicle by yourself.)

So you just sit on the bus and try to read which makes you sea-sick and then you want to yak so you think about having to piss instead which only brings you back to the original problem.

I really must remember to piss before I leave work.

The Wisdom of a Best Friend on a Girl's Birthday

2011-02-23T11:24:00.001-05:00

Today is my birthday. (:

Naturally I am bitching about getting old except for the fact that this year I became 3 years younger. But anyways I was bitching to my best friend and this is what he said: (I wish I could be this brilliant.)

What does a young person have that we don't have?

Besides a healthier liver and fewer sexual partners.

I just found this way too appropriate not to share with the blogosphere.

Moxy on the Move - Guitar Center

2011-02-19T12:15:00.002-05:00

Moxy is a hip uglydoll. Yesterday she wanted to broaden her musical horizons so off to Guitar Center we went.


Moxy loves the blissful sounds of a good Ukulele.

At first the folks at guitar center wanted to know if I was trading her in on a guitar. I told them no, but they seemed as if they really wanted an uglydoll. Then Moxy told them she wasn't for sale or for trade and to buzz off. Which they really didn't do so much. Apparently the boys at Guitar Center don't see many girls during their day at work.


Moxy is ready for her drum solo.

Moxy really enjoyed playing the drums. She's totally a bad-ass drummer chick. The drum guy agreed as well.


You weren't aware Moxy is a classically trained concert pianist.

Okay so maybe she isn't a classically trained concert pianist but she is pretty classy. Classy ladies always love the piano. Granted most of the time they're splayed across the top of it but this is just a digital piano and Guitar Center really isn't that kind of place if you catch my drift.

Moxy was very sad that Peaco had to stay behind but he wasn't feeling too well. And he wouldn't fit in the bag but we're pretty sure he would have danced his way around the store and had a blast in the DJ room. There's always next time!

You're just going to have to cut me some slack.

2011-02-17T12:22:00.003-05:00

You may or may not have noticed if you've interacted with me in the last week or two that I'm slowly cracking up. It's because it's February. February has always carried some sort of anxiety with it. Always. The closer it gets to my upcoming 2nd 25th birthday (Remember the time warp folks.) the more and more scattered I become.

I'd like to say it's because I've been super busy at work. Or the fact that I took out my Ring which was keeping my hormones on an even keel. Hell I could even blame it on the zany weather we've been having. We've already established that the crazies come out when it's warm but I think this would be a disservice. It's because my birthday is in February...

Birthdays, like Holidays, make me nervous. Really nervous.

This year I said to myself 'I'll be armed with tools to fight the anxiety!'

'I'll have lost 15 pounds and have the exercise to fall back on!' While this is true, I've lost 13 pounds since my last birthday (Somehow I've gained 4 pounds in the last two weeks because apparently the weight loss gods HATE ME) it doesn't seem to be helping too much. I'm still pretty much bananas. I thought that exercising would burn off all that extra energy and it does do that, it just creates twice as much energy as I had before so now I'm really on a rampage.

'I'll have had another whole year of being single and appreciating a single life!' I'll say this about that. I've had my fun this past year, but not too much fun. Actually is was almost exactly zero 'fun' but I did manage to get some practice in right under the deadline. I'm still almost practically celibate which according to the Church works for some people. Not me. And when you're just a bit off-kilter it helps to have someone around to yank you back down out of the clouds. Not that I'm super-duper crazy but I am a little aloof. But like normal woman aloof. Unless I'm besought with a demon and in that case maybe celibacy is the right path for me. I'll starve the demon out or something.

*Although Sex on Skates did move in next door to me which is either extremely fortuitous or God has a really sick sense of humor. I haven't figured out which one yet. I'm still working on that one. Next on the list of culinary treats is banana pudding. Boys like banana pudding right?

But if you get right down to the meat of the problem, ignoring the issues with mortality that birthdays bring, ignoring the anxiety that planning a fun-filled event that people will enjoy brings, ignoring the attention people shower you with on your birthday whether you deserve it or not, it comes down to one thing and one thing only.

For one entire evening I'll be forced to sit and choke down a meal with both of my parents all the while praying they'll behave. That they won't make asses of themselves in public, in front of my friends or even in front of me. They'll sit there and do their cute flirty, angsty bantering back and forth and people will laugh and I'll cringe because I know what it really means.

That they're about one asinine comment away from stabbing one another in the eyeball with a fork and creating an incident. An incident that only I can deal with because they thought it necessary to beget one singular progeny. Me.

