God Stained My Carpet Blue,
And He Probably Helped The Monkeys Steal My Voice, Too

I haven't been posting because I found God.
In an alley behind CVS.
Any more information would be a direct violation of the Confidentiality Agreement they made me sign. They? Yeah, they.
And there's really nothing else I can say until God and his Apostles pack up their traveling alley circus and head for greener, holier pastures. There is one thing though (and I'm pretty sure this won't violate any confidentiality), a love between God and I could never work. How do I know? Because God walks around the house while brushing his teeth, instead of just standing in the bathroom in front of the sink. You know, like a normal person. Bastard.

My Real Name Is Mephistopheles
But You Can Call Me Baby

I have about fifty-six million, one hundred and eighty-two thousand things I need to be doing. Things I could be doing. Things I should be doing. Things like sleeping or eating or saving the world or figuring out how to hook up my VCR, DVD player, and cable box so that they all work instead of just one working while the other two stare at me mockingly or dyeing my hair or reading one of the 10 books sitting on my desk waiting to be read or volunteering to be a candy striper at the hospital or washing my walls to get rid of those pesky blood stains .


What I Don't Need To Be Doing, Shouldn't Be Doing,
But Am Doing Anyway
Because When I Kill Time, I Kill It Dead

1. Rewriting Whitney Houston's Greatest Love Of All to include words like "nougaty goodness" and "mental institution". Because I can. Except when I say "can" I don't mean legally. I mean figuratively. Or hypothetically. Or some other word ending in "ly".


2. Imagining movie sequels that are not likely to happen, but should happen. I mean is there really anyone out there who doesn't think it would be cool if they made a sequel to Dances With Wolves, only instead of wolves they had My Little Ponies, and instead of Kevin Costner they had Jack Nicholson? And not just Jack Nicholson, but Jack Nicholson in his military uniform from A Few Good Men shouting "You want the truth? You can't handle the truth!" at the Roller Skating Ponies. Yeah, I would definitely pay $9.00 to see that.


3. Consulting my psychic friend/psychology college text books/ouija board/the faces in my spaghettios to try to ascertain what it means when you dream you're in a wheelchair. In Africa. Wheeling yourself down a hill and into an alligator infested swamp. All the while carrying a brown paper bag in your lap. Yeah, I just can't get a handle on this one.
But maybe it has something to do with how I had just seen Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, which you should take my word for and not the drunk guy sitting in front of me who laughed hysterically through the first half of the movie and then passed out into the aisle for the second half, and go see it, and not just because I'm pretty sure Charlie Kaufman based Kate Winslet's character on me, well minus the alcohol problem, if you can call it a problem, but also because it's just good, damn it.


Well. That was fun. But I think I will go play in traffic now. Or I would if there was any traffic at 1:30 in the freaking morning. So maybe I won't. But I will think about playing in traffic. And then I will maybe go to sleep and pretend I'm in a coma as a result of the imaginary playing in traffic. And then maybe you will come visit me and leave me flowers that I can't see because they're not real and I'm not really in a coma anyway. Yeah, that would be nice.

Because It Just Isn't A Holiday
With Out Green Toilet Water And A Venereal Disease

I have nothing today. I'm empty. Dry. A mere shell of a taco. Whatever.
I did write this long St. Patrick's Day post, it went something like this: Blah blah blah dressing cats in little shamrock costumes, blah blah blah green food coloring in the toilet bowl, blah blah blah rainbow with a pot of syphilis at the end, blah blah blah I wonder if Chucky is Irish, blah blah blah I'm sorry it has come to this, but I have to kill you My Little Pony, blah blah blah, and BLAH. Yeah. I bet you're sorry I deleted that bad boy.

Sometimes I See Scott Wolf's Face In My Spaghettios.
Sometimes It Tells Me To Kill People.
And I Think I Just Realized My Mom Is Rain Man.
What's New With You?

Last night I dreamt I was on 20/20 to promote my new movie Career Opportunities: Part Deux and Barbara Walters somehow managed to twist the interview so I ended up confessing to getting a "D" in a Food and People class in college. Twice (If at first you don't succeed, try and don't succeed again, that's what I always say). I tried to laugh it off until she asked how many innocent baby chicks had died because of me (Yes, it takes a certain kind of person to fail to feed their assigned baby chicks the correct nutritional diet causing them to curl up and die). This is when I started sobbing uncontrollably and yet somehow managed to get out the words "Phone A Friend". Barbara wasn't having it though, she said "I'm not Regis F&cking Philbin, now answer the question, America deserves to know!" Luckily, this is when I woke up. Dear Sigmund Freud, what does it all mean? Am I secretly in love with Barbara Walters? Do I secretly wish there would be a Career Opportunities sequel? Do I still feel guilt over my secret freshman year baby chick massacre? Do I have a secret Regis Philbin fixation? I look forward to your analysis, as always (unless you are going to tell me again that I was weaned off my mother's breast too early, because really, that's starting to get old). Love, Me.


