Look out, San Diego. I will be farting there for at LEAST three days. Depending on whether or not I lose my plane tickets.

I am happy to report that I'm leaving in a couple weeks for BlogHer '11. You dont even know how exciting this is for me. Because.

Oh lord.

Just look at what last year was like:

Someone I don't remember, Ultra Hungover Me, and Kristine from Wait in the Van, and contributor to at least four other online publications. I am so excited to be rooming with Krristine this year in San Diego, although she has kids AND a better body than me, so I will be force-feeding her burritos and churros before we head to the beach.

This is how we spent our spare time: drunkenly perusing the streets of NYC and taking photos with strangers. Or sitting on their laps. Or having them buy us drinks. Or petting their dogs. Or handing them our business cards. Or, in Susan's case, phone-sexing their co-workers.

From the left, Random Gay Dude #1, Incredibly Drunk and Friendly Me, Random Gay Dude #2, Susan Mercedes from a blog she no longer even PRETENDS to write, but also of the Incredible Honkers Club, Random (think so) Straight Guy #1, and Summer from Blogfully Yours. The three physically female ladies in this photo were roommates last year and instant BFFs, and I now have a standing invitation to visit Utah. Not until they fix the Alc by Vol shortage, ladies. Not until then. 

The view from our hotel, aka Fucking Heaven.

Speakers on the Humor Panel: Lizz Winstead, co creator of for The Daily show and  actress/comedian Jessica Bern from Bernthis.com, also a dear friend and one of my favorite Jews on earth. She's good, funny people.

During this panel, I was so hungover that I had to keep getting up (from the front row) to speed-walk to a bathroom. To puke. With a chick wearing a superwoman costume in the room. That right there is what BlogHer is all about. Well, that plus vagina jokes.

I don't quite have it in me to "empower" my vagina, so the artist went with "empowing." Makes a lot of sense, if you ask me.

Me and my favorite Jew again, Jessica Bern.

This was a panel in which they spoke about the fine line between telling the straight truth and telling an interesting story, as well as deciding where to draw the line between ROFL and TMI.

Clearly, I didn't learn a fucking thing.

And I'm a terrible person because from left are Woman I Don't Remember #1 But I'm Pretty Sure is One of the Co Creators of BlogHer, Woman I Don't Remember #2, and my motherfucking hero incarnate: Jenny Lawson aka The Bloggess. Jenny is the most deranged - and therefore lovable - person I've ever read, and her blog is sick and wrong and funny as shit. I want to unzip her skin and wear it like a cloak.

I may or may not have licked the entire side of her face last year, chin to temple. It may or may not have been awesome. She may or may not have a bodyguard this year.

 

Me and Susan and Summer, partying at Sparklecorn on Summer's 30th birthday...just before shit hit the fan.

This was me at CheeseburgHer. Best party of the weekend, if you ask me.

Me, decorating a dildo with googly eyes and glitter at the EdenFantasys party. At the next table was a jewelry-making station. Using condoms.

These people really *get* me.

***

This year, I'm shacking up with some new friends, and I'll be sure to write much more about them soon - especially about how they're already obsessively emailing photos of their planned outfits for the weekend - and how I'm like, "Um...I don't remember pants being a requirement."

Me, In Print. No, I'm Not Joking. You're an Asshole.

They seriously print this stuff. IN INK. I know it's hard to believe, but if you ever meet the staff of your university's newspaper, you'll probably find that they're all stoned and whimsical, so really it makes perfect sense that I'd be published there.

Did I mention they use ink?

Well, Those Things and In-grown Cooter Hairs...

Have you ever sat peacefully beside a window in the early evening hours and watched as little bunnies hop through your yard and the neighbor children blow bubbles and sing songs and mow your lawn and then a rainbow explodes in the sky overhead and you know that all is right with the world and all you need is love and give peace a chance?

And as the sun sinks lower in the sky, the fading light falls through the glass of your window in such a way that you can see thousands of spinning dust particles dancing on the air?

And then you think to yourself, "What the fuck?"

Because those spinning dust particles GO IN OUR LUNGS, people. We suck them in like we're living vacuum cleaners, and I feel that this is unacceptable. Not at all acceptable. Not even the tiniest bit.