Post VD Vag Thoughts

2011-02-15T16:58:00.001-05:00

I'm cynical. Yes, never fear Captain Cynical has returned; no applause needed. I'm cynical and I should have blogged about this yesterday but I didn't. Mostly because I had to install my mother's garbage disposal.

Yes I'm handy as well.

Do you know what I find interesting? All the different ways we dress up snatch. Kind of like in the Vagina Monologues where they ask what kind of hat your vagina would wear. (Mine would wear a mother-fucking crown bitches.) But think about it. We put it lace and satin and ribbons and bows. We groom it, clip it, cut it, shave it and those hardcore bitches, they wax it.

I mean I appreciate a well groomed groin as much as the next person but does it really make a difference?

I've never actually had the experience of getting ready to seal the deal and someone say to me:

'Excuse me, but what is that?'

'What? You don't know what that is? I am not having that talk with you right now. What do you mean what is that? Aren't we a little too far into this to be discussing what that is?'

'I know what that is. I didn't mean that. I meant That.'

'For serious you're going to have to be more specific. You could make an entire sentence out of pronouns which is what I'm pretty sure you just did.'

'That.'

'Oh, That.'

...

'What? I wasn't anticipating this pleasant turn of events so I am unprepared.'

'Well we're just going to have to reschedule until you take care of That.'

'If you say so, but I'm reasonably sure they had sex in the 70's and I'm also reasonably sure they all had plenty of That.'

Maybe this happens more than I know, maybe it doesn't. It's never happened to me. And from a biological standpoint it's stupid. The hair is there to concentrate the smell and in that smell is the pheromones. The pheromones are supposedly what makes you want to get it on and get to work. Unless you've got stank snatch and then you just need to wash that shit. No one appreciates that.

That being said, I'm still going to practice grooming practices. I'm just not sure why I do it.

I'm trying to perfect the landing strip look but we all know I'm impatient so it ends up crooked and I just keep taking a little more off the top and then I end up with more of a postage stamp look which just goes to support the notion that I really do suck at life.

Of course you're chatting it up with your invisible friend Leonard, it's warm out.

2011-02-14T17:00:00.000-05:00

Say what you will about our unseasonably cold winter but it does do a good job of keeping the crazies inside.

Today it is 69 degrees outside in the middle of mother-fucking February.

No, I'm not complaining but you have to understand something. I just saw a guy on the corner throwing jabs and boxing.

Without an opponent.

I know what you're thinking. Maybe he's running in the nice weather like every other skinny 20 year old with a vag because people just need to see you in those booty shorts that say 'BOOTY' across your ass for those of us who mistake your face for your ass. Maybe he is stuck at a long light and is trying to keep his pulse up. No, no he wasn't doing that either.

(Two things about the twenty year olds though. First, put on some clothes! This is what you would call 'Pneumonia Weather' and just because it's warm out doesn't mean you need to run around half naked because you're going to get sick. Secondly, follow the damn pedestrian crosswalk signs. Don't jog across a busy intersection holding my freaking bus up while you 'jog'. Run bitch.)

Anyways people need time to adjust to the prevalence of the crazies. It's bad news bears when they all come out at once.

Just know that while you're bitching about the cold George is talking to Lenny from the comfort of a warm, safely sequestered non-public area. That's all I'm saying.

Anticipatory yakking done right.

2011-02-11T16:03:00.000-05:00

Do you know what I hate? Anticipation.

Why do I hate anticipation? Mostly because it blows and makes my stomach hurt. I sit around gnashing and gnawing all the while stirring up the gastric juices in my gut and next thing you know I yakking my brains out because I'm nervous. And it's that nasty yellow bile stuff and that's even grosser so I yak again and there you have it. Puke everywhere. In technicolor.

Today at work I got an email that our vacation accrual time is increasing. Naturally I'm excited, I'm anxious to know how much extra time I'll get this year. I've got plans to actually brave the post office and get a passport this year so maybe this extra vacation time will come in handy. Even if it isn't much then maybe I can take a quick day trip to the zoo or a shopping excursion. I go to the link and look and guess by how much my vacation accrual time increased.

I am now the proud owner of 15 minutes more vacation time this year than last.

Yes you've read correctly. 15 minutes. That is 0.25 hours. Now I can take that super long vacation I've always wanted and actually think about going! Seriously, where am I going in 15 minutes? NOWHERE. Thinking is about the only thing I can get done in 15 minutes. I might be able to walk down the hall, out of the building into to street and wave at the plane that should be carrying me to my foreign exotic vacation and still have time to make it back into the building to change my clothes from where I yakked on them. From disgust, not excitation.

