Someone recently commented that I never post pictures where I am smiling, but I would like to mention that blogs are for miserable people and why would I want to fuck with the stasis of the blogging community. Fuck it. Here's a picture of me smiling like I am about to embark on a sexual misadventure with someone that does not realize I am about to slit their throat. Yes ladies and gentlemen, that's happiness according to Sabrina!

I remember having a lot to say earlier when I started this blog entry, but then flipping blogger crapped out and I could not upload photos so I got super pissed off and walked away. That's what you're supposed to do when you get violently angry--walk away--instead of throwing your new laptop across the room, right? So, I guess here are an array of photos I took while driving the other day. I was going through Malibu Canyon and decided to show what happens after it bursts into flames. When the first fire struck in October, Erin was in town. Basically, from the point where the fire ends to my front door is about 5 miles. Once the fire gets far enough down the canyon, my house will burn, burn, burn. I guess since firefighters continue to do their job I am not currently homeless.

Oh lord, I like how I try to explain how things will go down to people and they continue to try my patience.  Here's an example of two things:  I am an asshole, you cannot reason with me.  A really good friend of mine is in LA on her break from law school.  I guess I am supposed to go out of my way to see her, and I will, if she does what I say on my terms.  God, if I am like this with a friend, imagine how I refuse to bend in a relationship.  Anyways, I keep telling her that it is more convenient for me to meet with her for breakfast or lunch since my time on the party circle is pretty much up and I try not to be out all night when I can be home fucking around or sleeping.  So I keep leaving messages saying let's meet for breakfast and she keeps calling back leaving messages asking what I am up to for the evening.  It is sort of like playing russian roulette cause we both know eventually she is going to fucking budge cause I am an asshole and do not mind the idea of losing her as a friend entirely.  

Oh, in other news, I am so boring I am writing about how I am a shitty friend because I am running out of shit to blog because blogging is boring and stupid anyways, but at least it isn't doing the work that I have to do because I am the world's laziest fucking person.  So I guess this concludes the boring for today as I will eventually destroy this friendship like so many others while I fail to complete the work I am supposed to do and eventually get fired so that I can completely accomplish becoming the failure I have strived to be for so long.

Welcome to half of my face as I try to multitask while driving and thinking about life in general.  Please pay special attention to my collar bone area as I have been running and starving myself to make that appear.  Some people might say that I am losing my mind, but I really fucking doubt that.  I am just severely and acutely self aware, so take your opinions and fuck off. 

Good god, some idiot that used to read the old blog IM'd me earlier today and was trying to be clever saying he reads my blog on the daily and loves how I always talk about being WASTED.  Then I had to be like HEY STUPID, WHEN WAS THE LAST TIME YOU CHECKED MY BLOG BECAUSE THAT BLOG IS DEAD.  Eventually, I logic indicated that I was dealing with a moron that was apparently bored during the holiday season.  I am not for sure the point of this rant other than consider yourself really fucking lucky cause I am so glad to be rid of the majority of my readers that starting this new blog was like getting the cancer free zone flag from a doctor or something.

Earlier, I finally watched P.T. Anderson's super epic film, There Will Be Blood, and it was spectacular in so many ways that you should probably just check out my review on Critics Rant later to get the actual scope of the film.  I would like to address one minor incident in the film, that on a personal level, made the film extremely poignant for me PERSONALLY.  There is a point where Daniel Day Lewis is speaking with the man he believes to be his brother and he says that he has a competition in himself that he cannot shake and that it is not just about winning but watching others lose.  I understood this in a way that I cannot even begin to explain, but it made me really reflect on the fact that the only men I ever want are the ones already with women.  Obtaining them is more than just having them for yourself, but taking them from someone else and fucking up their sense of happiness and stability.  In that way, everyone loses but you.  I guess even you lose in the end if you're playing that game, but winning is one sided and all point-of-view.  If I feel like I am winning then I am winning and if I see you suffering I am winning even more.  Someday I am going to write all this into a book that no one is ever going to buy and I will still feel like a winner because it took a lot of destruction to get to that point. 

Merry Fucking Christmas.  In this picture you sort of start to understand the giant fucking deal that is Christmas.  Strewn throughout the house are more than 500 red and green balloons that Gia, Talia and I wasted all afternoon blowing up.  It finally looks like Santa shit merriment all over my home.  Awesome. I am a really old lady and I am tired.  I guess now I'll finally get some sleep.  

So I guess tomorrow is Christmas.  What I really need to be doing right now is not blogging, but running and I guess I will get to that in a bit because I have not been running at all and I have decided that it makes me a disgusting piece of shit to sit around and write and not do anything physical at all.  Ugh.

My sister refuses to sleep in a bed.  It is sort of Custard's last stand or something, but she sleeps on the sofa and has been doing so for longer than I care to remember.  Right now I am watching her as she kicks her leg out and says stop it to whomever she is dreaming of.  I guess she is dreaming about warding off a fucking rapist.  Hilarious.  

Apparently, she also broke up with her boyfriend last week so she could end her double life.  Maybe the fact that people like my sister and I lead double lives seems crazy to the stupid internets, but it makes total sense.  Anyways, since I never leave the house I was totally unaware of this fact and ran into him last week and had an hour conversation where I acted like nothing was different and bullshitted about movies because, well, I didn't know.  Regardless, I forget the point of this story and I am sure I had one before I stopped writing and went into the kitchen to make breakfast, which was Gingerbread Waffles and homemade sausage patties.  I added chopped apples to the waffles, about a cup and for the sausage patties, she says to use ground chicken, but all I had was ground turkey and it turned out really well anyways.

I ended up finding the recipes via stupid fucking Rachel Ray.  I hate her, but they were so fucking simple.  Here's a mostly unrelated fact:  My sister Sammy, the 8-year-old, fucking hates Rachel Ray and when she sees her on television she always says something like OH MY GOD, I WANT TO BEAT THAT LADY WITH A TIRE IRON.  She's an incredibly well adjusted child.  Right now she's eating and watching Kingpin, a movie for brilliant people that have absolutely no desire to better themselves in life and well, I am one of those people and I guess she is also.   Awesome.  In fact, I am not sure if this photo verges on child pornography or not, but we decided to take the picture as she is stuffed from eating, well she decided to take and I decided to post it.  Also, notice today is monday, but she is wearing Friday's panties being a train wreck is in our blood. 

For Christmas what I really want is a claw-foot bathtub in front of a bay window overlooking the city.  I don't even care what city it is, use your fucking imagination.  I guess this tub should be in the same space as my bedroom and separate from the bathroom entirely.  I guess I just want to be able to walk from my bed to my bath while people watch me and I watch them and enjoy the fact that I am inside and they never will be. 

