Distance Makes The Soul Grow Fonder,
Or Something Like That

Is it ok that I dropped my late dinner of blueberry muffin crumbs and diet cherry coke all over my keyboard just now? I should probably be asking my keyboard that, but I am so not in the mood for his holier than thou attitude, so just tell me, is it ok? I mean, really? Everything still seems to be functioning, I haven't seen any sparks yet, and sparks would mean trouble so lack of sparkage is good, no? Yes? Yeah, I'm even confusing myself now.


If Someone Says One Of These Things To Me
And No One Is Around To Hear It
And I Kill That Person, Will It Make A Sound?

1. "You seem so distant lately."
Yeah, I do.
It's because I'm plotting to kill you. It's not personal though, just ask Wil Wheaton, one day he was just a boy getting blown to bits in Toy Soldiers, and the next he was my baby's daddy. Also, besides the whole plotting your death thing, I've become obsessed with finding the perfect vacuum cleaner. Because I just know that having the right vacuum cleaner will make everything in my life sunshiny and cotton candy-y and rainbow in every room-y. Not to mention less cat hair-y, because my current Vacuum (they don't call it a Dirt DEVIL for nothing) just stares mockingly at me when I ask it to please suck up some of the fur clumps that have accumulated on my carpet before I wake up in the middle of the night and become convinced my cats are multiplying even though as a precaution I stopped feeding them after midnight months ago and I never, ever get them wet. And no, I do not think I'm getting carried away. Why do you think there are serial killers in this world? Because their parents didn't love them enough? Their schoolmates picked on them for having big ears and little feet? Please. No. They didn't have a Hoover SteamVac. I'm telling you, if I had paid any attention in that statistics class in college I could so map out the correlation between Hoover SteamVacs and Serial Killers right now, and you would be weeping into your nachos, you'd be so impressed.


2. "Have you no soul?"
Is this a trick question? No. I mean Yes. I mean, wait, what was the question again? Someone actually said this to me when I admitted that I wasn't interested in reading The Five People You Meet in Heaven. The thing is I started reading it. I really tried. It just all went downhill for me when the guy got to heaven and started meeting the five people, and it just so happened that this happened on page 2. That's when I put the book down, and apparently that's also when my soul jumped out of my body and went down to The GasLight for a few drinks. I won't read it, you can't make me, no you can't, and you can have my stupid soul, it caused me nothing but trouble the whole time I had it anyway. And plus! (This requires an exclamation point because it's super exciting!) Now when the next wanna-be Prince Charming comes along and says "We are two bodies, but one soul," I can totally say "You have no idea, buddy" and when I say buddy I mean Buddy Lembeck, and not Buddy Holly, because that is so not Buddy Holly's style, he's more of a "Did it hurt when you fell from heaven?" kinda guy, and damn, why is it all coming back to heaven today? Why can't it come back to a place where the bouncer knows me and will let me in on my good looks and sparkling personality and overlook that whole sinning equals burning in hell for all eternity thing?


I haven't slept in a billion and one days and so now I must go freebase mass amounts of Salada Comfortime tea and hope it aids in my drifting off into a lovely Monchhichi dream filled sleep and not just excessive bleeding out of my ears/nose/bone marrow/baby toe.

This Is Your Brain.
This Is Your Brain In A Tutu Screaming
'Don't Do It, Neve, Don't'
Any Questions?

So tonight, as I was opening Christmas presents (yes, I know it's January, but it's also January twenty fifth, and why should Christmas just be in December? I know what you're thinking, Christ's birthday, yada yada yada, well I'm sure Christ would want me to have presents on the 25th of every month, and until he tells me otherwise, this is the way I row my boat, row my boat, row my boat), two things occurred to me. I know you're on the edge of your seat, your eyes are watering, your teeth are grinding, your stomach is in knots, well maybe you should up your meds, but this is about me, let's get back to me, me, me, and me, ending your suspense.
The first thing that occurred to me was that Neve "NeveR should I make movies" Campbell's new movie could very well be The End of The World As We Know It, and I do not feel fine. No one, and I mean no one, well except maybe those evil highschoolers who stand outside the supermarket collecting money for their cocaine habit school football team, should ever have to see Bailey's sister (let's face it, that's who she is, Bailey and Charlie and Owen and Claudia's sister, and no one else) in a tutu, ok? I really think this might be the Apocalypse. Coming to a theatre near you.
The second thing that occurred to me was that there are many, many uses for salad tongs, and yet this utensil gets very little recognition and this makes me want to weep openly for my mommy, and I don't think this has anything to do with the fact that I was conceived with the help of some salad tongs, but my therapist says maybe. You can use them to toss salad, to get salad out of the bowl, to put place salad from the bowl onto your plate, to pick up monkey poop, to braid your hair (As Seen On TV), to scratch your back, to scratch your upstairs neighbor's panda back, to keep wild Demon cats away, to dig through the dirt if you get buried alive (this is why I have specified in my Will that I wish to be buried with my salad tongs. In case Neve Campbell my cats, who stand to inherit my millions someone "accidentally" buries me when I am really not dead), to get out of a speeding ticket (Sorry, officer, these salad tongs fell on the floor of the car and pressed the gas pedal down), to be your new best friend (BFF! Me and Salad Tongiee!), to jump start your car made out of salad, etc, etc, I think you see what I'm saying. You do, don't you?
Well. With that said, I'm off to sleep the sleep of a thousand girls and dream the dreams of a thousand monkeys. Merry Christmas.

