Sometimes When I Don't Sleep For Days,
I Start To Hallucinate Elephants And William H. Macy

Ok. Well, yeah, I've been missing in action, but really, there was no need for you to seek solace in drugs or alcohol or barnyard animal sex. Oh yes, folks, that's right; I know what you've been doing. Just because you can't see me doesn't mean I can't see you. Everyday my super hero powers get a little bit stronger. It helps that I'm wearing my Wonder Woman underwear. And haven't taken them off since March. Yeah.
Anyway. Listen, I can explain my absence, really I can. It's like this. I'm pretty sure I was taken hostage by Mai Mai rebels in the Congo. Again. I mean, it's definitely either that or I recently became Mrs. William H. Macy and have been in North Dakota on my honeymoon. Or I was incarcerated for taking obscene photos of my mailman. Or I was incarcerated for drugging and tying up my mailman so I could take the aforementioned photographs. Or maybe I just decided to devote my life to ice skating and spent the last 14 days trying out for The Special Olympics Disney On Ice. Is it so hard for you people to believe that I might have been recording an album of romantic duets and Air Supply covers with Ice Cube? Ice Cube frowns on blogging, you know. I suggested he start a blog, but when I told him guns weren't involved he asked if we could just get back to singing "Making Love Out of Nothing At All". So we did.

Hey. Did I mention I have nothing to say? Because I don't. Clearly.


Confessions Of A Dangerous Mind, Part Deux,
In Which Skipper Is A Strong Swimmer,
And Steve Speaks To Me From The Afterlife
While Dressed Not As A Dog, But As A Bear


1. I used to try to drown Skipper. You know Skipper, Barbie's flat-chested sister? Or was it her friend? Lesbian lover? CIA Handler? Truth be told, I was never really clear on Skipper's relationship to Barbie, I just knew I hated her, and when cutting off all her hair and telling her she was adopted after her real family left her in a dumpster to die didn't put her in her place, drowning just seemed like the next logical step. It never worked though. Probably because she was never really alive to begin with, but who can say for sure other than Skipper herself and she moved to Vietnam with my next door neighbors when I was 10, so she can't really come to the phone right now. Or so her new owners keep telling me when I call them collect to see if Skipper has forgiven me for all those botched attempts on her life.


2. I'm strangely attracted to Steve from Blue's Clues. Well it's not like I watch Blue's Clues on a regular basis or tape it when I am going to miss an episode or bought all the DVD's and lock myself in my room at night so I can pleasure myself while watching Steve talk to an animated salt shaker. I've just seen it a few times while babysitting my nephews (babysitting to me equals "Auntie is going to let you watch TV! All night! While Auntie runs out to the liquor store!" Except for that part about the liquor store. Maybe.) and I was intrigued by, well, by his shirt, mostly. When I finally decided to come clean about my feelings for Steve to a friend who has a child of her own (and thus knows things about Nickelodeon and animated dogs and baby puke), she told me Steve was DEAD. Dead or in college, she said. His age? According to her he is "50. Or 25." Anything else I should know about Steve? "He writes music now. And he maybe ditched the green shirt for a bear costume and some Lips". Well if that doesn't describe my dream man, I don't know what does.


3. I like to wear swim goggles in the bathtub and pretend I'm deep sea diving.


This was almost fun and all, but now I have to go write out my wedding gift thank you cards (oh, you didn't send a gift? Nice, real nice. I'll remember that. And so will William H. And also, William H. says to tell you that people GO TO HELL for lesser things!)/pick up trash along the highway as part of my community service (definitely worth it for those nude mailman photos, let me tell you)/call Nancy Kerrigan to ask what time we will be practicing our triple salchow with side by side double axels, and will Moira Kelly and D.B. Sweeney be there?/start taking my meds again. Immediately. The green ones. We don't want any more incidents like this now, do we?

The Magic 8 Ball Says "Outlook Not Good,"
Which Translates Loosely To
"Your Retinas Will Burst Into Flames"

5 Things You Didn't Catch Me Doing Over The Weekend
And Not Just Because I Was In Jail, Like Last Time

1. Roasting a pig on a stick in my front yard. Or partaking in any pig-on-a-stick roasting in anyone's front or back yard. Or partaking in any human sacrifices at the altar of the devil.


2. Cracking my head open while being run over by a three year old on a tricycle. Every time my nephew came wheeling towards me at full tricycle speed he would scream "Watch ouuuuuuuuut...I'm going crack your head open!"
In terms of how frightening it was, I can only compare it to that time the other Smurfs turned on Papa Smurf and attacked him with a giant mushroom. So yeah, I told him I didn't know him well enough to let him crack my head open and he got all serious and adult like and said "No, just for pretend!" Ohhh, ok then. Tell that to THE POLICE, little boy, that's what I said.


3. Finding any eggs with dead baby chicks in them. Or any eggs at all. Easter Bunny bastard.


4. Attaching bunny ears to my cats' heads and making them pose for pictures. Because I'm not quite at that stage of the disease yet, thanks for asking. Maybe next year.