Since my Christmas wishes are absolutely so over the top I have asked for no gifts and am expressing this by explaining I plan to burn anything that is neither a super hot tub in front of a bay window or a speedy bag by Loius Vuitton.  Anyways, I bet that tub will last longer and look better on me than a stupid purse.  It's probably more money too.  Oh well.

As my Christmas gift to you I've tweaked the stupid template here so things are not so fucking uniform and I am not so fucking disgusted with the layout.  I guess you will have to put up with the fact that this is a huge deal and I am never going to give anymore than this so kiss my ass.  Also, I have chosen to pollute this stupid blog with adsense even though I am pretty sure I have a total of 15 readers so I'll be happy to get paid sometime in 2010.  Awesome.  Too bad I didn't decide to do something like this at the height of my old blogs popularity.  Oh well.  

Jesus, maybe oh well should become my blogs new mantra.  This is pathetic.  What I really want are tons of plastic swans distributed around my front yard that light up at night and I can pretend I am floating along from my house while I continue to board myself up on the second floor like I am mother-fucking Rapunzel.  Too bad I'll never let down my hair because I got too bored and chopped it all off.  This is the glass ceiling and now I'm capped.

Last night my sister almost made a really good looking man puke in his hand from what has been explained to me as the shortest drinking contest on earth.  We are all very proud of her.  Apparently, she's also been commenting on my blog via the name Boots.  I am not even sure what that means other than she is always wearing boots and her friend Josh started calling her that and she's taking it to that level where I was calling myself THE AWESOME all day long in my real fucking life.

I haven't blogged all week and not for lack of trying or lack of material, but basically because every time I open up stupid blogger I am wildly suicidal with the thought of having to write one more word, and one I am not even going to get paid for.  It is like a Shakespearian tragedy of epic proportions.  

Christmas is in a few days and the best part about that is the fact that I am making 50 million snowflakes and I am dousing them in glitter and hanging them all over the house.  Also, Christmas Eve is a bouillabaisse menu and I am not even sure what I am doing for Christmas, but my brother's friend Mike will be there because not only is he the cutest mother fucker ever, but he is the most gracious son-of-a-bitch.  He stopped by for an impromptu dinner and usually, no matter what we cook everything from scratch here or what's the point in eating and I made baked rigatoni with a meat sauce I somehow made from scratch in less than an hour, with minestrone soup that I stole from Everybody Likes Sandwiches with pork chops I baked in apples with this weird reduction sauce I made on the fly and some salad with a dressing I also made up but it was balsamic based and had honey & dijon in it.  Regardless, this kid got up in the middle of the meal and hugged me and was like THIS IS THE BEST PART OF MY WEEK.  YOU'RE AMAZING.  It was just, I dunno, nice.  I think I have a picture of him at the beach, I should go digging and post it and be like YES, AND HE ALSO MODELED IN MILAN AND PARIS LET'S ALL WORSHIP MIKE.  Whatever.

Everyone I know is showing back up in LA for the holidays and that's dandy and all, but really I just need to fucking write all day long for the next fucking million years to catch up on the work I am currently fucking missing because the writers continue to fucking strike.  This is fucking devastating as is freelancing.  SOMEONE GIVE ME MORE WRITING JOBS AND I PROMISE TO TURN THINGS IN ON TIME.   PROMISE.  Good thing we know I am a liar and a cheat.  I am going to have to leave my house and visit these people and act all pious and shitty now that I am not into drinking and they will be like OH MY GOD, SHE IS SO INTO HERSELF.  And I will be like OH MY GOD, I AM SO INTO MYSELF.  And it will be all sorts of awkward until I can get my hands one heavy duty pills with side effects like prolonged erection and euphoria and I take them all.

I made a bet with my father that I could be married in 18-months.  Worse case scenario I get married to ensure some idiot a visa or something.  Best case scenario I get married for serious and get super wasted after and use it as an excuse to tell my dad he is an idiot while realizing he tricked me into getting married because he is super old school and thinks being 26 and female is spinster territory.  Amen.

Good lord, I am a vision of loveliness.  I like how I can take a post about my little sister's birthday and continue to pimp myself.  In addition to  it being my sister's birthday it was also Erin's birthday.  She is turning 14-years-old or something.  Congratulations Erin, you are older than Britney Spears and not nearly as tragic.  Maybe you should buy yourself a Maserati and then run red lights left and right while sporting someone's infants in the backseat like the accessories they were meant to be.

I guess I will get things done tomorrow because I have basically decided being depressed to see if that can grow my artistic capabilities by severe magnitudes is not really helping the rest of my life.  Take today for example, I refused to get out of bed until I realized what I was smelling was myself and since I refused to shower for longer than I care to mention, that became my first priority and my second one was cleaning my bedroom, which had turned into trash heap central.  I am sure the Trash Heap character from Fraggle Rock wanted her territory back anyways.  What I need to do next is force myself into a schedule or structured day because sleeping for 35 hours and then staying awake for another 74-hours is fucking impossible.

Please notice the red rocket on my super horny dog.  I am not even kidding.  Anything that comes into contact with me feels the need to groove on contact.  I was going to write about puppies, children, Disneyland and Christmas trees, but then I saw the huge boner on my dog and decided to get some sleep.  I'll probably resume daily posting--effective immediately.

Good god, I feel like a scumbag for never posting here, but when you are writing five to seven-thousand words a day about crappy television you never wanted to watch in the first place, well, let's just say that a burnout could be in the mix at any moment.  Whatever.  So now I am running about five miles in an hour.  I guess that is pretty alright, I'd like to make it to 10 miles in about twoish hours by next month.  Don't get me wrong, I have no plans to rape the LA Marathon by running the entire thing until my face explodes, but I will probably kick its ass in my own way.  Right.  Being not drunk most of the time is sort of amazing.  When I wake up in strange places it's because I went somewhere strange and decided to take a nap.  I am sure everyone reading this is riveted.

That picture was taken in my front yard while the sunrose.  Again, I am sure you are this much more excited to have a front-row seat at my very mundane life.  Oh, I bet I could never have a mundane life if I even tried.  I remember once I was at the cleaners with my mother when some lady was basically being rude as hell to whomever was working behind the counter.  Eventually she turned to leave and my mom was like LADY, YOU ARE A CUNTFACE.  Or something equally as bitchy.  Clearly, this woman was not going to take such an audacious statement lying down so she started pointing at my mother and the two started a screaming match.  My mother told the lady to take her finger out of her face before she snapped it off, a simple request.  When the lady didn't my mother spat right in her big ugly face.  The only other time I have seen a human being spat on in such a way was by my big, fat friend while wasted at a bar after someone said something negative about her corpulence.  Needless to say, calling a fat girl fat is never the correct option.   I think my point here was to highlight the fact that my people never take the smart, sane person's choice, but rather we indulge our narcissistic and histrionic personality traits by picking the option that is going to get us sent to jail.