As a kid, when I happened to catch a glimpse of the dust particles I would suddenly feel like I was suffocating because I figured that though they looked like they were suspended in air, they weren't actually suspended in air, they were slowly being sucked nearer and nearer to my face and then they were being inhaled into my lungs where they were beginning the slow and deadly process of congealing into a lung-putty made up of ashes and crumbled moth wings and cat dander which would mix with my lung...oozings, and that combination of liquid and solid would become a giant mud pie and which would eventually squeeze all the air from my lungs and then the death certificate would read: Dust Motes.

As I've grown older, I've come to terms with the fact that I breathe in microscopic particles into myself 24 hours a day. I've come to terms with that fact despite those commercials where the giant pile of flea dung gets smeared all over an innocent baby because those terrible commercial parents didn't use a specific type of allergen-reducing air filter (AHEM, 3M, I'm looking at you) to keep the innocent baby safe from lung mud pies.

Because apparently just because something is called a "filter" does not mean that it will actually FILT anything. The cheap ones are just paper towels stapled to the cardboard out of some dude's microwave box. I'm pretty sure that the fancy ones use two sheets of paper towels and a beer carton.

All of this is to say that I think you should go check out The Women's Colony and read my piece about frog murder, which is relevant to this post because both dust motes and frog murder tend to put a damper on your day.

going to look for benadryl instead

i want to give a big huge easter basket of thanks to Witchypoo at Psychic Geek for once again nominating my blog for Schmutzie's Five Star Friday! it's a huge honor to have my story lumped in with all those other great bloggers, and you should totally go check them all out when you're done coloring easter eggs and making runs to the liquor store. You should also check out Witchypoo's blog, which she started as a way to bridge the gap between practicing psychics (like herself) and christians who believe those psychics are tools of satan (like my mom). i can assure you all that if she's got horns? her bangs totally cover them.

gray is still too sick to do anything fun (no zoo for us, i'm afraid), so i'm spending the day in bed writing my analytical research paper for my women's lit class. it is, beyond a doubt, the worst way to spend our first 60 degree day since october, but i can't ride my bike until the cast comes off (and yes, dad, i know i need to buy a helmet) and I don't want to go to the zoo by myself for fear i'll be mistaken for a resident and locked into the cage with those blue-butted monkeys.

the entire living room is infected with death germs because gray is still camped out on the couch, and i'm afraid to be that close to "the hot zone", which means i haven't watched TV since sunday, nor have i had a proper cuddle. this must be what those cat ladies feel like.

also, i think the folks who we planned to vacation with are a little miffed with us because they had already purchased a cake and good steaks and other food for our visit, not to mention made up the guest room, but hopefully they know that no one is more devastated by our cancellation than i am. now i'm just going to have to get high and let's face it - the last thing this world needs is another doped-up moron with internet access and a tendency to publish before editing. on the other hand, it might make my research paper more enjoyable.

(i'm joking about the "getting high" thing, unless you count the mucinex, but it's not even the kind with sudafed.)

((please send drugs))

I Kinda Wish I Were An Oscar Meyer Winner

Thank fucking god the weekend is upon us, not only because I want to take my pants off without fear of losing my job, but also because I've been featured (again) on Five Star Friday! Can you believe it? Go check me out! Although, I'm sure all of you faithful readers have already read and commented on my totally emo Eleven's End post. But still, go check out all the other awesome bloggers that have been featured this week!


Something preternatural tells me that I might owe a "thank you" to my special Interwebby necromancer friend (you know who you are, Miss Poo) for this honor. Would you like your payment in U.S. dollars? Or are the Canadian dollars still worth more these days? I might just send your bribe in rubles so I don't guess wrong and offend you, Canadians are bad asses, and also because there are a lot of Russians in my apartment building, many of them little old ladies who would be easy to mug. Also, what size would you like your I HEART CAT t-shirt to be? I'm going to guess Large, but only because I like to think you're busty. Just shoot me an email and let me know. Oh, and attach a photo in lieu of measurements.

And now, I'll regale you with several unrelated bullet points. That's all I've got going on up here today. My apologies in advance. ALTHOUGH for those of you interested, I am working on the next installment of everybody's favorite child killer Jonesy! Stay tuned for that shit!