I Had A Pet Turtle Once. His Name Was Buddy.
He Really Liked Watching Charles In Charge.
So I Fed-Exed Him To Scott Baio.

I'm baaaaack. Well technically I've been back since Monday, but I've lost almost all my will to live blog, so, well, I haven't been posting. But here I am. In good old freezing cold New Hampshire. Where a Cherry Coke is a Cherry Coke, Wal-Mart is just a store and not a way of life, and everyone is not so goddamn SLOW, and I mean slow in every possible way, including the Corky Thatcher Burning Down The Family Restaurant And Shooting The Dog way and the Take Your Sweet Baby Jesus Time, It's Not Like I Have Somewhere Else I Could Be way. My suitcase was definitely lighter coming back (could be due to the unloading of Renee Zellweger's bastard son's 8 pound head into the Cape Fear river), but I think to compensate for this I now have a tumor/blood clot/mad cow/mini Robert DeNiro growing in my right leg. It's probably traveling to my brain at this very instant and my head will explode in a matter of seconds!


Things To Do In Denver North Carolina When You're Dead (Or Just Wishing You Were)

1. Watch Jenny Jones. And I don't mean watch like you watch Mighty Mouse or reruns of Magnum P.I.. I mean watch it as if your life depends on it. Because it just might if you live in North Carolina. Never mind that the show was cancelled last year, because, you see, Jenny Jones is a reputable source of information for those whose husbands like to dress up in women's panties and throw Tupperware parties, those whose children are in need of boot camp because they left the trailer park when they were specifically told not to and had sex at the age of 12 with cousin Billy-Bob and got knocked up in his car, which is probably where they will also give birth, and those who have secret crushes on their same-sex dog/cat/turtle and just don't know how to tell them with out Jenny's words of wisdom.


2. Get one of those Maps Of The Stars' Homes so you can see the who's who of North Carolina (the list includes such A-List celebrities as Tammy Faye Bakker, and Tammy Faye Bakker, and Tammy Faye Bakker. Oh, and Tammy Faye Bakker) and visit their houses. Excessive use of eye shadow and mascara/Drive-by shooting optional.


3. Try to come up with an escape plan/evacuation route for when the geese attack. I'm telling you, the geese in North Carolina far outnumber the people, even their poop outnumbers the people, so it's only a matter of time before life there turns into a remake of Hitchcock's Birds, only with geese instead of birds, and with everyone dying in the end except Tammy Faye Bakker who is revealed to have been wearing all that make up to cover up the fact that she is really a goose, and not just any goose, but the David Koresh of the goose world.


And that's all she wrote. Kind of like Murder, She Wrote, only with out murder or Angela Lansbury. Yeah, I'm tired. It's good to be back.

5 Signs You Are Having A Really Bad Day,
In Case The Bomb Strapped To Your Cat's Back Didn't Give It Away

1. It started last year and shows no signs of ending any time soon. Or at least not until Martin Sheen is sitting in the oval office and Bradley Whitford is his deputy chief of staff, and I'm his lovely non-vowel-turning assistant who he occasionally has sex with while saying things like "I'm the Deputy White House Chief of Staff. I oversee eleven hundred White House employees. I answer directly to the President of the United States. Did you think you were talking to the paperboy?" .


2. People keep saying, in hushed tones, when they see your eyes glazing over with that I'm just going to have to kill them all, it's the only way look, "Well, you know the saying, You can't please all the people all the time." Thanks, for the uhh, regurgitated worm food you're trying to pass off as comfort, but I ate yesterday. Since you brought it up though, I don't want to please all the people all the time! I don't even want to please all of the people some of the time, or some of the people all of the time. But if I could just please maybe one person maybe once every 3-4 weeks, that would be grand. Even if that person is not really a person at all, but a cat or a monkey or an 80's music loving Panda. I'd be ok with that, I would. And don't think I don't know that you're thinking of "pleased" in The Divinyls "When I Think About You I Touch Myself" context here!