Ugh, it is raining and I have to wake up in a couple of hours and go to the doctor.  Creepily, I hate doing anything in the rain because I think of it as making bold choices during a time of impending doom.  If you know about my current track-record regarding car accidents this will all make sense.  If you do not know about that you're an idiot that never read my old blog.  I will probably have to go because it is my annual pain killer prescription appointment and I need to get all hazy and fucked up for the next few weeks.  God, this cripple is falling apart rapidly from all this stupid running.  
This photo does not have anything to do with the front of my house, but rather going 65 in a 45mph zone while flying down Pacific Coast Highway like I am Clay in Bret Easton Ellis's novel, LESS THAN ZERO. Who am I kidding, if you spend more than 15 minutes with me in Los Angeles, you realize that I really am the female version of Clay. It is so wicked awesome. Stay tuned for my cover of NoFi Magazine's latest issue.  By my cover, I mean, I am on the cover.  It's our Gimme, Gimme More issue, it highlights gluttony and how everyone around has participated in gluttony in one form or another--can we say young hollywood anyone?  If you're interested in writing a piece please contact me ASAP as I am trying to get things wrapped up in the next couple of days.  God, being on top of things and crap is totally fucking disgusting.  I really am going to have to take a ton of pills and wake up in a foreign city just to keep the ebb and flow of life.

God, I cannot even explain to you how fucking boring I am. I guess I should find some loser and get married. That is how fucking boring I am. I guess next week I can start writing about how exciting burping children is and someone with an assult rifle can be issued to fucking assassinate me due to total fucking boringness.  I also really enjoy how I post a fucking picture like this one with a post explaining how boring I am because it goes against everything I am talking about.  Regardless, that is from Saturday night before I fell asleep at 10 pm because I am an old fucking lady.  I stopped by my sisters work and some dude they work with that is hot as hell was like WHOA! WHO IS THAT?  SHE IS HOT! DOES SHE HAVE A BOYFRIEND--DOES SHE WANT ONE?  Uh sorry Mr. Ultimate Man Fighter Dude, but one man as dumb as you will never be enough for me.  Yesterday, I ate at fucking RED LOBSTER AT 3PM.  I was having dinner with the fucking geriatric people, waving at them and being like HELLO, MY PEOPLE, I HAVE ARRIVED.  Yes, Red Lobster.  It's like I died and was reborn 85-fucking-years-old.  Amazing.

 I guess I am only eating fish now because I am the healthiest bitch ever--so when my some loser marries me in the future and he gets the impression that I am the reincarnation of the Virgin Mary and then we have a baby with three eyes I can be like OH MY GOD, WHAT THE FUCK WERE YOU UP TO BEFORE WE MET??!@@!@#  And not be like BEFORE WE MET I RAILED LINES LIKE A PRO FOR FUCKING DAYS IN A ROW AND MAYBE THAT IS WHY OUR CHILD IS A MOTHER FUCKING RETARD.

Now that I have written that I am super fucking jealous that I am a shitty writer and it's really set a fire under my ass.  What the fuck is wrong with me?  You can't even begin to answer that so don't even try.  I'm soppy with sweat and too lazy to shower.  I stink.  Hello, I stink and stay up all night avoiding the writing I need to do because I hate having to do anything.  What's worse is that I don't want to do anything unless someone is holding gun to my head and fingering the trigger.  DOES ANYONE IN THIS HOUSE HAVE THE HEART TO PRESS A GUN TO MY TEMPLE AND CAUSE THE KISS OF INSPIRATION?  Ugh.  I didn't think so.  
Here is the picture of the new kitten we ended up with.  I am not even sure how we ended up with it, but we did.  Here's the problem.  It was entirely too young to be separated from it's mother and the other cats here are fucking wild monsters like the rest of us--so we've had to fucking sequester it.  Seriously, you will know exactly what is up with your life when you realize that you've got to play mediator with your fucking animals.  I didn't even bring this cat home, but it got fucking confused and thinks this is some subsequent chapter in ARE YOU MY MOTHER and follows me around everywhere.

It's not really a surprise to my family that I am getting paid to write because finally I am.  Dur.  Anyways, my father brought it up over thanksgiving and was like HEY, WHY DON'T YOU HAVE ONE OF THOSE BLOG THINGIES?  And I had to be like ARE YOU CRAZY, I HAD ONE THAT I HAD TO KILL BECAUSE SOMETIMES YOU MUST KILL AND EAT YOUR OWN YOUNG FOR YOUR OWN SURVIVAL.  Then there was an awkward pause and my dad was like COULDN'T YOU HAVE MADE MONEY ON THAT THING?  And I guess he is right, I could have made money on it, but too bad I am a fucking shit head that was diametrically opposed to success.  FINALLY, I WAS LIKE.  IF YOU WANT TO MAKE A TON OF MONEY WE SHOULD INSTALL CAMERAS ALL OVER A HOUSE AND MAKE GIA AND I LIVE IN THERE.  And for one second my dad really gave thought to it until my mother was like YOU DO NOT WANT TO HAVE PEOPLE WATCHING YOU TAKE SHITS ON CAMERA.  And guess what, she's right.

"My heart is in the yard like snow"

I wish I could take credit for writing that, but then again, I really could since I am a diluted asshole. I didn't write that. For reasons I am not clear on--the only person this will make sense to will be Erin--but my sister has a friend and while Erin and I were hanging out with all them he casually mentions his brother is getting his MFA @ Iowa and I was immediately jealous and curious. So tonight after running till my body turned into a crash pad I decided I needed to know what was so special about this idiot. His name is Ben Kopel and I suppose you can look up his poems if you want and it's surely worth the effort doing an internet search. The mere fact that I looked him up and want to e-mail him gushing with complements makes me want to iron my face flat. This should be fun. Here is the poem in its entirety. I suppose if he called me up out of the blue explaining who he is and asked me to run away with him into the sunset--I totally would.

Tonight,
-- by Ben Kopel

My heart is in the yard like snow.
I do not want this world to end.
In the ashtray
A bit of filter nothings.