The point of all this is that I'm no longer getting excited about anything. Especially vacations.

My thoughts on this crazy busy week.

2011-02-10T09:55:00.000-05:00

This week has been totally cr-aa-aaa-zy.

I'm not sure why I felt compelled to make a simple two syllable word 4 syllables but I'm running with it.

Here are a few thoughts I've had this week:

1. Apparently Chico's has a intimates line. This spells T-R-O-U-B-L-E. I've now worn my new underoos for 2 days now (They're two different pairs for the record. I'm not gross.) and am seriously considering throwing away the other 85 pairs of panties I own. It looks like I may have to go take the store hostage until they give me what I want, which is clearly more underwear. (Yes I know. No person needs 85 pairs of underwear but actually I used to have around 120 so I'm doing better.)

2. I also bought jeans. 'Curvy' is the adult woman euphemism for 'husky.'

3. Speaking of jeans I have a bone to pick with American Eagle. DAMN Ya'll! CAN YOU NOT MAKE JEANS FOR PEOPLE WITH AN ACTUAL ASS? DO THEY ALL HAVE TO BE SUPER LOW RISE? There is simply not enough material to cover my ass. The pants fit great as long as you don't mind seeing half of my ass. Which maybe you do, I don't know.

4. I've decided I would be a freaking awesome house wife. So blogosphere, go forth and find me a husband. As a housewife I'd have lots of free time so I'd be super fit and there would the added perk of all the sex pie you can eat. I think both of these are admirable qualities in a housewife.

So go! Find me a husband! I'm too freaking busy otherwise I'd do it myself.

Welcome Monday

2011-02-07T10:13:00.001-05:00

I understand that you must come every week, that it's just a part of life. Even if I protest, even if I whine and moan and groan, Monday, you still come.

It's not that I have to go work, although I will say Monday's are much easier sitting on a beach, it's that you're Monday.

Saying the word strikes fear into the hearts of small children everywhere, knowing they'll have to go back to school in the morning. It strikes fear into the hearts of more than one grown up I know for the same reasons usually. Unless you're of the those freaks who actually enjoys going to work then there is no hope for you at all. None.

But must you come with a busload of screaming children?

Have you no mercy?

Captain Cynical has been mortally wounded.

2011-02-06T21:43:00.001-05:00

It's a bleak outcome for our hero Captain Cynical.

I am actually digging someone. Emotionally. Not just physically, which is a big step for me.

You'd be proud of me. I actually used my big girl words to tell said person that I like him instead of my normal method of shaving my snatch and hoping he can interpret what that means. I'm not an ace at communication.

It's tough though. Being that vulnerable.

We've met me. I don't do anything in moderation, nothing. So now I'm sitting here kicking myself because all I can think about is you know what.

Caring is kryptonite for Captain Cynical.

Kryptonite.

You want me to do what exactly?

2011-02-02T15:24:00.001-05:00

The other day my trainer (I know, I know.) wanted/expected me to climb the rock wall in our gym for exercise. I protested and he wanted to know why.

Nevermind the fact that I have T-rex arms, you know the whole 'teeny arms that cannot support body weight' argument, but have you seen a rock climbing harness? They're hideous.


Look at her ass? It's like right there.

He of course wanted to know why. So for the first time in our relationship as trainer and trainee I was painfully honest.

I told him that I was not climbing the rock wall because I was not putting on that god awful rock climbing harness. "I've seen people in these things and if you think I'm going to put my ass in that contraption and scutter up a wall for God and all of his creatures to see, you're crazy." I have a nice ass. I know this because I notice people noticing it in an admirable fashion not in a 'oh my God, that's a big ass' fashion. You can tell the difference because the former is has a subtle affirmative head nod and the latter carries an expression of widened eyes and a slightly agape mouth. But I've seen fat people at our gym in the rock climbing harness and it's less than flattering. (I tried really hard to find a picture of a fat person in a rock climbing harness and the google has failed me yet again.) This is why there are people out there that free climb. They've realized how hideous their nether parts look in a rock climbing harness and they've made the proper fashion choice and left the fucking harness at home.

He was less than pleased but I didn't climb the damn wall.

I'm about to cut a bitch.

2011-02-02T01:11:00.001-05:00

Her name is: Katie.

She is: skinny.

With: Red hair. (Where the fuck am I going to get red hair?)

Why I hate her: You may or may not have met 'Sex on Skates' but he's totally in love with me. Well maybe not, but I'm working uber-hard at making him in at least lust with me. And then I find out I'm not the only one making Sex Pies. WTF?