In other exciting and possibly related, possibly not related news, I think I have Mono or Monkey Pox or ADD or ADHD or OCD or PB&J or SOS or SOL. Symptoms include, but are not limited to, fatigue, sensitivity to light (when I say light I mean that Michael J. Fox movie Bright Lights, Big City), benevolent feelings towards Donald Trump, overwhelming desire to listen to Bananarama, a pain in my right leg when I attempt to Jumping Jack my way to A Newer, Happier Me, an inability to keep down any solid food other than Girl Scout cookies, and an unabashed fondness for perfume samples in magazines compounded with the need to Share The Scent, which, frankly, can only end badly, me being hauled off to the police station, my Coco Mademoiselle scented wrists in handcuffs, after trying to force innocent people to "SMELL MY WRISTS, GODDAMN IT!"

As you can see these symptoms are quite severe. So today I did what any other potentially disease ridden person would do, or at least what my mother would do when any of us kids were bleeding from the eye sockets or puking up Legos and she didn't want to take us to the doctor and miss People's Court; I called Ask-A-Nurse and asked if I was dying. Diagnosis, Murder? We'll never know. I grew too tired of holding the phone and had to hang up before I passed out in a puddle of drool and Thin Mint crumbs, but I'm pretty sure I heard something about how "If you commit yourself it's not really commitment" or maybe it was "You'll live forever if someone buys you a digital camera for St. Patrick's Day".
So. Yeah. All I ask of you is that someone sings "Venus" at my funeral. Preferably Donald Trump. With choreography by Paula Abdul. Thank You.
Really, I must sleep now.

Dear Scott Baio,
You Owe Me $28,412 In Alimony And Emotional Damages,
One Bottle Of Tylenol, And An Umbrella. Thanks.

1. I have decided to devote my life to the study of water resistance and humans.
2. I want to change my name to Peppermint. Or Lima.


Or maybe I just want to build a fall-out shelter out of lima beans and peppermints because that's what the dead people I see walking around are telling me to do. Sure, they're not really dead, and they're not really walking. But that's only because they're not really there.


And what did we learn today?


If you have a headache and you find a mysterious white pill in the bottom of a drawer in your bathroom and you're hoping it is some sort of pain reliever/fever reducer/brain tumor growth stopper and hoping it is not some sort of elephant laxative/radioactive isotope that will make your internal organs glow in the dark (and with out the aid of your glow in the dark panties!)/fetal pig growth hormone, forget about it. Hope is not your friend. Hope is the name of a soap opera character. It is most likely Special K or X or some other drug that goes by a letter of the alphabet (this is how I plan on teaching my future two-headed children the alphabet, by the way. That stupid 'ABC' song is so yesterday), and once the hallucinations of dead people and delusions that you are Scott Baio's ex-wife stop you will find yourself alone, watching Charles In Charge, battling a debilitating drug addiction.
So yeah. Don't end up like me Don't eat the little white unmarked pill. And that concludes today's lesson.

Monkeys need sleep, too, you know. Otherwise they will die horrible, sad little monkey sleep-deprived deaths and then come back and haunt you with their little monkey souls for all eternity.

Take Me To Your Troop Leader

I still have nothing to say. Except. I'm pretty sure it's raining nickels, I've got Sunshine In A Box (Oh how I love thee, Girl Scouts. And not in the "Helloooo my pretty little uniform-wearing girl, come sit in mommy's lap" kinda way either. That love is reserved for Boy Scouts. This is a clean, pure love. Not unlike the love I feel for Lifetime Television and people who wear galoshes), AND I read somewhere that doing jumping jacks will make you happy. So I've been doing jumping jacks ever since and you know what? I'm happy.
I'm so happy, I could vomit and my vomit would be happy. I mean, yeah, I also did a few lines of crack and took the twenty-nine anti-depressants that my mailman slipped into my mailbox along with the mail yesterday (I in no way take this as he thinks I'm crazy. I think it was either a.)An accident, or b.)He just wants to make sure I am really, really happy when he asks me to be his Mail Wife and live happily ever after with him in Mail Land), but I'm totally sure it's the jumping jacks. Try it, you might like it.


What I DIDN'T Find Under My Bed Yesterday Morning

1. Chocolate licorice. Or any licorice for that matter. But especially chocolate licorice since it doesn't exist.


2. Anne Frank's diary. And I didn't read it. Or plagiarize it. And not only because it wasn't there, but also because that would be wrong. And I am the opposite of wrong, and if my calculations are correct that would make me right.


3. A map of Luxembourg with red marks near any military locations. Because I make hateful spam e-mail attacks love, not war.


