Here we again (sigh)

 It’s been 14 (I think) years. And I am still a ruinous human. 

Mother’s Day is tomorrow and I am wallowing like a grade A chicken. Why else would anyone like me? Did I mention that I was ruinous?  I am actually fucking awful. 

Surprise, surprise. I suck at life. It’s wuch a familiar refrain someday soon someone is going to be like ‘okay we’ve had enough’ and I will float away. Happily 

Drowning in my own awareness. 

Who am I?

 Here we are. By we I mean myself and my id. There are no other parts of myself. I am solely an id. I am the human that Freud wrote about. I am driven by my basic instincts - as tragic as they are. Because even though I have been alive for this long it is in SPITE of my basic instincts. 

She, the id that my body hosts, is fractious. While my soul cowers - she hides, cowers, hides. My id however rages. Howls with moon. Seizes all of the inopportune opportunities. It’s how I know I am who I am. There is a chasm within myself. 

I always second guess myself. Always doubt every decision. If I didn’t know any better I would say I was dissociative - but that would afford me a certain amount of forgiveness. I deserve none of that. 

At every opportunity I choose the wrong choice. I relish wallowing in guilt. I would rather stomach pain that receive praise for the right choice. 

I’m trying to work off who I am, but I can never get far ahead of myself to get away.

I am always myself.

And it kills me. 

Bad Boy Tilly

Some days are just days where you need to run away and today was no different for Bad Boy Tilly. Named so not because he was a law-breaking ne’er do well the women fawned over but rather a rather embarrassing choice of snack as an infant. (Vaseline while non-lethal does create a mess.) 

No, Tilly didn’t live up to his name and commit some atrocious crime that required a life on the lam today. He, yet again, waved at that cute girl in his store who always waves at his friend and most certainly, not him. Today she saw him and rolled her eyes. Try as he might he did not manage to melt into the puddle he wanted to and awkwardly mumbled some excuse as she passed him by on the way to go out back and smoke with his friend. To make matters worse his friend just clapped him on the back and invited him out back with them with an empathetic chuckle. It would have been much easier to hate him if he would have outright laughed at Tilly or made some rude gesture, but no, he was always kind. It’s very difficult to hate kind people, take it from me. 

So here it is, a chilly spring evening after just turning twenty-one and following the advice of his hip older sister he came to the bar to ‘make friends and meet people.’ So far the only person he’s met officially was Olivia whom he let cut in front of him for the line to the bathroom so she could puke. She did kiss him on the cheek afterwards and now the smell of rancid beer and pretzels invades his every breath. No matter how hard he scrubs his face. 

Now uninterested in making friends, meeting people or imbibing the correct amount of alcohol to facilitate that process he just sits and contemplates the city air. 

The change in the wind with the spring has pushed the constant smell of dog food out of the air that the factory on the edge of town manufactures. The entire city seems to have taken one big sigh. And then they collectively coughed and hacked from the 1/2” of pollen coating everything. Nonetheless, it was a happy sigh. Everyone wandered around town with a pep in their step, with that renewed hope that spring seems to bring. 

Everyone except Tilly. Even though the air didn’t smell like dog food, even though the flowers were blooming, even though everyone in town felt hopeful for the first time in months, Tilly just wanted to run. Anywhere, as long as it wasn’t this exact spot, this exact city, this exact minute. 

But here’s the thing about Bad Boy Tilly, 

He wasn’t running anywhere. He wasn’t bad at all. In fact, he was very predictable.

I'm reasonably sure my woo-woo looks like a dead baby bird.

This is another one of those blog posts that tells you waaaaaay too much about myself but that's who I am so I'm rolling with it.

I do not, nor have I ever really, had much occasion to examine the morphology of other women's vaginas.

I've always assumed that theirs resembled mine and that mine resembled theirs and that we all walked around with similarly looking twats and all was right with the world. I even avoided all those pictures of Hollywood stars climbing out of their Porsches and Lambos with a short skirt and no underwear on because I figured 'I've got one too, why do I need to see theirs?'

Well then the curiosity bug jumped up and bit me.

For some reason within the last month I have managed to become self-conscious about it. Mostly because I did lots of investigating when I was trying, in vain mind you, to fish out the extra birth control ring I shoved in it in my Ambien stupor. So with an elaborate set-up of mirrors and flashlights to see if I could see inside it I got the occasion to look at it. Actually look at it.