• Last Friday at the movie theatre, I went to the bathroom before The Wrestler started (I figured if it was anything like WWE wrestling, that it would be long and go on and on and on...so I should pee). As I'm veering left into the women's room, this boy - maybe 9 or 10 years old - is walking into the ladies' room in front of me. I've totally done that before, except...you know, with the men's' room, so I was kind of amused / slash / embarrassed for the poor kid but didn't really know if I should call out, "Hey kid, you're going into the women's' bathroom", so I decided just to watch and see what he would do. Finally, a lady came walking out of the bathroom and as she passed the boy, I saw his entire body kind of freeze for a second, like a deer caught in headlights. He clearly wasn't sure how to proceed. Should he turn around and run away? Should he pretend he's just a lesbian girl? WHAT TO DO? In the end, he decided to just "roll with it", he was already committed to walking that direction, so he just bolted into the women's' room and slammed the door on the first open stall. I kind of chuckled to myself and did my business. Then as I was washing my hands, I saw him peer out of the stall before he high tailed his ass right out of the bathroom without washing his hands. I felt kind of bad for the kid. I felt even worse for whoever was sharing popcorn with the kid.


• Several of you recommended that I fold my brain tissue around some Flannery O'Connor. Then I came across a Flannery O'Connor quote in my Imaginative Writing textbook. Then I looked on the list of books approved by my dred-ed instructor for a paper I have to write, and "any book by Flannery O'Connor" was on there. I googled some additional quotes, and I found that Miss O'Conner was a total bitch, which means I'll be reading me some Flannery O'Connor as soon as possible. Thank you. And you're welcome.


• I went to the dentist for a teeth cleaning yesterday afternoon, and I practically had an orgasm when the hygienist brought out this industrial tooth floss and filed between my teeth. It was about a quarter inch wide ribbon of METAL. Literally metal. I don't know what kind of metal because when I begged her to give me some, she ignored my pleas and blathered something about how using it all the time would file my teeth away to powder. But it FELT SO GOOD. And it cleared out some little bits of plaque (or whatever the fuck it is) so that now my regular, puny-ass tooth floss glides much more smoothly and my teeth look whiter. And yes, I'm kind of a flossing fanatic.

That is all. Begone!

I Could Call It "Dreds of Death", But That Seems Too Obvious

In case you didn't hear me shrieking with glee, or in case you DID hear me shrieking and you were worried I may have slammed my hand in a car door, I thought I'd let you know that I was shrieking with glee because Schmutzie got super high, ate and entire package of pizza rolls, and then decided to feature me on Five Star Friday last week!

I know, can't you just die happy now?

So, after Jesus, I suppose I should thank Heinous again for his prompt that started my now-famous post. Well, maybe not famous so much as...infamous. Or, you know, completely forgotten about already. But whatever, I'm just super excited to have been stuck in a list with all those other great bloggers. It's much better than the time I got stuck in a list with all those felons. They liked to goose me.

Anyway, you'll notice I didn't post over the weekend. Yeah, that's my new thing now, you like it?
I spent all weekend jacking around on Landers, although I did get a lot of homework done yesterday. Tonight is the much anticipated return to my Imaginitive Writing class with Mr. MLK Jr. McTardy Pants. I am scared to death, and not sure exactly what I'm scared OF. That the professor's giant dred locks will come to life and strangle me? (Hmmm maybe there's a story in that premise...) That I'll be marked tardy AGAIN this time because my school is in some kind of alternate universe where no matter what time leave work, I will always arrive at 7:15 and have to walk into the workshop late and flustered?

My plan is to head over there straight after work and re-read the assignments and prepare for death, you know, just in case those stinky hair balls really do come after me tonight. If you don't hear from me tomorrow, contact Inspector Vidal Sassoon poste haste!



PS - My creative non-fiction piece is coming along, coming slowly along - I will post it here as soon as I have my rough draft finished. It's just that I'm writing it about - what else? - the baby because there's no other event in my mind that even remotely resembles "life-changing" at the moment, and I'm kind of stuck on a few parts that I must have blocked out of my memory already (or maybe that was the vicoden), so I'm having to rehash a lot of non-happy feelings, and then everyone I know is pregnant or just had a baby or just got engaged (non-related, I realize) so I'm all blinded by gigantic belly buttons and plotting more kidnappings, and it's really cutting into my productive writing time, you know?