For serious ya'll there is about to be a bloodbath, I'm not kidding.

PS - Somebody tell me a good pastry recipe with bourbon. SOS loves bourbon!

Reasons why no one would write my biography.

2011-02-01T11:53:00.000-05:00

Thank goodness no one writes biographies about people whom no one really gives a shit about. For example, when is the last time you read a biography about your somewhat loony-toony aunt Louise who collects bottlecaps and chia pets? Bingo. No, people write biographies about other people that accomplish things. I imagine Buzz Aldrin has a biography, as well as Lance Armstrong, Tina Turner, and Charlie Manson.

Now wait before you go flying off the handle about my consideration of Charles Manson as accomplishing things consider this: The man brainwashed people into killing people for him. While he is a horrible, horrible person and believe me I'm certainly glad he's incarcerated for the rest of life, (As another aside: Have you seen the creepy art he makes in prison? You'd think after a few years in solitary confinement a person would adjust to the normal social mores because eventually you'd just bore the crazy out of a person but apparently this is not the case. He's still a total-wacko. I saw his art being confiscated on that jail show that comes on MSNBC; I watch it in case I'm ever incarcerated I'll know which prison gang to join. I was thinking about the Mexicali Kings but I'd look funny with a shaved head. So I'm kind of in gang-purgatory right now.) I guess my point about ol' Charlie Manson is that eventually if you're fricking wierd enough people want to read about that too. Probably because people love tragedies. I guess you could say that's why people would read Tina Turner's biography as well. What? Do you remember all that business with Ike? T-R-A-G-E-D-Y.

Anywho, here are some reasons why no one would ever write my biography:

1. They would get tired of the repetitive scenes in which I lose my keys on a daily basis. Or other pertinent items to which I must use to run my life.

2. I don't write letters to anyone and I'm told that biographies often use letters to elucidate the daily intracies of a person's life. I guess they could use all those emails of the LOLcats that I send to people. I'm not sure what intracies those would elucidate.

3. If people were to write my biography it would involve falling down. And lots of liquor, which has the possibility of making my life interesting but only marginally so. Well let me take that back; we'll go with moderately so.

So what if my life up to this point may be a study in moments of sobriety in a seamless lifetime of intoxication?

At least I'm fucking fun.

Bitches Need to Hide Their Snatch 'Til April

2011-01-28T03:00:00.001-05:00

Look. New rule: If you're older than the temperature your snatch goes into hibernation. This doesn't mean if you've got a regular lay you have to sew it up during the cold weather months.

It means if you're blessed enough to have someone that wants to screw when it's 12 degrees outside you keep that shit wrapped up nice and warm. So your boo is doubly appreciative. Why do you think there are so many September and October babies? Because folks get bored and try to find a warm place to hide the salami.

There is no need whatsoever to wear your shortest strapless ensemble to the bar when it is literally 20 degrees outside. Then you just look dumb. Apparently this is a popular look. This is mostly why I'm single, because I refuse to succumb. I'm a righteous bia-tch and will always be. Anyone who has told you that I'm a nice person is a liar. I'm not. And I revel in it. Immensely.

I was informed this evening that my name is Nicole and I work for the YMCA and I'm a bitch. Too bad he got half of it right. I work for a 4-letter acronym and am a total bitch. But call me Nicole and see if I don't bust a cap in your ass. Try me. I'm ghetto. Ask me about my high-school.

The point being this: If you're older than the temperature, PUT ON PANTS. No one likes a frostbitten snatch. At least I'm assuming as much. Frankly, lesbians scare me. A lot.

I mean I support their right to love snatch and all; it just scares me. I don't think you can ever really trust anyone in a sports bra toting a Smirnoff Ice.

Besides, if you're a li-besian drinking Smirnoff Ice is it really worth it? Think about it. . .

An Interesting Bit of Information

2011-01-25T18:03:00.003-05:00

Working in a Biology department you often see strange packages in the office. Pails of eyeballs, buckets of ibuprofen, ribbiting boxes, baby goats, the occasional preserved cat, but today takes the cake.

Do you know how much it costs to purchase a human skull?

Yes, an actual human skull. One that inhabited a body previous to it's current position of being in a case, in a box. A skull that once housed someone's brains and eyeballs. Do you know how they clean said skull? They put it in a box with some insects and the insects chew it clean.

But back to the original point, it costs around about $1600 to purchase a human skull. If that's a little steep for your price range, the price drops considerably if you're willing to settle for fewer teeth. For 3-7 teeth you're looking at about $700.