It looks like a dead baby bird.

No, mine doesn't have a beak or those really superficial veins in it or eyeballs (Wouldn't that be super fun though!) but if you take the time to really consider it and think about it, it has that kind of greyish-pinkish pall that dead baby birds have. Especially once their feathers have started to grow in but haven't completely broken through the skin yet so its just all bumpy but you can still see where the feathers would be when they do finally grow in. (I'm not a natural blonde.)

But wait! This story does have a happy ending. I mean my vagina doesn't sprout wings and fly off somewhere but I am getting to a point here.

Apparently there is this new trend in women's health where women are doing craaaaaaazy things to make their nether regions look prettier for their partners. Here is what I have to say about that.

In my lifetime, my dead-baby-bird vagina's lifetime, no one has ever taken a look at my woo-woo and said 'You know what. I cannot make love to you because your vagina is simply not pretty enough.' And if someone ever did look at my vagina and say that, I'd make them wish that my vagina really was a dead baby bird because I'd go all Velociraptor on their ass. They'd wish for a little pecking and chirping. It is a sad state of affairs when our fellow women feel the need for vaginascaping above and beyond spending the minutes it takes to shave all of the hair off of that thing.

It is a vagina. It is supposed to look like a vagina and damnit you should be proud of it. You should thank God that he had enough good sense to bless you with your sex organs on the inside of your body where they won't get smashed all to bits by anyone with a vendetta against you or because you're a clumsy mother-fucker. I for one am. That's right. My vagina looks like a dead baby-bird and I'm proud of it.

I am preparing for my stint in Hell.

I am probably going to Hell. Who are we kidding? I'll be driving the bus to Hell.

The way I cuss and binge drink socially combined with my inherent belief that some people just deserve to die; I'm a prime candidate to spend eternity amongst the sinners and those doomed to roast ad infinitum. 

But I am starting to wonder if I'm beginning my endurance training for it now. Do you want to know the temperature of my office?

It is currently 80.4 degrees Fahrenheit in my office. Yes, that is right. 80.4 degrees. Everywhere I go it is HOT. At night, my room-mate who has absolutely zero circulation keeps it HOT in our apartment so I sweat, all night long. I wake up and the first thing I do is sigh because I'm suffocating in the heat. The heat of my own house.

The crazy thing is that I like the heat. I like it outside, when the sun is shining, and some kid named Pablo is bringing me a margarita, and I'm baking in the sun like a Thanksgiving turkey. That's the color I aspire to in my tanning - Thanksgiving Turkey. Well not really, but kind of. I do enjoy having a tan. Mostly because it is one of the few things I do well. It combines actually laying around, without pants, and sometimes drinking. Are you kidding? I should have a medal in tanning. I do all of those things superbly well.

Anyways I digress. Must I spend the rest of my dying days suffering everyone else's poor circulation and slow metabolism? Am I doomed to sweat every second of every day for the rest of my poor, pitiful life? Must I throw open a window every 15 minutes and shove as much of myself as I can get out the window to have a respite from the heat? (Which by the way is quite dangerous for me because I'm totally top-heavy and unless someone is holding on to my feet I'm a goner.)

I would think that maybe I'm having a hot-flash except for the fact that IT IS 80 FUCKING DEGREES IN MY OFFICE.

I wonder if anyone would notice if I took off my pants in my office...

I am in a pickle.

Normally I bumble through my life and somehow, maybe by the Grace of God, I manage to pretty much make it through unscathed. Then there are moments like now and the predicament I am currently in.

I've pretty much quit sleeping. That's really not that germane to this story except I need you to know why I am often in a drug induced stupor. Because I cannot sleep and also it's kind of fun.

Ambien is one Hell of a drug. It works. Very well. And I had the conversation with my doctor where I asked her if I would wake up in the morning with a Baby-Ruth stuck in my hair because I'd been sleep-eating and she says 'Nooooo. That's really rare.' She did not warn me however that once you take the Ambien you had better be where you plan on staying for a couple of hours because it is almost instantaneous stupor.

You need to take all of this into consideration right about now because I'm getting ready to tell you about the pickle I'm in.

