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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

May I please have my claw hammer back?

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

Mayhap today I gave the universe the finger.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I'm about to cut a bitch.

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!

I'll need you to answer your phone and bring bail money.

So at the bus station there is this weaselly little guy who sells drugs and thinks he's a bad-ass. He's clearly not a big-time drug dealer because he doesn't dress nice enough to be a big-time drug pusher. Also, he has exactly zero friends.

Oh, he knows everyone. It's not that he lacks acquaintances. They all grimace when he comes over to talk to them. They see him coming and casually, and sometimes not so casually, turn and go the other way.

For some reason, homeboy has decided that we need to be friends, He and I. This will not happen.

One day a while ago he walked over to me and just stood there. Like a lump on a fucking log. Walks over and just stands there. He's too cool to walk over and say 'Hello' or something else cordial and interrogative. No, he's got panache. He thinks he can just invade my personal space and I'll be besotted with adoration. Don't think so. I say, 'Can I help you?' (Because I wanted it to be obvious that he and I were never going to work. And I wanted it to be clear that I would like him to back out of my personal space so I went with a hypothetical question.)

Not only is he rude but he's also stupid. He says 'Yeah, I want a cheeseburger with pickles, ketchup and some fries.'

I roll my eyes and turn away.

Then there was today.

Dude walks over and starts talking to me. I didn't even make eye contact or pause the iPod, so I have no clue what he said. But it began with, 'We find ourselves together again.' Yes, obviously I came here to see you. It couldn't be that I take the same bus at the same time every weekday and you've seen me here at this spot at this time for going on 3 months now. But you clearly have no life so you just hang out at the bus station and sell drugs. He finally meanders away and tries this game on someone else. Then the bus rolls up.

Do you know that this fool has the gall to come back and fucking touch me? He wanders over while I'm in line for the bus and starts smacking my hand with the back of his.

We do not touch people we do not know.

If this was someone else I might just let it slide but you know, I think I could actually take this fool. He's not that much taller than me and you can look at him and know that he's a punk bia-tch. The kind that'd be prime ass-bait in prison. He's part of the tribe of people that act hard and buck up against everybody but then get their ass handed to them once the guy they've pissed off finishes pommeling them with one hand tied behind his back. Bad news bears I tell you. Bad news bears.

Needless to say that causing a fight at the bus station maybe wasn't the smartest thing for me to do. But the cops have told me that if you come and get me they won't press charges. They'll just let me walk with a reprimand and their sincere thanks for handling this situation.

Man, I'm going to be a hit at the bus station in the morning.

The advantages of being a 'Big' girl and why you should always listen to your instincts.

I like to think that I am a calm, cool and collected person.

I'm not.

I knew at Tate's that I should have went on home while I was across the street. I was just across the street, and I didn't really need the pizza. I knew it.

If I only would have listened to my instinct. I wouldn't be blogging from the general access computer at the Forsyth County Detention Center...

I had a stupid day. Really stupid. I needed a cocktail around about 10:30 this morning. Day wears on. I write nasty mood poem. Gorge myself at lunch on cheetos. Get mad at cheetos company for all that wasted cheese product that gets stuck on your fingers. Day continues to wear on. Sometime about 3:42 PM I realize the futility of my life. I leave work. Argue with Dad. Argue some more with Dad. Mom joins the mix. Evening now wears on. You get the idea.

11:52 PM - JH and I go the the local brewery to see who we know. Apparently no one. One gin & tonic down the hatch.

12:35 AM - We travel to Tate's. G & T #2 ordered.

1:16 AM - Departure for local pizza joint.

1:22 AM - Drunk redneck chick enlightens us about the lack of ice in the soda machine.

1:23 AM - Drunk redneck chick urges me to feel her soda to prove the temperature of the fountain drinks. "Touch it," she says.

1:24 AM - I politely decline for the 4th time.

1:26 AM - Drunk redneck chick rattles the door handle to the restroom,

1:27 AM - The shit pops off.

To make a long story short, the girl in the bathroom did not appreciate having the door handle rattled along with being told to "Chillax. It's no big deal." She also does not appreciate having her face bashed in with a parmesan cheese shaker. Who knew?

I couldn't help it. She kept yanking on the bathroom door. Before I even had time to process that I was going to beat her ass I was already beating the dog-snot out of her. While California girls may be the ones that you wish they all could be, Southern girls can hand you an ass-whooping.

It's because we're raised on fatback and complex meat proteins, not that soy substitute shit. We can develop muscles. I may look fluffy but I'm actually rock-fucking-solid and if you want to find out then get in my face and delay my pizza posession. I will waste you. It's a matter of physics really. I can build up more momentum behind my punch; I can hurtle the cheese shaker towards you with constant velocity but because I have more mass, the momentum will be greater. Momentum = mass x velocity, ie your face will collapse. Conveniently in the opposite vector/direction at a rate equal (Assuming equal mass, the mass of your face is technically less than the mass of my fist and the cheese shaker + cheese so technically it will recede at a faster rate) to the velocity of with which your face was hit. So take your lame ass Hollister shirt and your fake-ass So-Cal attitude, not to mention those horrid madras shorts to the ER and pray that there is a good plastics guy on call.

And I bet that's the last time you'll fuck with a 'Big' girl.

An open letter to the staff at Anthropologie:

Ahem. I had occasion to visit your fine establishment this weekend and I have several items of interest that I would like to point out.

1. I not so secretly covet the octopus plates. But I've heard that your plates chip. Could you please make this not occur? (I should mention here that while I do not have an occasion for which I could register for these plates, Christmas will be here before you know it. And I would like them.)

2. You may want to consider making the closet in which you've stuffed the sale section a smidge bigger. I kind of got a little claustrophobic. And then I found my skirt. Happiness ensued.

3. Sometimes when there are multiple people in the same place some of them may share names. While I do appreciate the aspect of wandering around the store without the armload of items I've picked out, I do not appreciate having to beat some woman's ass in front of her child. It was not my fault that we shared the same name. It was also not my fault that I made it to the dressing room labeled: Anna 4 (which happened to magically be the number of things I was going to try on! Oh my!) first.

I am not a sales representative in your fine store and therefore are not contractually bound to be nice; I also understand that being nice is a condition of your employment. I should also hope that having a backbone is a requirement as well. Obviously it is not.

For future reference, women in their mid-forties who are dressing like they're 20 are not terribly sane people. They're a little, how do say...Bat-Shit Crazy. They often can be identified by their bad fake tans, over-use of gold accessories, and those god awful jelly shoes that have somehow made a comeback. Remember, constant vigilance is key.

I may be small but I do pack a mean punch and I do apologize for making the 10 year old cry. And for splattering the blood of a 42 year old on your mirror and several of your personnel. Who might I add may have avoided the blood splatter if they weren't running in the same direction as the crazy lady.

4. Does the "Never come here again" edict apply to your website as well?

Please do take these things into consideration as I think they may be extremely helpful in establishing a lucrative future for your fine store.

Thank you & Sincerely,

Anna Gray