The day we put her in the earth
The marching band stepped
North
And refused to yield.

I can’t even think
About the things I did that day,
Alone with a girl, awkward
Like a Jew in a tattoo shop.

Hilariously, these are some of the photos I found while looking in the camera I forgot I owned.  They are from my visit to Chicago earlier this month.  Please take the time to check out the photo montage of the shit Erin and I can manage to get into.  Also, take note of the fact that I never even knew I took these photos because I was just so fucking wasted.  I'd like to call this collection:  Alcoholism as Art:  An American Bogie.

Holy shit, I have been baking all night long because not only am I the prime minster of good health, but I am Miss Mary Sunshine & Betty Fucking Crocker all rolled up into one. I bet you wouldn't even believe I've given up drinking for pills and hard drugs. Forever. Right.

You know what I am thankful for? All my disgustingly tragic friends that do not look like Crispin Glover in Back to the Future. I like it when people run into me at 9am in a manic tailspin. Do any of you even realize that Crispin Glover is a Scientologist? Didn't think so. I'm not even sure myself, but my old crazy scieno friend used to talk about Crispin so I guess he is and if he isn't I am not going to lose any sleep over it because when a crazy person that believes in fucking XENU has the balls to call you crazy, well, you have to be fucking insane to the max.

And yes, that is a picture of me trapped in a glass box that I put over my head while wasted at a hotel and wearing their bathrobe because I was too trashed to figure out how to put clothes on. Those were better times. Anyways, Happy Thanksgiving and I'll see you once I have finished all the pills in the bottle.

I wish I knew when I took this picture. I guess drunken blackouts are good for more than just forgetting anything you have done. THEY FILL YOUR LIFE WITH SURPRISES YOU WON'T EVEN KNOW ABOUT TILL LATER.

So my laptop has seen better days. By the time you read this I will have hopefully woken up from my stupid pill induced haze and dropped it off. I totally dropped off inside my head cause I started writing this Monday morning and now it is Tuesday morning and I am wide awake and crazy as fucking hell. KILL ME. KILL ME NOW.

God, I guess I will finish writing my stupid review and then I will blog about how I never have time to blog anymore. The worst part is that this stupid thing is basically a labor of love so I write here cause I like to and cause I can talk about things like how I took a ton of vicodin once and got scared, while high, that I would get constipated and took so many fiber supplements that I nearly shat myself. This is my blog and I can rant if I want to--even if the subject matter is gross, especially when it is. Fuck, I should be running right now, but I bet I am just going to lay down and pray I die since it is already 8am.

Oh, I guess I should mention that every guy I have had a crush on in the past 50 years has been showing up and being like HEY I AM BACK, WHAT'RE YOU UP TO? Too bad I have not had any such run-ins with that evil attorney I wanted to sell oranges on the side of the freeway with. I am not even sure if that sounds romantic to the universe but I guess it does to me. But yea, these dudes are still in love with me. Good thing too.

Christ, I found this picture of myself after I had been drinking nonstop for a year and I was like a trillion pounds and I basically look Kathy Najimy. I am giving serious thought to posting that picture cause it turns out I am not embarrassed about the fact that I have battled my weight my entire life and being a fatso is something I've been. Also, the picture is hilarious and I had to be drunk while it was taken cause I am trying to ride a bicycle that is chained to a pole and I look like I am going to ride it rodeo style.

Now that my days are night and my night are days my entire life is fucked up. I have to keep it this way because I review these stupid shows immediately after watching them. The problem is, sometimes I don't even bother to watch them till 2 or 3am and I have to have them turned in by dawn, so I stay up and keep writing after I finally force myself to fucking write. I am sure you have stopped reading by this point due to the sheer boringness. I do not blame you for your lack of interest.

I am still in love with that Physics teacher. Last week he got high and told me his feet stunk and I considered it endearing. I think he's even still with his girlfriend whom he commented to someone I know when asked about her "OH I BARELY EVEN SEE HER." Too bad I barely even comprehended she ever existed. Truly the best part is that he once commented that he could never have a one-night-stand with me because I am the sort of girl he'd marry. I think he bases that on the fact that I get really drunk and fall down in front of him but am still able to talk about the theories behind quantum mechanics.

God, now that I am the world's most healthy human being please bow down to my total greatness. Here is something that you should be jealous of--that dude from John From Cincinnati is in love with me--and if he isn't in love with me he is in love with my tits and that is enough for me. God. Anyways, remember how I said I was going to spend my entire life writing, well I guess I was a liar. I figure with a few fucking uppers I can catch up on my life, unzip my head and write until midday tomorrow. Too bad I hate fucking sitting still. Who said writing had to be done in one place. How long will it be until stupid Mac decides to create a device that hooks up to your brain and shovels the shit out of there into fucking print? God, that would be helpful. Regardless, I have two short stories in the old bean & a ton of tv & movie reviews to pen. I also have two different lists I would like to get done today, but let's face it, OK, I AM FACING IT AND I LIKE MONEY SO I GUESS I AM GOING TO WRITE THEM BOTH BEFORE I ALLOW MYSELF TO SLEEP AGAIN. AWESOME.

Anyways, I love this picture because I took it in San Francisco last year while on the drinking binge of the decade '06. Remember when I tested the powers of my liver to check and see if I could drink more than ten men and then I could. Yea, that was the year. Awesomely, I showed up in San Francisco on a whim because I am a nutty drunk that gets into cars at 2am after leaving a bar & agreeing to go on a road trip to God-knows-where. The first night there we had to subdue a man so drunk that he had pissed himself and allowed him to sleep outside in the fucking cold. Idiot. The second night we got so drunk we ended up wherever-the-fuck, taking a taxi because drunk driving in a city you do not know is almost as dangerous as drunk driving. On the way, the gentleman in the picture/city worker/Mexican man was making lude comments and gestures at us and then we all took out our cameras. Either he was afraid of flash photography or very famous in Mexico. Either way, he did not want to be photographed.

Awesome.

Shitty writing at 5am while watching Hope Floats and Feeling Lame

I’ve been riding the bus two and from work for the past four weeks. Today, across from me sits inside out wig lady and in front of me, pee your pants guy. My car went missing a month ago and earlier the insurance company called to tell me they plan to continue to investigate the matter. I think about riding around with the inhabitants from the island of misfit toys for at least another month when the bus stops and people file in.

The first thing you learn as a young female using public transportation in the Los Angeles area is you’re better off having herpes. When people hear you’re stuck on the bus or the less-than-stellar metro they treat you as though you’ve acquired the ebola version of a social disease. It also doesn’t help that you smell like bus people at the end of your ride. Nothing says I have social magnetism like the stench of hobo piss.

