There Is Nothing Here About Wax Beans,
Part I

Right. So. Hi. Anyone still out there? No? Great, then I can skip the part about my delayed existential crisis involving the Olsen Twins, Lysol disinfectant, satellites falling from the sky, Grasshoppers, Dawn Penn's "You Don't Love Me" played 57 times straight and why you shouldn't ever trust a man in a white turtleneck or eat handfuls of raw meat from the backseat of a station wagon and get right to the part about how someone needs to come take away my oven right now.

You would think that since I have only been allowed to use my Easy Bake Oven after I last set the stove on fire when I boiled water and forgot to add the water that this wouldn't be necessary. Yeah, wrong. Wrong. Wrong. Yep, still wrong.

I'm going to offer you many wise and important pieces of advice during this post because I've just discovered that I'm a Sage/the voices are telling me to/nobody other than the cast of "Who's The Boss?" will listen to me, and of that advice please note that baking cookies when you haven't slept in eleven billion days other than a few minutes in which you have dreams of Pamela Smart lighting you on fire and being seduced by Lex Luthor after beating him at a game of Monopoly is Not A Good Idea. Jesus will pick just that time to strike you down with extreme fatigue and you will pass out and wake up an hour and a half after putting the cookies in the oven to a whole lot of smoke and no cookies. I know what you are thinking, and well, I'm thinking it too. Did that crazy girl just blame Jesus for a kitchen fire and burnt cookies? Did she mean Jesus our savior or Hey-Zeus her gardener? Oh. I don't have a gardener. But if I did his name would be Jesus. And he would lovingly tend to my garden everyday. Until he snapped and killed me in a homicidal rage and we ended up the next greatest Lifetime Television for Captive Women Movie of the Week starring Nancy McKeon and a really tan Jack Wagner sporting a really bad Guatemalan accent.

Ok, maybe I'm not entirely over my existential crisis.

Is it normal to lie awake at night wishing I had a debilitating drug habit and that Phylicia Rashad had a debilitating drug habit because I think she'd make a great drug buddy and she wouldn't mind if I called her "Mrs. Cosby" or "Mom" or "Bitch, pass the crack pipe"?
But anyway, in other non-sitcom show or drug related, and yet still somehow equally as exciting news, I am in love. With my friendly neighborhood Best Buy employee. Yep. Sorry to crush your last hope that you could be The One I Am Willing To Miss The West Wing For, but Best Buy Guy and I are going to get married in a little chapel by the sea and have 17 little Best Buy Babies who will possess an innate knowledge of electronics, and who will come out of the womb wearing khakis, blue polo shirts, and name tags. Well, once Best Buy Guy realizes I will boil his Best Buy bunny if he doesn't admit he loves me and is weaned from his mother's teat this all might happen.

Yeah, I said teat. And I'll say it again if I want because did I mention I'm in the middle of an existential crisis and I wish my name was Mary-Kate?

Ok, ok, I know you're all "no, really, what have you been up to in all these many, many days you have neglected to post and thus forced us to watch barnyard animal porn and read Wil Wheaton's blog (and never the two shall meet)?" but that will have to wait until tomorrow. Another of the inpatients wants to use the computer to write a letter to Catherine Zeta-Jones and I still have to finish my paper mache Donald Trump Head before Lights Out.