3. You find HELP ME PLEASE scratched into every possible surface there is to scratch it into- your desk, your mirror, your toaster, your glow worms (but not yourself because that's a whole other Lifetime Movie Of The Week, aptly titled "I Cut Therefore I Am," starring Crazy Andie from Dawson's Creek)- and you can't remember doing any of it, though it sure looks like your handwriting, and you are holding a dull knife in your hand.


4. You decide to make ice, because making ice is comforting, it makes you think there is a reason for living, a greater good even, and when you open the freezer you underestimate your own super human strength and hit yourself in the head with the freezer door, which leaves a big red mark, which will later turn black and blue, which will later cause someone to refer you to a Woman's Shelter, which will later make you wonder if there is a Woman's Shelter that specializes in housing and caring for Women Battered By Themselves. Or Escaped Pandas. And the vicious cycle never, ever ends, because later you will realize that in all the pain and wonder of it all you forgot to make the ice.


5. You buy this, in hopes you can use it to magically erase the past 30 days, maybe even the past year, but if it doesn't work you figure at least you can use it to erase the blood stains giant 'Burn in hell for all eternity, you Mickey Mouse Phone owning sociopath' message Martin Sheen your mom your ex-boyfriend your ex-boyfriend's mom your upstairs neighbor who eats bamboo and listens to the Pet Shop Boys wrote in crayon on the wall.


I Don't Get Mad, I Bake
(And Sometimes I Go To North Carolina)

So yeah, I'm having one of Those Days. I think it may have started in November, if we're going to be technical, but I've never been one for technicality, unless you count that time I made a nightlight in Industrial Arts in high school and my teacher said that yes, technically I did create light. Anyway. What's a girl who is living a month of bad days to do? Go on a drinking binge? Have gratuitous sex? With Martin Sheen? While making him call me First Lady? Bake a batch of my World Famous Bailey's Irish Cream Chocolate Chunk Cookies? In the nude? Run away to North Carolina, home of Cheerwine, two really cute boys and one really cute girl, and I'm not sure, but maybe even a pizza place, for a few days? Yeah, that's the one. I'm going to North Carolina. If you need me I'll be at Fuddruckers consuming mad cows. If you don't need me, well fine, I don't need you either, and maybe we should see other people because by the way I slept with your brother Emilio you are just not there for me emotionally.

Heyyyy, Youuuu Guyyyyys!
The Goonies III: The Apocalypse, Starring Martin Sheen,
Coming Soon To A Theatre Near You

Ok. I can't kid a kidder. Or kidderS. Or Kimmy Gibbler. I was going to post a break down of my weekend. A sort of Day In The Life Of Me for the few of you that aren't already peeping in my window/hiding in the backseat of my car listening to me sing horrid Whitney Houston songs/calling my house and asking if my refrigerator is running just to see if I'm home/going through my trash in hopes of finding out what kind of shampoo I use. I was going to tell you about the tawdry illicit sex, and the intravenous drug use, and the hit and run accident while using my cell phone, and the trip to Vermont which led to the naked syrup making, but you don't really want to hear about that, do you? I didn't think so. You would much rather hear about the revelation I had while watching The Goonies. Or how I ended up naked in Raleigh-Durham International Airport. I know you so well. It's almost scary how in sync we are, isn't it? But not *Nsync, because that would be scary in a whole other way, a dressing alike, having crazy mad gay boy band sex and writing songs about it while claiming they're really about Britney Spears kinda way. And I don't think we're quite that close yet.