Is it just me or does that not seem astronomically cheap? I don't know about you but I'm rather partial to my skull. I think it plays a vital role in my general health and well being. And if I had to put a price tag on it, it would be quite a sight more than $1600.

Before you crack jokes about having a big head, take that into your calculations and you'll see I'm correct.

If you live to be 32 years old then that is an average price of $50 a year. 64 years and thats only $25 a year. I would think that an aged skull appreciates in value rather than depreciates, kind of like a good wine. They both gain 'body' with age. (Oh come on. You know that's funny.) Plus $50 a year for a skull is damn good price! Considering that you NEED your skull. Shit, Steve Jobs probably paid 10 or 20 times that price for a kidney and you only need one of those. Just think about it. If your best friend died and someone tried to offer you $70K for your friend and you looked on the invoice and saw that they only paid you $1600 for the skull; you'd be livid. Think about it terms of demand. Granted skulls are probably not a high demand item but still, I revert to my point that you need your skull. That to me is pretty demanding.

I understand that when you're dead you don't really need anything but still, it's creepy to think that your skull, the one that sits on top of your neck and surrounds your brains, houses your eyeballs and chews your food is less than $2K once you're done with it.

It kind of makes wearing a helmet seem less important. Why protect something that cheap? The next time I get on my bike I'm totally wearing kidney guards. At least you can make a profit off of those.

At least the snacks were good.

2011-01-21T22:15:00.002-05:00

'The American Red Cross urgently needs blood.'

This is what Jennifer from the ARC said on my voicemail. Yes, the Red Cross solicits you and your blood type. Repeatedly. Unabashedly. It's kind of obnoxious.

Being the good samaritan that I am I called them back and made an appointment to go give blood. (If any of you reading this ever receive a blood transfusion of A+ blood, I expect a personal Thank-You note. And flowers. While we're on the subject, I'd like to say that I'm pleasantly surprised that my blood is reasonably intelligent and scored so well on it's testing. A+ for the win bitches.) First you check in and get a number. I felt special because the guy checking me in told me that even though I was #26 in line, I was #1 in his book for donating blood. Then I felt less special as he told persons, #27, #28 and #29 the same thing. I imagine this is in his script. You then read the literature that tells you unless you're an angel or celibate or heterosexual and been married for 207 years you can't give blood. Luckily I've been celibate for a while now, not by choice, but I can't seem to buy a good lay lately. Onward I go.

Then it's the finger stick which hurts un-neccessarily bad. It's absurd. You'd think with the advent of modern nanotechnology and advances in medicine they could come up with a lancet that doesn't make you scream 'Fuck' when it pricks your finger. Note: the Red Cross people do not appreciate the word 'Fuck,' especially when screamed. Band-aid applied, hemoglobin analyzed, pulse taken and thermometer shoved under tongue and you're now ready to validate that you haven't had sex with African monkeys who dance in a Conga-line dressed like Charo for fun. For what it's worth my resting pulse rate is 60. Boo-yah! Thank you spin class.
At this point a new lady comes to review my answers and asks me the last time I ate. I obviously looked hungry. So I had some cheddar cheese crackers and apple juice. I'm feeling pretty good.

Then I go sit in that blood-giving/letting chair which really needs a more comfortable head pillow. The ones on there aren't so hot. Then comes the iodine. Which I know she swabbed at least three times. I'm always skeptical in these peoples ability to extract blood from you by routine venipuncture in a pain free manner. I normally cry and fuss and hem and haw and it all is for naught so I tried to be calm and brave. It helps if you don't watch.

The stick, the sting and bingo the needle is in and we've proceeded onward with the vampiric blood letting. Then she does the stupidest thing ever. She puts this little gauze square over the needle in my arm so all I see is tube of blood. I'm okay with this because blood doesn't make me woozy. It's the needle I have problems with.

My problem with sitting still doing nothing is that eventually I become bored and must fidget. That is when the precariously placed gauze square falls off my arm and I get a good look at the 'needle' in my vein.

Canal is more like it. There was a cocktail straw in my arm. For serious. Take a second to think of a cocktail straw. Notice how open the diameter is. You can suck up chunks of citrus fruits through it. I know this because I use my cocktail straw to smush the limes in my G &; T's. That was what was in my arm. You could have driven the USS Roosevelt through it.

I tried to recover from that. I never did.

Then Nurse 'What-Hurts' comes over to take it out. Does she hold the needle still while she's unceremoniously and carelessly ripping tape off my arm and ripping out about 47 hairs? Nooooo. So when I say 'That hurts!' what does she say? 'What hurts?' 'Oh I don't know. The GIANT FUCKING NEEDLE IN MY ARM MAYBE?'