4. My soul. Nope. The goddamn thing stays out all night, comes creeping in around noon, and expects ME to make it breakfast. I don't think so, soul. Try not to choke to death on those Cheerios, ok?


What I DID Find Under My Bed Yesterday Morning

1. A SPEEDO, and TWO SHINY PENNIES. If you are missing either of these, please contact me and I will arrange to have them sent to you. Unless you live in Luxembourg. And then I'm just scared. For me, and for you.


I'm going to bed now. If I wake up tomorrow morning and there is a pinky ring, a gold chain, or a hairy old man under my bed, I'm so moving. In. With You.

It's About Damn Time, March
And When I Say Friend I Mean The Voice In My Head

I really have nothing to write home about, I just wanted to get rid of that goddamn Winnie the Pooh post before A.A. Milne came back from the dead to sue me/take me back to hell with him/ask to be my baby's daddy, and before I vomited Winnie the Pooh bits all over the place. Yeah, that would stain.
And speaking of stains, I can't stop thinking about the Olsen twins. Are they mentally challenged? Do they still call ice cream "ows cream"? Did they really sell their souls to Wal-Mart, and if so, did they get a good price? Are they related to Nellie Olsen from Little House On The prairie? More importantly, did I really just randomly tell one of my friends that "They're not identical twins, you know, they're fraternal. And I can tell you how to tell them apart, too" and after my friend said "What the hell is wrong with you?" did I really continue to tell him how Ashley is half an inch taller and has bigger eyes and a mouth (My friend almost became interested at this point, "Only one of them has a mouth?" "No, you moron, they both do, but Ashley's is bigger." "Ok, I'll try to remember that for the next time I'm face to face with the f#cking Olsen twins")?
And speaking of the Olsen twins, I can't stop thinking THAT I HAVE COMPLETELY LOST MY MIND. Please. Is anyone out there? Help. Me. Posting about Winnie the Pooh and the Olsen twins is a cry for help if I ever heard one.


Confessions Of A Dangerous Mind

1. I shake and baked my cat when I was little. It's not like it died or anything. And it's not like I really baked it or anything, I mean come on, how much damage could my little Easy Bake Oven have done anyway? But I did shake it. And not like a Polaroid. I had seen the Shake 'N Bake commercial and thought it looked like fun. I still think it looks like fun, but anyway, I digress. I found a plastic bag somewhere, threw some toys in it, then threw my lovely cat Mr. Whiskers* in and began shaking. I walked all around my house shaking that bag and yelling at the top of my little lungs "Shake and Bake, shake and bake, shake and bake". My mother was doing dishes in the kitchen and when I walked in there shaking the bag she asked what I had in the bag. I gleefully shouted "Toys!" She let it go for a few minutes until she heard a mysterious gasping noise coming from the bag, and then she ran over and grabbed it away from me and released Mr. Whiskers, who was panting like it was nobody's business. My mom yelled at me, I cried, Mr. Whiskers drank some water, and I haven't Shake and Baked since.


2. Also when I was younger, I had this neighbor who was a couple of years younger than me, and I swear, possibly, ummm, "challenged". And her name was Mary-Kate Olsen. The end. Just kidding, Mary-Kate! Her name was Lynn, and she worshipped me (see, "challenged"!). I was a mean child though, not at all the warm and loving adult I am now (ha ha, I can't even type that with a straight face). I used to tell Lynn that I would let her be in my Secret Club if she would let me chop off all her hair with my mom's sewing scissors/drink a tall glass filled with anything and everything in my refrigerator, including ketchup, raw eggs, pickle juice, strawberry jam, and Hi-C/give me all her Barbie stuff. And she did. And I never had a Secret Club. But I do now, so Lynn, if you're out there reading this, I will give you a free lifetime membership, and I will even waive the mandatory psychological screening just for you.


3. My cat's name wasn't really Mr. Whiskers. I just made that up. No, I don't know why. Do I really need a reason? Oh. Well then. I did it to protect the innocent? Yeah, that's it.


4. I cheat at scrabble. I make up words, try to pass them off as real words, and then get upset when questioned. I have been known to shout things like "Don't you TRUST me? What do we have if we don't have trust? Of course 'hocker' is a word! It's that new sport they play in England, kind of like soccer, only they use hand grenades!" And this is probably why no one lets me join in their reindeer games anymore.


5. I had to delete #5. I am wanted in many countries and it jeopardized my cover. And also because my brain keyboard thinks "President" is spelled C-h-e-e-r-l-e-a-d-e-r, and that would have been like getting two confessions for the price of one and I really couldn't allow that since the proceeds are going towards buying a new bag of Twizzlers getting that much needed brain surgery.


If my soul hadn't gone out on another drinking binge down at the local bar I bet it would feel so cleansed right now.