While I run away with my thoughts a man walks up and tells me, “Move over, lady.” Actually it was more of a command. Usually, I would pretend to be deaf, dumb, mute or bitchy, but today I scoot over and make way for quite possibly the world’s rudest human.

I look out the window. The world is a magical swirl of colors and sunshine. I smile at passing cars. My face, a rarely watered sunflower, screams RESCUE ME FROM THIS HELL. I try vigilantly to ignore the man next to me, but he persists, “Where you stay at?” He asks. I turn my face to him, pouting slightly and say, “At home.”

As I say this, I finally get a good look at him. His neck’s covered with a huge tattoo of a spider. He seems to need a delousing comb and a good wash, as the collar around his white t-shirt is a brownish-grey and looks like it used to be the outer ring of a crop circle. Half of his front tooth has been snapped off & his eyes are flat, wide and alert. He licks his tongue over the missing shutter in his mouth, grinning at me, “Too bad you're cars gone and you're stuck riding the bus with people like me,” he places his hand on my thigh while flashing a knife with his other hand. He waits to see my reaction, pausing a beat, “Dontcha think?”

Yo yo yo! What’s up? Hello! I like to eat pie and get spanked with a spatula. My name is cigarette taker. And that’s they way it is. If you fuck with me I’ll fuck with you. Yes ma'am. I’m done with this document because it sucks.

FUCK YOU ALLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLL

That my friends is a special message I found on my laptop from Erin. I was so busy being drunk or hungover that I didn't even find that until I left her house. Erin, do you remember writing that--did I write this? I fucking don't even know--the spatula thing sounds like something I would write, but I have no fucking memory of writing it. HELP ME DECIPHER MY ALCOHOL INDUCED DEMENTIA. I guess that is all I have to say about that cause I have been so fucking frazzled all week that I haven't even had the time or desire to blog--CAN YOU BLAME ME? Uh, I have no idea what that means, whatever. I guess this is where I tell you what I am up to these days and the bullshit ideas I am toying with. I bet you will all be elated beyond human comprehension.

I guess it is final. The news is in, I've decided to run the stupid LA Marathon. I like how in my own head I am like THIS CANNOT BE HARDER THAN BREAKING MY NECK OR LIVING THROUGH A TWO DAY HANGOVER. Really, it cannot. I am not even sure if that is big news or what. What is big news is that I am actually going to try and see if I can't start writing a short story a day for the rest of the month starting tomorrow. This means I am going to have to actually force myself into being productive and I have no idea how that is going to work out around the fact that the rest of my life is amazingly important and I have other shit to do & absolutely none of that shit will be getting drunk.

I guess if anything that will change my blog minimally cause I might actually end up posting the hack versions of the short stories or at least excerpts of them. Maybe. And maybe I will just post about the fact that I can spend 24-hours sitting on the couch, watching Law & Order re-runs instead of doing anything of importance.

These are my real thoughts. Somehow I got a free trip to Chicago and I am taking advantage of that because I am not a fucking moron. SO I go to Chicago tomorrow in the morning and continue the chaotic bliss that is Sabrina anywhere near Erin--does this already sound like a love story or what? You guys are all idiots. After that I wanted to go to fucking Boston--take the train to Boston and fuck off over there, but it turns out the entire city of Boston is completely fucking booked and I cannot find a fucking hotel from the 6th to the 9th and that is fucking retarded as hell and I would like to kill all sorts of people because that is stupid as hell. So then I was like I guess I can fucking stop in stupid fucking Pittsburgh or maybe I can go down to New Orleans or something. Now I am sitting around trying to fill in a fucking time void and it is making me crazy. Fuck it, I am going to wing this entire next couple of weeks and who knows where I am going to end up. Amazing. I guess I am going to blog minus anger later, retards.

I stayed up all night again, listening to Little Barrie by Little Barrie on fucking loop, making coffee and watching the sunrise--feeling very pensive when I am actually super restless. Let me tell you one of the things that happened when Erin was in Los Angeles a couple of weeks ago. She shows up on Thursday night right before the bars close because her flight was delayed about two hours. If you for one second think that is going to stop me and Erin you are a dip shit.

I got a hotel in Hollywood and we bought a giant Costco sized jug of vodka and proceeded to drink like it was the end of the world. It was amazing really. At some point these dip shits were downstairs at their car, which happened to be right beneath our balcony & they were sort of heckling us, but mostly trying to be flirty, but barely getting away with being fat, disgusting fucks. At this point we were so fucking drunk it seemed like a good idea to piss on their car from above. Somehow Erin hit her mark and pissed all over that man's SUV while my sister mostly pissed on my feet. PLEASE DO NOT FUCK WITH US, I DARE YOU WE ARE INSANE TO THE MAX. Later on we lost my debit card while going to get smokes and some homeless person found it and went to FOOD 4 LESS and bought probably $80.00 of booze. I've never even been to a FOOD 4 LESS because I am from Los Angeles and I only go to gourmet grocery stores where things may or may not be organic, but they are more expensive and that makes them better. Then we went back to the hotel and the LADY UPSTAIRS SAID SOMEHOW THE NOISE WAS TRAVELING THROUGH THE CEILING, which only goaded me to become louder and then I am pretty sure Erin and I took some pills, but if you ask me which ones it was I will never be able to tell you because by this point I was on auto pilot and had drank about half that jug of vodka, and maybe more.

Around 8am, we went to Asia de Cuba for breakfast and mimosas because when you get that drunk the best plan of action is to keep drinking. So we took in the views and shit (check the photo above) and then I realized my fucking credit card was fucking gone & I think I might have flipped out or not, who knows? I do remember wearing red suede shoes because I am cool as fucking hell. After that I do not remember much. I guess we got back to the hotel and I blacked out. That's all I have to say about that until I tell about how we used the blow taxi because no one could get ahold of a coke dealer, and if you question wanting to start a lucrative business in your area, go with the coke taxi because you can really gouge prices when some fucking débutantes want blow at 3:45 am.