Once again I will repeat my earlier supposition that the Red Cross frowns upon the F-bomb, which makes them decidedly un-fun in my book. But they did give me all the fig newtons and real soda I wanted so I'm inclined to hate them a little less.

Good snacks can take you pretty far in esteem in my book.

If only I was physically constipated.

2011-01-20T01:04:00.001-05:00

I have this really big issue that I need to blog about except for everytime that I sit down to do just that I can't ever get it out. I write some funny stuff and then it just stops mid-way through the story. The funniness (Is that a word?) just stops.

I'm a completely visual person and when I write I normally visualize myself opening my mouth and the evidence/story/words come purging forth from my system. Now I open my mouth but nothing comes out. It's like I'm a bad bulimic. I'm ready to purge but totally forgot to binge; I've pulled the trigger but forgot to load the gun. I usually have exactly zero problems having explosive emotional diarrhea in which everything that I'm feeling or experiencing presents itself. But recently I've been stumped, or stopped up rather.

Think about it; I've been reduced to poo metaphors.

Speaking of poo metaphors and imagery, have you ever read 'Love in the Time of Cholera' by Gabriel Garcia Marquez? Seeing as how Cholera is a totally gross disease dealing with the malfeasance of one's gastrointestinal tract, the book essentially reads as a couple of fuck sessions between a couple of shit sessions. Actually for a dude with some serious health issues he gets around pretty well. Mostly I figure Marquez is trying to juxtapose his diarrhea with his emotional stolidity. He can never let himself be emotionally fluid so his bowels pick up the slack; when he's in the midst of gastrointestinal duress he is incapable of expressing himself emotionally.

Or Marquez is telling you to avoid drinking the water when travelling abroad.

The point of all this really is just that I'm stuck. I guess whenever it is that I reach some subconcious accord with my issue then I'll be able to write about it. At least if I was physically constipated I could fix that with some apple juice and dulcolax.

Fine, you do not want to go to gym. I will punish you with this blaring alarm.

2011-01-14T00:11:00.003-05:00

I had the best of intentions this morning. I was going to the gym after work. Then work actually happened. After that, the bus ride home. By the end of that adventure I was in no mood to do anything but eat, flop around on the couch and watch re-runs of Mad Men to see Don Draper (Who I'm very afraid that I may be developing actual feelings for. It's scary, I know.).

Apparently God was angry with my choice.

The exact minute that I had on my pajamas, had my dinner laid out before me, lounging under my blanket, with the credits to Mad Men rolling, Voila! Yes, that aggravating noise would be the building fire alarm.

I spent some time in the industrial setting working in an actual factory where there are literally 12 different alarms for everything ranging from a CO2 dump (To extinguish a fire on a machine.) to an alarm for tornadoes and heavy winds. You haven't heard annoying until the wailing cacophony of the same note falling flat and rising sharp in rapid succession for minutes on end. But I will say this about our fire alarms; our fire alarm has the added bonus of a very pleasant woman coming on to tell us that 'A fire has been detected on an adjacent floor. Please be ready to evacuate if needed.' This is in addition to the aggravating siren like wailing of the alarm.

Of course the cat goes ape-shit and dives under my roomate's bed. For the first several minutes I continued to eat my dinner and listen to this nice woman repeatedly tell me that at some poorly defined point in the future I may need to evacuate. Then I decided that maybe I should ready myself and the cat. I put my real clothes back on (Look if I am caught outside of the apartment building while it burns to the ground I'm reasonably sure that Sex on Skates will be there and I can't be caught in my oh-so-alluring holey plaid pajama pants. He may want to seek solace in my arms and I need to be looking my best for that.) and go to fetch the cat. I never did find her cat carrier so I guess if I had ever managed to get her out from under the bed I would've just dumped her in a pillow case. To be safe I texted my roomate that the building was on fire and told him his cat loved him. I neglected to mention my plan of tossing her in the shower and shutting the doors with the water on to protect her from the encroaching flames.

As it turns out, some asshat set their microwave to the 'Manhattan Project' setting to cook their popcorn. The building never was on fire and avoided burning down. For 15 minutes I listened to the nice woman tell me over the intercom system to get ready to evacuate. Do you know what that accomplishes? Absolutely nothing. What do I do once I'm prepared to evacuate? Do I actually evacuate or do I just stand around waiting on her instructions? And how prepared do I need to be? Is this a drop everything and run emergency or do I have time to grab some things? Will there be a follow up message of an equally polite woman directing me to evacuate? Or will it be some maniac screaming 'Run for your lives!' and 'Please take the stairs in case of emergency'?