1. And now for The Goonies Prophecy. Also known as My Breakthrough. And when I say breakthrough I don't mean breakthrough of the Renee Zellweger's bastard son wants to go to the zoo/fewer clients, less money variety. This was serious. Seriously. I was watching The Goonies, because Goonies is a good movie to watch when you feel like killing everyone who enters your line of vision and/or your house is about to be torn down and a mall built in its place, and suddenly everything became crystal light, maybe even Krystal Carrington, clear.
Remember that scene in the movie when the Goonies reach the wishing well, only they don't know yet that they're in the wishing well, and Mouth is inspecting the coins and he says "...uh, President Lincoln, George Washington, uh, Martin Sheen..." when it's really JFK on the coin and when they call him stupid he says "Well, same difference!"? Yeah. See! The Goonies knew Martin Sheen would be president one day. How they knew, I don't know. It might have something to do with Christopher Columbus, or Chris as he likes to be called when he's not exploring the world, but instead writing movies, but I can't be sure. Wait, I know what you're thinking. But Martin Sheen isn't president, crazy girl. Oh, but he is, that is where you're wrong. He's President Jed Bartlet. The only President who has ever made me cry. Not counting that time Bill Clinton's Secret Service threw me up against a wall. But I'm getting away from the point here (Martin Sheen has that affect on me). My point is this, The Goonies were like the original Psychic Friends, only they were cooler because they had one of the Coreys and Josh Brolin who I think once dated Minnie Driver pre-Cambodian sweatshop obsession, and Chunk, who I think is Minnie Driver, although these reports haven't been confirmed. And who knows what else The Goonies predicted! If only I had not become distracted when Martin Sheen entered the picture!


2. Don't you hate when you find yourself in crazy situations and you have no recollection of how you got there? Well last night I was standing completely naked in Raleigh-Durham International Airport. Crying. All I wanted was to go home and get my clothes. And my iPod. But my brother, who has a large head and who once told me when I was little that he killed smurfs, wouldn't let me. He told me to be tough. I'm not so tough. His telling me to be tough just made me cry harder. My family and their goddamn exercises in Character Building! I swear, I am so going to cut their cable wires so they can't watch another episode of Dr. Phil if it's the last thing I do! Luckily this turned out to be just a dream and not another one of my family's crazy mental endurance tests after all! Now hopefully my dreams are not psychic the way The Goonies turned out to be, because I really am going to Raleigh-Durham International Airport this week. And I really hope I at least have my iPod.


Now I have to go try to rig up a lightning pole and drive my car at 88mph towards it so that I can travel back in time and catch that episode of Alias I missed tonight when I was out drinking Moose Juice. Who knows, it just may work, and Michael Vartan may sense me watching him through the TV and track me down and ask me to be his wife. Well, probably not, I'll probably just end up with a head wound that will cause me to have selective amnesia and forget that I don't like wax beans and I will end up eating wax beans for the rest of my life, only to turn into a wax bean shortly before I die. That would be just my luck.

If I Had A Goat I Would Name It Whitney Houston,
And Then I Would Beat It For Being A Crack Whore,
But That's Just Me

Well, it's like this. I know you're bored with me. I'm bored with me, too. I tried to talk me into doing something exciting like taking up hang-gliding or having sex with multiple partners while the panda that lives upstairs videotaped or carving gnomes out of wood or going on a killing spree, but me just couldn't muster up the energy or enthusiasm for any of those things. Goddamn it, Me! It might be the new medication they put me on here at ShadyBrook Mental Institute, it might be the carbon monoxide, it might be the twenty billion below zero temperature outside, it might be the kiss of death me received on me's forehead, it might not. Who can really say? Not me.


All I Really Know Right Now I Could Fit On A Post-It

1. Not all cats have tails. Not all hamsters have two eyes. Not all pandas live upstairs from me (just one, one mad Pet Shop Boy crazed panda who pays rent in bamboo and is waiting for the right moment to gnaw off my left arm). Not all humans think Teen Wolf Too was a violation of the sacred original Teen Wolf.


2. Plagiarism is wrong. Unless you're plagiarizing something really, really, really good like Jewel's Poems or Madonna's Sex Book or Just Imagine, a Dick and Jane book that includes such delightful stories as the one about a goat named Hooker, or my personal favorite, the lyrics to Whitney Houston's "The Greatest Love Of All". Because in the face of such greatness how can you not plagiarize, I ask you.


Yeah. So. Tell me something I don't know. Please.

Tell Me, Tell Me That Your Sweet Love Hasn't Died
(Well They Are Smart Socks)


I think I ate a rotten potato. But I can't be sure. I have no symptoms, and it looked like a normal potato, but if I was a rotten potato I would disguise myself as a normal potato, too. Or maybe even as a normal human being. Ok, now I'm going to spend the night wondering who among those I know is really a rotten potato disguised as a normal human being. And I'm starting to see visions of Mr. Potato Head dancing around, wearing nothing but a smile, and really, that can't be a good sign. Can it?


In other non-potato news, I hate everyone. Especially myself, because I am dumb, dumb, dumb. I have socks that act more intelligent than I have been acting lately. If you have an antidote to stupidity, please, I'll do anything. Except apologize to Amazon.com for calling all their employees robots and threatening to find out where their robot homes are and end their robot lives. Anything else though.