So I guess I can tell the story, which at this point is actually a lore, but we'll call it a story--THE STORY OF BUCKETFOOT. I went to Catholic school since forever. The stories I could tell. I bet you're thinking about the teachers and priests that fucked the students, and you'd be right, but really, the weird people are the better stories. I was in 8th grade. My sister was in 6th grade and Bucketfoot was in 3rd grade. NO MATTER WHAT BUCKETFOOT HAD HER FEET SOAKING IN A BUCKET. I am not even fucking kidding. You'd be walking down the hall and you'd see bloody crusty feet walking to the nurses office with her bucket in tow. That year I got scarlet fever FIVE TIMES. I was also in and out of the nurses office ALL THE TIME. Each time I would go in there and be like I AM BREAKING OUT IN CREEPY RASHES WITH A SORE THROAT AGAIN! I'd be confronted with Bucketfoot. She never talked, she just stared. Anyways, I am not sure why I brought this up in print cause it is way funnier when I tell it in person and hobble around like I have a bucket foot. Anyways, my friend Katie was in the same grade as Bucketfoot, and we were like I WONDER WHAT HAPPENED TO BUCKETFOOT? And Katie was stoned out of her mind and she was like BUCKETFOOT, SHE'S PROBABLY DEAD. I guess it is plausable, if your fucking feet bleed excessively and you always have to be soaking them that you could die from terminal bucket feet. Right?

Here is a terrible fucking transition. I found an old camera I thought I lost, I guess that is what happens when you suffer from alcohol related dementia and misplace shit all over the country. So I guess photos will return post haste, or as soon as I am not so fucking lazy that I start taking them. I am vexed about Halloween. If I decide to go out it will be awesome, and I probably should because I am not drinking all of stupid November because it is better to cut down on the drinking now rather than keep up the monster like stride into December where things get fucking scary due to the amount of parties I will probably want to attend. Whatever, back to Halloween. I cut my hair even shorter. It is in a very short bob now and I guess if push comes to shove I will dye it fucking black and hack some bangs in there and put on the gold sequins dress I have for no apparent reason and go as Velma Kelly from Chicago and maybe if you are lucky I will kill you and my sister, even if you are not fucking her, but just for continuity sake. Maybe.

So I finished that list about shitty movies I love and you can find it here. You all can go there and sing my praises because I am a fucking genius. Oh yea.

I am still bloated from being so drunk it was necessary to eat my body weight in shitty diner food. Gross. I also bought an entire fucking cheesecake that I took home and will have to donate to charity because I will never fucking touch it.

I hate Fridays and openly boycott them. I guess that's why I decided to agree to go on a date tonight. Now before you get your panties in a bunch over the fact that I make "plans" relax, I will probably get so drunk that the bartender will have to call my sister to take me home so I have to wake up next to a stranger. Amazing.

Anyways, I don't even want to talk about that, or the fact that I somehow got fucking wasted by 6pm, or the fact that I found a beauty salon open next to the bar that serves booze AND is open till fucking midnight. OH MY GOD, YOU HAVE TO BE FUCKING KIDDING ME. Regardless, I ended up with a manicure, pedicure & bikini wax at 10pm. Living in Los Angeles is the best thing ever. And by the way, any woman that is like EEW A BIKINI WAX IS FUCKING STUPID. P.S. it doesn't even hurt and it hurts less than negative when you have a bottle of wine and then have someone rip off your vagina. Seriously kids, I should put digg on this blog only because I need phrases like "rip off your vagina" running rampantly throughout the internets. HA!

By the way, I don't do the total bare cunt thing because I am a grown woman and I should have SOME hair down there. Grown women get fucked by men because men know how to rape and rape is super hot in that sort of HI, I HAVE EMOTIONAL ISSUES WAY. Unlike molestation which is for priests and the creepy dude that invites children into his car and looks like the dude that plays Champ in The Legend of Ron Burgandy. Duh.

Oh god, why isn't abortion mandatory--seriously, some of the dumbest fucking guys I know are deciding to have children. Listen, if at some point in the last year you have been drunk with me you do not deserve to have children for at least a decade. PLEASE MAKE YOUR STUPID TRAMP GIRLFRIEND GET HER VAGINA SCRAPED OUT BECAUSE YOU HAVING A CHILD MAKES ABOUT AS MUCH SENSE AS FUCKING TOASTER STRUDELS. FUCKING FAT AMERICANS. Regardless, I advocate abortion and think everyone should get one--sort of like a fancy hat, it should be a rite of passage into adulthood or something. If you can manage an abortion, you too should be able to drive a car and eventually have your own child. Oh and if you have kids and you want to bitch about the fact that you have them and you are a cool person, YOU PROBABLY NEVER GOT DRUNK WITH ME TO BEGIN WITH--CHILDREN ARE THE END OF COOL. Maybe one day I will want to stay with one man and not because that man gave me herpes, which makes for the forced play, but because I actually love him. Surprising, I know, that I could have thoughts like that. And maybe after that I will decide to jump the boredom bandwagon and have a bunch of children that I can raise to be wild monsters that will paint their bodies and generally live like they're from Borneo or something. Regardless, I know two things about having kids and one of them is if you want one you need a garden, the other is if you plan to be a good parent you put your children first--but I am still busy finding places to get my vajayjay waxed at 11pm because I am my most important person. The end.

Around 5am is when I like to test exactly how quickly I can write my reviews because if I stay up past 6am I am going to fucking stay up till like 1pm and then backout and tomorrow ends up being a fucking waste. I am not sure why or how I continue to pull this shit, but it's probably because I like to fuck off and stare at the wall for hours on end. Maybe I am turning into the narrator from Charlotte Perkins Gilman's short story, "The Yellow Wallpaper"--as an aside I would like to bring up the factthat I thought Kate Chopin wrote that short story and that is because I am a moron. Due to the fact that I like to double check shit I caught that fucking mishap before it occurred. I think the point of bringing up the narrator of "The Yellow Wallpaper" was to indicate that I am going insane, but I'm not going insane at all so fuck you for nodding immediately.

Here is something that makes me feel like a fucking loser. I cannot stop listening to Viva Las Vegas. I swear to God, if I get in my car to drive to Vegas anytime in the next week I will end up embarking on a solo road trip all over the US & the only thing that makes me think of is getting raped in random gas stations. I am a perfectly adjusted adult.

I totally wrote this like 4 years ago. I have too much to do to write something. I have to get some sleep tonight. Fuck.

Dorkcus Clever. When she first told me his name I didn't think much. In fact, the first thing that came to mind was a thirty-five-year-old man that lives with his mother and masturbates to the underwear ads in the Sunday paper. Dorkcus Clever—fat, balding and impotent. Dorkcus Clever, immediately I imagine the love child of Marve Albert and Jackie Chan. When I think Dorkcus Clever I do not think attractive.