Wouldn't it just be simpler to direct people to evacuate? It seems to me they're sending a somewhat ambiguous message. 'You may have to evacuate but we're not really sure where the fire is yet or if there is a fire or hell, it may just be a blip in the system, but keep on the lookout just in case. And remember, rent is past-due after the 5th!' In public school they send you outside no matter what, shouldn't the same principle be applied here?

I ask you, in the case of fires is there really room for ambiguity?

My opinion on an article I just read.

2011-01-13T15:51:00.002-05:00

Here is the article I just read: Article.

It's an article about why boys play with sticks. It goes onto talk about the gender disparity of toy choices between small children. Boys like to play with things that move and that sticks often resemble weapons and boys like to tear/maim/kill shit so naturally they like sticks. They go on to say that girls are not so judicious in their toy choices.

First of all, I take offense to their evidence that girls will play with whatever. Um, hello, that just means that girls are adaptable and boys are brats. I am sticking my tongue out to the author of the article.

I know, I know. I'm a grown-up. Can't you tell?

Secondly, I can tell you why boys play with sticks and it has nothing to do with their preference for moving parts or their predilection for manipulating things. Well it kind of does have something to do with their penchant to manipulate things.

It's because they have a penis. And they're taught at an early age that you cannot sit around playing with your penis all day long so what's the second best option? Play with something that resembles your penis. Hello, phallus type objects? Swords, guns, monuments, etc.

I'll leave you with this link and then you can tell me I'm wrong.

Didn't think so.

My New Diet

2011-01-12T11:59:00.001-05:00

If you read this blog (I often wonder who actually reads it. I get exactly zero spam which makes me believe no one bothers to read it. Even spammers. Or I was brilliant in picking such a long, long blog URL. We'll go with the second one.) you're already familiar with the idea that I'm easily obsessable. Meaning I obsess over things quite easily. Or that I am easy to obsess about; I don't want to toot my own horn but hey, toot-toot. What I really mean is that I clearly have too much free time on my hands so I need something to obsess about so I don't get bored.

For a while it was the fact that I'm single. I've moved on from that. Now I'm obsessed with my body, it's image and my weight. And maybe the vulva puppet. But that's because I want to take it places and photograph it making people uncomfortable as possible. For some reason this amuses me to no end.

As you may or may not know I go to the gym quite regularly. I go to spin class at least 4 times a week although most weeks I attend 6 classes. And do you know where it's gotten me? Nowhere.

I guess you could make the point that you don't go anywhere on a stationary bike and I couldn't argue with you.

My point is this. Since I started attending spin class regularly last spring I've lost about 8 pounds.

I know that 8 pounds is a good bit of weight but I need to lose 4 or 5 times that much and I don't especially want to wait another 4 years to do it. I've started this new diet because according to my personal trainer (Yes, I have one. I told you I was obsessed.) I don't get enough protein. Now I have protein shakes and eat almonds by the handful. Veggie burgers and hummus, eaten regularly. Broccoli, brussel sprouts, green beans and squash, again and again on them I continue to gnash. I haven't had a grain that wasn't whole grain in at least a week. I haven't had mayonnaise in 2. I HAVE NOT had mayonnaise in 2 WEEKS. 2 WEEKS. (This may not seem odd to you but it's a miracle I'm still alive and kicking. I live for mayonnaise. I love mayonnaise so much that I don't even have to look up how to spell it. That is how much I love mayonnaise.) I fantasized about biscuits earlier this evening. Biscuits. Saying the word causes me pain and agony.

So tonight at the gym I weighed myself. Yes, I've gained almost 2 pounds.

I hate my new diet.

This is a Public Service Announcement

2011-01-06T18:04:00.001-05:00

Attention: This is a public service announcement brought to your attention by your local blogger, Anna Gray in efforts to raise your awareness about the upcoming rip in the space/time continuum.

As you may or may not know there is a scheduled blip in the fabric of time around about February 23rd. It will be a closed loop interference in which 3 years will be lost. Minors will not be affected by this interference. As particpants you may either elect to do one of the two following options:

1. You may choose to eliminate the past three years, a sequential series of three years previous to last year or three non-sequential years after the age of 16 and up to but not beyond the current year. Elimination involves the clearing of one's memory and personal history which can include: past boyfriends/girlfriends/lovers/spouses, legal accusations and poor body modification decisions. It excludes: legal ramifications and convictions, education decisions, and poor financial decisions because let's face it, that shit follows you for life.