Also (She says, as if this is related to anything), I'm half convinced there is a homeless mass murderer living in the empty apartment above me. It's either that or an escaped Panda from China that goes by the name "Dim Sum". And what's worse is I'm not sure which would be better. And what's worse than that is I can't stop listening to The Pet Shop Boys and their 80's hit "Always On My Mind". And what's even worse is I think I heard the homeless mass murderer/Panda named Dim Sum dancing around to it up there.


What Keeps Me Up At Night, Besides Rotten Potatoes

1. That movie Baby Boom. Maybe someday one of my estranged cousins will die and leave me her baby, and that demonic baby will get me fired from my big time corporate job and I will just say oh well, time to move to Vermont and make baby food for a living. I can only hope. Only I would probably send the baby to a sweatshop in Cambodia, so it could work alongside Minnie Driver (I meant to do this with my cats, but I forgot); I'm sure that would build character. Yep, I am all about building character in the New Year (just not so much my own).


2. Is Less really More? Is More really Less? And which one of you is responsible for Mandy Moore being allowed to do more movies? I demand answers!


3. What do pandas eat? Pandas are stronger than they look, you know. And much like me, they use their cuteness to distract you, probably while they gnaw off your left arm. "Not the left one, not again", you'll find yourself saying at the Emergency Room, "I only looked at the panda cuteness for a second, I swear." Yeah, you would be afraid if a Pet Shop Boy-loving Panda was living upstairs from you, too.


I have to go to bed in negative 3 hours if I want to get a full 6 hours of sleep. You know what that means, don't you? Me either.
I'm going to sleep, I sure hope the crucifix I hung over my bed wards off any escaped convicts and/or pandas.

Aaaaaaarrrrrrrrrggggggghhhhhhhhhhhh!
Seriously.

Who Cares What Snoopy Thinks,
It's My Birthday And I'll Cry If I Want To
You Would, Too, If Brooke Shields Was Your Mom


Tell me if any of this is normal. I mean, I know it's not normal, I just want to know if I should put up a fight when the men come for me with my very own perfectly tailored white coat or if I should call and reserve a private, padded cell now.


1. Sometimes I hear voices. Or a voice. When I'm doing random things, like mopping my floor (I had a maid, but you know, she got freaked out when she saw all the blood stains, and, you know, I had to kill her), and the voice says "If you build it, they will come". Only I'm pretty sure it's the voice of Charlie Brown, and he's not referring to a Field Of Dreams, because he also says "If you don't build it, they won't come, and then you should just devote your life to a god, but not the god, because let's face it, that god doesn't like you and you devoting your life to a god that doesn't like you would just be stupid, and you're really a smart girl, no matter what the rest of the gang says". Whatever, it's not like I've actually built anything. Like an ark, or anything. I was just hoping to get one for my birthday so I could tell the voice I built it and get Charlie Brown to shut the hell up already. So do I get sane points for that?


2. I have decided to never, ever have children. And it's all Brooke Shields' fault. Ok, not just hers. Hers and Bright Beginnings. Because if not playing Animotion's "Obsession" in front of your child is what is expected of motherhood, forget it. I was really into that commercial, ok maybe a little too into it, with Brooke singing along into the baby bottle and dancing around the kitchen. And then BAM she "realizes" most mothers are playing Bach for their children and shuts it off. This makes me very, very sad. I had one hand on the phone to call Child Protective Services to launch an investigation into Brooke's parenting skills and the other on the phone to the Better Business Bureau to launch an investigation into this wacky baby formula company when it dawned on me that saying "It's just not right to deprive your baby of the 80's" wasn't going to get me far. So I gave up. And I shall remain childless because of Brooke. Childless and Mirthless. Childless, mirthless, and give me a minute, I'm sure there's something else I can blame on her. But I'm sure you all feel the same way.


3. Last night I dreamt I was Donna from The West Wing and that Josh fired me. After we made out. Several times. And I (as Donna) kept crying hysterically while I packed up my stuff, which including several prom type dresses I apparently kept in my desk (I bet they have a lot of Proms at The White House) and Josh watched me like a hawk, as if I might steal something. And then, when I went to use the White House ladies room before they escorted me off the property, I glanced in the mirror and I had this god awful TEAL eyeliner streaming down my face. So to sort of offset it, I figured hey, I think I'll put on a whole lot of SPARKLY WHITE eye shadow. And then I woke up, thank god, because I was only seconds away from turning into Tammy Faye Baker and Ronald McDonald's love child who just got fired from The White House after making out with her boss.


I have to go do my Birthday Dance now. Outside. In the snow. Wearing only my iPod, which will be playing "Obsession", thank you very much.