I was going to talk about how I am supposed to drive up to San Francisco on Monday, but now it is going to rain until well into Monday and everyone that knows me knows Homie don't play that game.

God, I am a grownup and I really just typed that. I might be overusing stupid italics, but I guess I hardly give a shit so it doesn't matter.  Does anyone here remember when blogging and bloggers were not fucking tragic and boring, but insightful and entertaining.  Jesus, I haven't found a decent new blog and I probably never will since everyone sucks.

I do not drive in the rain because I am lame and neurotic and mostly because I choose life. Anyways, it is raining like the great flood here in Los Angeles, so I am sure that the news will be flashing end of the world warnings all over the place to indicate that SHIT IS WET.

I remember, earlier when I decided not to write about San Francisco I was going to write about something else that I cannot even remember anymore.  I guess I should write about my total loss of memory, but that is without saying, ya know?  Oh it doesn't matter cause I get to brag about how that physics professor is telling people that I am ruining his life because now he wants to leave his stupid girlfriend that looks just like me only she has absolutely no interest in quantum mechanics like I do.  I guess I will busy myself with fucking up his world since I am fucking boring.

Holy shit, I remember what I was going to write about now--THE PERFECT RUNNING PLAYLIST.  Don't get me wrong, but good music, the sort of stuff I like to listen to while writing is not what gets me pumped up for a 15 mile run or anything.  Campy shit like Barry Mannilow's Copa Cabana is actually right up my alley, but really by mile 8, you don't actually care what you're listening to as long as it is loud and fast.  I've been giving a lot of thought to the perfect song to start a run to and I've narrowed it down to Cherub Rock by Smashing Pumpkins.  I guess all I have to do is figure out the correct order for the next 5 to 6 hours worth of songs and I'll be set for the L.A. Marathon in March, right?

You know what I hate are people that are not filled with trickery.  I bet you think that I'd want people to be simplistic and straight forward, but I actually enjoy people that are a lot of work.  Actually, I love everything that is more work than it is, which is why I fucking hate most everything around me, which is why everyday Britney Spears continues to be my hero.  HERO.  God, the people that are like MY MOTHER IS MY HERO BECAUSE SHE NEVER GAVE UP, those people are fucking idiots.  Britney Spears also never gives up cause that bitch was high as hell, fighting with the cops tonight about her giving her creepy children back to K-Fed for absolutely no reason.  

God, check this out, I am not even all that great since I basically take a grip of sleeping pills if I want to get to sleep and now I am battling sleep I cannot control in a race against time so that I can finish two reviews and a fucking stupid blog.  Oh man, I was just reminded of something I fucking hate.  Christ, I hate it when anyone touches any part of me with their feet or if they touch my feet.  FUCK OFF WITH YOUR FEET.  This does not apply to pedicures or massages.  In any other case do not fucking touch my feet or I will rip your head off with my teeth, I am not even kidding.

So I have finished my daily reviews and now my brain is shutting off since I took all my stupid sleeping pills and the inside of my head is as vacant as the end of the fucking world.  Oh man, i super need to piss right now but I wonder if I can just fall asleep while sitting here and pee later when I wake up.  God, if I try to do that I will pee and then wake up in a puddle of my own piss.  This is getting old kids, and it is awesome.

You can wonder.  I can wonder too, right?

Happy New Years to everyone I am happy that reads this crap and to everyone else I don't know and don't care about. This is not my annual YEAR-IN-REVIEW post, but more of a quick reflection. 2007 was an interesting year. I guess that is all I really want to say. 2007 was the year that blogging became more of a burden than a joy and bloggers everywhere started to become fucking infiltrated with lame shit like marrying other bloggers and bombarding the internet with lame shit like recipes. I am one of those people. 2007 was the year I decided to cut all ties with my old blog cause I was sick of my readers and my subject matter. 2007 was the year I gave up on giving up and decided to kill myself or write. 2007 was the year I realized I was not suited for a desk job and might as well buy a pole and start practicing for my stripping career before I ever go back to sitting behind a desk and taking orders from someone not nearly as good looking as I am. 2007 prompted me with the fact that I can no longer date men that are alcoholics, complete messes or bi-polar because I absolutely need some stability in my life and that has to start with the penis I worship. 2007 was the year where I decided I didn't want to be a drunk anymore because it was killing my body, stomach and mind. 2007 also brought upon the realization that all the men I loved had girlfriends and I never slept with any of them because the idea of complicating things seemed like less fun than fucking someone I absolutely hate. 2007 was the year I decided I wanted to get up off my ass and be something rather than sit around wasted talking about things I have done wasted that didn't get me any closer to being something other than a Britney Spears reject. 2007 was the year I decided I need people like Britney Spears in the universe so I can be reminded of the fact that I acted exactly like that lunatic for longer than I care to remember because I simply could and no one can talk me out of acting like a monster. 2007 was also the end of looking like a slut for me, sometimes walking around with your ass hanging out and your tits flashing the entire universe gets really old cause there is nothing left to flash when the time comes to flash it. 2007 was also the year I got sick of all my friends and they got sick of me talking about how much better I am than them to their faces and we all decided that we probably shouldn't be friends anymore--it was also the same year these friends were telling people I had all sorts of plastic surgeries because I started running and my fat ass melted off. 2007 was the year I realized I was sort of sorry I had 2006, but I needed 2006 to make 2007 a possibility. 2007 was also the year I realized my parents were getting old and that I have an 8-year-old sister that I might need to raise as my own and what sort of role model wakes up in a pool of her own vomit on the daily? In 2007 I turned 26-years-old and decided that I was getting too old to have abortions so I might as well stop having sex with idiots because I might just keep their idiot baby and later on get upset about it and drown that idiot baby in a sack down by the river. 2007 I finally got fed up with my PC and converted to a Mac and do not miss my PC at all. By the end of 2007 I realized I was happier being boring and calm than dancing on bars and waking up with a new idiot each time I went out. In 2007 I decided to dedicate myself to my art rather than to self destruction. 2008 is possible because of 2007 and viewers like you.

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.