I am on a steady birth control regimen (No, I'm not preggers. Thaaaaaaaat would be way more than just a pickle of a predicament.) and I would like to take this moment to thank the folks at Merck for coming up with this brilliant form of birth control where I don't have to remember to take a pill everyday, the NuvaRing. I'm not sure why I continue to take said birth control because my poor uterus isn't seeing much action these days but one can never be too careful so hence I am on said birth control. The convenience of not having to take a pill everyday is somewhat offset by the fact that when it is time to remove said device from your vaginal cavity you have to reach up there and get it. No big deal.

Except when you've put two in. And the second one has squished the first waaaaaaaaaaaaay up there and your fingers are just too damn short, no matter how far you can get your legs behind your head. All this because you decided to take your Ambien before you put your first ring in and then woke up the next morning and panicked that you forgot and went ahead and stuck the second one in. Fast forward an hour or so and you start to kind of have remembrances of maybe putting one in the night before but you aren't sure because you were in a daze from the Ambien and the only choice left to you is to go on a spelunking mission looking for one, or both, of them.

I'm no medical expert but I'm reasonably sure that they only want you to wear one ring at a time. (Is it considered 'wearing' when it's not on the outside of your person?) I'll probably actually have a stroke in the next couple of days unless I manage to get this thing out. And I'm not exactly sure how I'm going to get this done. This is just simply not one of those favors you can call in to your best friend(s).

'Hi Bestie! How's it going?'

'Good, how are you?'

'I'm in a pickle and I need your help with something.' (Notice how I don't say what it is. That would be favor suicide.)

'Sure thing. What is it?'

'Weeeeeeeeeeeell I might need you to stick your fingers in my vagina and fetch my NuvaRing.'

'----  uh. ---- Hmmmm. ---- ---- ---- You know Anna, I really gotta go. I have to go ---- do ---- things. But Good Luck!'

Maybe I should have just asked for a crochet hook instead.

This is why I need a boyfriend.

My campaign to keep placenta off the radio.

Yesterday I was on my way home and that annoying song 'Lightning Crashes' from that band LIVE (Which is really difficult to Google by the way. Go ahead and Google the word 'Live' and see where you get.) came on the radio and I've decided that it is not only annoyingly overplayed but also inane. Here's why.

The second line of the song goes like this: Her placenta falls to the floor.

Have you EVER seen a placenta? I have. And I get that this song is about his baby being born or abortion or something meaningful but for serious? Let me tell you what would happen if a placenta fell to the floor.

First, they're not small. It takes two hands to hold them. (I know this because my office is beside the anatomy lab and I ALWAYS manage to walk by when they're changing the fixative on the placentas. Guh-ross.) And they smell. And there is a lot of fluid. They're kind of like if you took one of those plastic bags from the grocery-store and put a liver in it. And then filled it with partially bloody, smelly fish water.

If this thing supposedly 'fell' to the floor then it would 'PLOP'. There's some accurate onomatopoeia for you. PLOP. Take a minute and think about the PLOP that would happen when your liver and fish-water filled grocery bag fell to the floor. Heaven forbid if there was still fluid in it because then it would dribble out and make a slippery puddle. And all the medical professionals in the room would slip and slide and fall down in a comical impression of ice dancing. Except for ice there would be nasty placenta fish water.

That is assuming that there are medical professionals in the room because why else would the placenta fall to the floor. Is there no one catching said placenta when it is shat from said lady's vagina? Or have they caught it and then placed it on a table? Why would you put it on a table? I get that they need to test it and what not but still.

'Here. Here is a lovely spot for this placenta to rest for the mean time. On this table.'

THROW IT AWAY. IT IS GROSS.

My main point here is that in no way should placenta be mentioned in this song. It by no means lends a certain amount of romanticism or gravity to the song. It's just gross. If the second line of your radio song perplexes the public so much so that they are no longer listening to your song but thinking about the sound that a placenta would make as it fell to the floor then you are not doing your job as a singer/songwriter.

But after that I did start thinking about the placenta growing legs, chucking up the deuces and walking the fuck out of the procedure room and that made me giggle. So there's that.

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

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'

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.

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.

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

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?

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

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.

Men, I blame you.

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Whatever am I to do?

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

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

Maybe I'll just wear pants.


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

Things White People should stop doing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

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.

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.

Reasons why crackheads are not in parades.

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

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

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

Enter crackhead #1.

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

Enter crackhead #2.

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

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

Here is where it gets interesting.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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