If you choose this option you must eliminate the entire three years. Any time not eliminated would cause a discordance amongst the interference loop and the space/time continuum must be modified in concordance amongst all participating parties.

2. Option 2 eliminates the clearance of personal history and memory. It merely eliminates the 3 year time period while retaining all the past occurances both good and bad. This is the more costly option as our time organization specialists will have to reorganize your past according to the loss of time. You will be required to select no less than 15 but no more than 21 instances and/or milestones for your new timeline to be constructed around. You'll need to provide your dedicated organization specialist with the numerical order in which these instances occured for proper time compression to occur. A failure to do so could result in your entrance into an infinite repeating loop of time wherein you re-live whichever instances you placed out of order. These loops are extremely dangerous and next to impossible to exit once entered. Any attempt on your part to purposefully enter into a repeated loop will result in the automatic deletion of three years at the discretion of your time organization specialist. Every attempt will be made to compress your 3 year timeline of your choice but this too will be at the discretion of your time organization specialist. Please note that only sequential time periods can be compressed as non-sequential time lines would result in hairpins and these are not easy to excise.

Please everyone place the upcoming shift on your calendars and adjust your age accordingly. The DMV will be mailing you a new ID with your updated birthdate. You will notice that it will be three years later than your previous birthdate. Please do not panic as we anticipate this to be an easy and painless transition. Any questions and/or comments can be directed to your alarm/clock radio. If you were unaware your clock radio is your direct line to the time/space continuum administration and your concerns will be addressed in the order they are received.

Most importantly it should be noted that all birthday cards, balloons, cakes and other paraphernalia for Anna should represent the change in time shift making her 25 years of age again.

Thank you for your continued attention to this very important public service announcement.

Moxy on the Move - The Doctor's Office

2011-01-04T16:28:00.003-05:00

After a long hiatus Moxy is back! With a friend, Peaco!

Over the Christmas holiday they both traveled to the doctor for their annual checkup.

Moxy and Peaco patiently await the doctor.

That's Peaco on the left. He loves, loves, loves to Dance! He came to our little family from our friend Cyndy and is extremely excited to become a part of the Moxy on the Move segments. Whenever you see him from this point on he'll be groovin' to the music!

They're now sitting on the table awaiting their exams.

Moxy was quite concerned that the nurse hadn't torn off the old paper from the previous patient so she demanded that they not touch the icky paper. Peaco is trying to be nice so he acquiesced to her request.

I'm not exactly sure how you take an Uglydoll's blood pressure.

Moxy was quite perturbed after the blood pressure reading. Mostly because she felt that her high blood pressure could be attributed to the fact that they were taking it over her whole body and also that her insides were being squished.

Oh Peaco, you're not a baby!

Here Peaco is just being funny. He's not really a baby but he is a whopper! Look at the scale, it's totally tipped to the right. Oh Peaco.

Please be sure and check back for our next adventure soon to come! I promise. (I totally have to make good on it to because now they outnumber me. Eek!)

Vulvas for Volvo

2011-01-04T16:10:00.000-05:00

There is one reason and one reason only why I will never own a Volvo. I cannot see, hear or read 'Volvo' without thinking 'vulva'.

Especially the new commercials where they're trying to shirk the soccer mom/despondent teenage boy stereotype of Volvo drivers. Instead of old and stodgy they're going for 'hot' and integrating lots of sizzle and reds in their commercials which causes me to think of vulvas with genital warts. Before I thought of old, crumbly vulvas that hadn't seen any action in a while which only supports their notion of the 'safe' vulva. I mean Volvo.

Now they're sexy and naughty and dirty. Actually I'm surprised that they haven't resorted to flashing up subliminal images of snatch during the commercials. (Which now that I think about it could explain a lot.) If you go buy one they probably give you a complimentary bottle of Vulva Original, 'a beguiling vaginal scent' that is clearly advertised as 'not a perfume.' (Seriously, I can't make this shit up.) Or there is the ever popular Wondrous Vulva Puppet. Take your pick.

Anyway, the point here is that they've got a company with a really poor choice of name. I can't honestly give you an honest evaluation of the branding because all I can think about concerning Volvo is vaginas. I suppose they've got a point though. All those men out there buying Lamborghini's and Ferrari's are essentially saying 'Look at my penis. I've got enough money to drive around in a super-sized model of it. Complete with leather interior.' It is only appropriate they have an equally valid representation of where to park their Hummer.

I imagine this is where those smart-cars come from.