“When I met him I had flashes of our wedding and our children and our life together,” she clasps her hands together as if to punctuate her excitement. Her strait blond hair looks like a special wooden box hand crafted to frame her face. And as she says this I am silent. I'm busy contending with flashes of a hairy ape like man humping her and giving birth to a Neanderthal child. I realize her standards are kinda warped so I decide not to say very much. This is the same woman that used to write prison inmates because, “lots of beautiful mean end up in severe situations.” As if to say murder is “severe” not warped. I flash back from the looming thought of her child's protruding forehead when she becomes silent.

Usually, when someone pauses it’s not because they decided it’s time for a dramatic sigh, but rather because they want you to say something or show a little interest. I was most concerned with my thoughts of a heavy browed man grunting on top of her. She could probably do better. I decide to let her say something before I make a comment. That way there is less of a chance for me to sound like I wasn’t paying any attention. She tilts her head to the side as I cough uncomfortably. Karen picks up on my no so subtle body language and says, “So what do you think?” Well, in all honesty I think that spending the rest of ones life with a primate isn’t my idea of fun. I jump to flashes of future Christmas dinners. Dorkcus jumping on the table and ripping apart Karen’s carefully crafted turkey dinner. While their little barbarian children dance around in loin cloths, grunting at the wonders of fire.

“I think everyone deserves happiness.” I tell her this because it sounds like I care and I can avoid telling her he sounds like early mans answer to Corky from Life Goes On. “What’s that suppose to mean?” Honestly, I don’t know what it means. So I try to come up with something fast. “It means there is a shortage of good men,” here I pause and try to make it sound like I am being philosophic, instead of full of shit. “And he sounds like one of the last ones left. Besides, if you don’t go out with him how will you know if he is great or just a dick?” I intentionally refer to him as he. I figure in this case using a pronoun would work best because I’m not sure if I could keep talking if I have to say his name a lot.

“I suppose you are right.” I smile. Even when I’m not right—I’m right. This pleases me. “But I need to ask you a favor.” I stop smiling. This does not sound like the type of favor I am happy to do. Watering plants, feeding your dog, picking up a gallon of milk while I am on the way to your house. These are things I don’t mind. When I do them I do not become entangled in the details of the lives around me. I am free of friendship bondage. I like it that way. I want to let her know, but I don’t think she would take it very well.

“What kind of favor?”
“Well, I told him I would meet him this evening.”
“Ok.” I pause. She pauses also. “Do you need a ride?”
“No. He is coming here, to the coffeehouse. I just want you to wait with me and check him out and let me know what you think.” She says this and I can already see squatty little Dorkcus waddling into here and me having to smile and play nice when I want to vomit at the sight of his extra thick glasses and horrible hygiene. In a regular situation I would make an excuse regarding work, or ill health and talk my way out of becoming the third wheel on the motorcycle from hell. If I want to get out of this I’m gonna have to be honest and tell her why. That just isn’t a pliable option. Telling your friend that you don’t want to wait around and meet the chromosomally challenged love of her life because it’s impinges on your inability to become more than surface issue friends, probably won’t go over so well. I wonder if he is even housebroken.

“Are you asking me to chaperone your date?”
“No. Of course not. I’m not fourteen.”
“I know that, but it seems an awful lot like you want to use me as a buffer. If he is that bad then why bother to see him at all?”
“I’m not saying that. I just. I just wanted someone here.”

Things had suddenly taken a turn for the worst. Even if she denies being fourteen she made the basic plea that cannot be denied by women. It is loosely known as a cry for help regarding potential awkward situations. It means she likes you so much she doesn’t want to be alone with the guy. If Neolithic man was half as bad as I suspect she was gonna need some sense shaken into her.

Oh god, I just remembered what I was going to write about, it only took me like 2 hours. Jesus Fucking Christ. Anyways, this chick I grew up with--she moved to Tennessee, got knocked up and had that baby. ALL IN THAT ORDER. Then she went and named that kid BLAZE. Just in case you all forget, BLAZE IS THE NAME OF A FUCKING AMERICAN GLADIATOR. I clearly wish I had more to say about it than that, but BLAZE is a name you give your gay lover or your kitten--YOU DO NOT NAME YOUR CHILD BLAZE YOU FUCKING RETARD. In other news, I think she's coming to LA and bringing BLAZE with her--it will take everything out of me not to call that kid a retard--especially since she has been known to bring that tard to fucking bars with her and hope he passes out before 11pm. THAT MY FRIENDS IS GREAT PARENTING.

Turns out I started this post at 1am and now it is 5:42am--this is what happens when you become extremely manic after writing like a machine for a few hours. When I am writing like this I can give up sleeping entirely. God, at this time of the day whenever I am still awake--most of the time lately--I sit around like a psycho and wait for anyone I know on the East Coast to get online so I can fucking pester the shit out of them. Pester the shit. Until someone unboring gets out of fucking bed I will enjoy my break by watching LAW & ORDER: CRIMINAL INTENT. Holy shit, I love Law & Fucking Order. I usually figure out what is up in the first 10 minutes, but then I watch the rest of the show to see who's going to be badass and what sort of creepy characters they are going to introduce to justify their weird plot twists that are not even that fucking weird. LOOK AT ME I AM RAMBLING.

Right now I am finishing up my movie list for Critics Rant the website I write movie & television reviews for. Today the list I am working on is entitled Critical Mass: Six Movies You’re Too Embarrassed To Tell Your Friends You Love. These are some of my favorite fucking movies. Still they are movies you do not throw around when you are around your posh film buff friends for fear of them shunning you for your terrible taste. These people are usually boring and worthless friends anyways. Here is the list I started with. I had to cut it down to six, but let's check out how fucking awesome these sorts of films are:


1. Cocktail
2. Cobra
3. Roadhouse
4. Bloodsport
5. Clueless
6. Problem Child
7. Point Break
8. Street Fighter
9. Showgirls
10. Sidekicks
11. Three Ninjas
12. Over The Top
13. Bio-Dome
14. Drop Dead Fred
15. The Ringer
16. Necessary Roughness
17. Under Siege
18. Tremors
19. Better off Dead
20. License to Drive
21. Adventures in Babysitting
22. Weekend at Bernies
23. Jason X

Uh, someday I am going to meet a man that will know the utter importance of these films and I will fall madly in love with him and the two of us will hang out in bed all day long and try to perform some of Van Damme's fucking slick ass kicks on one another as though we are superior Muy Thai masters. Then we'll have spectacular sex and while screaming amazing one liners from ROADHOUSE like "I USED TO FUCK GUYS LIKE YOU IN PRISON!" And then I can die happy.

Let me explain my past 24 hours or so--I went out with this dude that does not understand that I am the devil and I am sure he is already in love with me because I got bored and was like I WONDER WHAT WILL HAPPEN IF I ACT COY, LIKE I COULD NEVER EVEN KISS SOMEONE LET ALONE FUCK THEM ON THE FIRST DATE. Turns out they decide you are even better than ever. Turns out I don't even care. And I left without even kissing this dude but somehow he was like I AM GOING TO GRAB YOUR ASS and I was like UH, WHATEVER. I like how I was like I GUESS I WON'T ACT LIKE A SLUT, but then I was like I GUESS I CANNOT HELP BEING A FUCKING SKANK EVEN WHEN I AM PRETENDING NOT TO BE A FUCKING SKANK. Oh man, I just took a sleeping pill, but I will get to that later.

Anyways, sometime before 2am I was like, I GUESS I SHOULD GET GOING BECAUSE I HAVE TO BAKE BREAD FOR THE ORPHANS or whatever I felt like saying and then I called up my sister and she was like WHOA, WE ARE HAVING AN AFTER-PARTY OVER AT THIS HOTEL--COME OVER NOW. So over course I head over there and we party till like 5am when I am like UH, I GUESS I WILL HEAD HOME BECAUSE I NEED TO DO SOME WRITING, PEACE OUT FOOLS. And then I go home and write (HERE'S AN ASIDE, I BET ALL OF THIS IS FUCKING BORING BECAUSE I AM BASICALLY FUCKING SPITTING BACK EVERYTHING TO YOU--OH GOD, I HAVE REACHED THE PINNACLE OF BORING I GUESS THIS IS WHERE I GIVE UP AND PRAY FOR DEATH).

Regardless, I get home and I am like OH, THIS IS MY SECOND WIND and I am wide fucking awake at like 7:45 am, but I am too lethargic/tired/hungover to leave the couch. By noon I was like SOMEONE STAB ME IN THE FUCKING FACE. And when I blacked out around 6pm I hoped to sleep until sun-fucking-rise. Too bad for me sunrise starts at 11:45 pm. So now it's 2am and I am building you the stupidest time line in the fucking world because I just woke up and I am taking a pill to go back to sleep because my life is a series of events incorporated with the use of pills for every fucking occasion. TASTE THE RAINBOW.

Oh, I just remembered why I wrote this post, THIS IS WHAT HAPPENS WHEN YOU FUCK UP YOUR SLEEP SCHEDULE SO BADLY THAT YOU HAVE TO TAKE A PILL TO GO TO SLEEP AND ANOTHER TO WAKEUP & YOU END UP WITH SCRAMBLED EGGS FOR BRAINS. Ugh, so last night my sister got really wasted and she was like ARN'T YOU HAVING YOUR PERIOD. ARN'T YOU BLEEDING LIKE THE REST OF US. Turns out I am not currently suffering from bleedings disease. I am sure all seven of you that read this are super happy to know this shit. And I am sitting in a chair and she is like OH YOU ARE GOING TO GET YOUR PERIOD IN LIKE 4 DAYS and then she started jutting her pelvis in my face as to give me period juju. And I am probably going to get my period and want to die. I like it way better when I forget I am going to get it unless I think I have to abort someone's baby like I am the DSL cable in the internet super highway of life.

"I'll fuck your dog for twenty nickels!" God, whenever I am suddenly nervous those are the first words that come out of my mouth. There are circles where I am clearly known as TWENTY NICKELS. I guess that's all I have to say about that, other than when I am super nervous I turn into Eric Cartman and go around screaming that I fuck dogs or touch my cousin's wiener. Whatever.

I was recently reminded of something that happened not too long ago. I was looking DAPPER, mother fucking DAPPER as hell in the cutest polk-a-dotted frock with bright red heels while walking down Camden Avenue in stupid Beverly Hills. There are times when I wish I just blended into the background and this was one of those time. A troop of photographers, paparazzi if you will, were camped outside the building I had business in & as I walked by it was like a frenzy of the most sordid sort. I mean, I have had men scream lewd things are me tons of times and I have screamed back, but then none of them were carrying a camera so it could be blasted all over fucking TMZ. So I had to just sort of keep walking, even though I could hear some fucking asshole yelling HEY TITS, TURN AROUND FOR THE CAMERA. Hey fucko, how about you suck my dick. Anyways, as my policy goes I avoid reality television cause that shit is for dopes and dickheads. But let me tell you something, I never wanted to be famous and that shit solidified for me how much I never want to be famous ever cause it makes total sense why people like Lily Allen go nutzo and kick down a photographer. Those motherfuckers can be foul as hell.

Erin arrives in Los Angeles on Thursday. I guess that's when the posting will halt. I'll return as soon as someone posts bail. P.S. Erin and I have decided the most hilarious thing ever will be to fucking patronize Dr. Aric the Armenian Pharmacist (not actually Armenian, not a pharmacist) because he is still asking me out even though he says he knows I can never love him and I showed up to his house last week and when he went to make me a drink I ran outside, jumped in my car and drove away--when he texted me asking where I went I told him to get fucked good and proper. That was Wednesday. On Friday he texted me asking me to come hangout. WITH THE POWER OF THE TWO OF US THIS MAN WILL BE REDUCED TO TEARS IN NO TIME. That will happen after I demand he pump us full of pills. Please read my blog to your children in the tone of a church hymnal or prayer. Amen.

I found this in an article about breast cancer:

Limit alcohol intake: Recent studies indicate that alcohol consumption, including the much touted "healthy" red wine, increases a woman's risk of developing the disease. Women who drink one to two servings of alcohol a day increase their risk by 10 percent and women who drink three servings increase their risk by 30 percent.

I guess that means I am going to die from mother fucking breast cancer. I was trying to do the math in my head to figure out my exact risk factor. I got pretty bored trying to figure out how many drinks I'll have on a casual night of drinking, but then I started to think about when I'd drink until I'd inflict a near death experience. That had to be somewhere between 15 to 20 drinks a night, maybe more. Well, think of it this way, I guess I'll need a double mastectomy by next year.

Anyways, speaking of drinking and the excess of it, why's it whenever you get crazy drunk and say insane/provocative/embarrassing things people will be like HEY, DO YOU REMEMBER WHAT YOU SAID LAST NIGHT? Uh, sorry I don't, that is why they call it a blackout. And you tell them you don't even care what you said--as to hint around that you do not want to hear it at all. And then they will be like WHEN YOU ARE READY TO KNOW, YOU LET ME KNOW. Gee thanks, but I thought I made myself perfectly clear when I said I like filling in all the blanks myself because if I cannot remember parts of what went on, then it was not shocking or awesome enough.