5. Giving birth. Yeah. One of my older brothers, who is married and settled with 2.5 kids, the white picket fence, the SUV with built in DVD player for those mindless hours of Elmo Takes Manhattan, or whatever the hell Elmo is doing these days, and the whole shebang, loves to ask me what I'm "up to" which is his special way of asking if I'm "with child". Uhh, aren't we missing a step here? This weekend I got bored so I told him I was in fact pregnant and that I had just dropped the afterbirth on the floor of his gargantuan SUV's passenger side and left the baby in his neighbor's trash can. He just stared at me the way you are probably staring at the screen right now, with a combination of fear and horror and confusion and a smidge of excitement. And then we had sex. Oh. No, I'm pretty sure that didn't happen.
Now if someone could kindly show V.C. Andrews to the clearly marked Exit door inside my brain, that would be great.


5 Things You Might Have Caught Me Doing This Weekend
If You Weren't So Busy Playing With Your Wind-Up Toys

1. Being given a brand new digital camera and photo printer. Just because I asked and just because no one can say no to this face. Except my mailman. And Jared Leto. But let's not get into that. Once I figure out how to work the thing I will be posting photos galore. Maybe. Tasteful photos. Of my ASS.
No, not really. Maybe of my mailman's ass though.


2. Being called cheap by a GAS STATION ATTENDANT because I didn't want to buy "Two Reese's Peanut Butter Cups For A Dollar," and when did gas station attendants start working on commission anyway? I ought to go back there next week and recreate that "You work on commission, don't you?" scene from Pretty Woman and show her a receipt for 50 Reese's Peanut Butter Cups which I will have purchased at a different gas station. Except I won't. Because I have this thing about buying candy where I buy my gas, ok? Never the two shall meet! Or something.


3. Watching Fillmore, some cartoon that, as far as I could tell, is about a bunch of narc middle school kids and that's about it. What the hell? I was severely disturbed and confused and if I was a kid watching that I would never want to go to school. Oh and I want my mommy.


4. Listening to country music. It might have even been the same song, just played over and over and over again. Something about some guy's wife leaving him and taking the dog, maybe? I couldn't really tell you because after 2 minutes and 20 seconds my ears started bleeding. I'm even surer now than I was when I saw my face on the milk carton that I am either adopted or abducted. If you think you might be my real family, please e-mail me your address so I can come live with you. Or just a check would be nice. Your choice. I love you, real family!


5. Painting my nails Vixen Red to see if there is any truth to the Amish tale that red nail polish = sex. Yeah. I know what you are thinking. Does it count if it's with a family member? What about if it's with Haley Joel Osment? Sick-o! You just had to go and ruin a perfectly quaint piece of Amish history, didn't you? You are going to HELL, baby.


Ok. Now you know too much. I'm going to have to kill you. But it will have to wait, because I have more pressing things to attend to, such as the growth in my left eye. Don't worry; I've narrowed it down to either a tumor or a baby. I'm hoping it's a baby because I'm sure that giving birth out of my eye socket would come with some sort of merit badge that I missed out on when my parents refused to sign me up for The Girl Scouts.

This Is Sort Of Like That Time I Didn't Pay My Pimp
And Winnie The Pooh Repossessed My Soul
(Only With Less Honey)

If my life was a movie, at this time it would be a slightly more psychotic version of Being John Malkovich with me as John Malkovich, and weirdly enough, Sarah Jessica Parker playing the role of EVERYONE ELSE, including the monkey.
So yeah, I'm afraid, and you should be afraid for me. Please.

If I Had An Extra Arm I Would Learn To Play The Violin.
Or Maybe I Would Pretend I Was A Killer Octopus
That Mutated From The Depths Of Lake Erie.

Ok, I have a question. Would you believe me if I told you that I have had Roxette locked in my basement since the summer of 1990, where I make them perform "It Must Have Been Love (But It's F*cking Over Now, Richard Gere, You Bastard)" over and over again on a daily basis until they bow their little spiky heads and break down in tears? Well you should. Because Kirstie Alley could learn a thing or two from me. Yeah, not sure what that means either. Freudian slip. I LOVE YOU, KIRSTIE. No. I don't. But I would. If she wasn't a scary robot that worked for Pier 1 Imports who had a talking baby that sounded like Roseanne Barr. Ok, I'm so over this Kirstie Alley talk, let's move on.


So what did you do yesterday? Wait, don't tell me. Let me guess. I've been trying to get in touch with my inner psychic lately (whose name I'm pretty sure is "Lola", so if you get a strong uhh, vibration, from a Lola, that's me trying to send you telepathic blog posts and chicken recipes), this should be a piece of cake. Ok. You got a new watch? You set a bunny free? You saw Sarah Jessica Parker making out with Alanis Morisestte? You saw a commercial for MTV's The Real World in which it was revealed that the red headed girl is a...*gasp*...Cutter and you bet Mary-Ellis Bunim was rolling over in her grave, and then you wondered why this kind of stuff never happens on The Real World...Bloggerstyle? Well? Fine. Enough about you then. Let's talk about me.
I made brownies, threatened my cat's life with a screwdriver, met a guy at the grocery store (and he didn't even follow me around asking me if I liked lamb, or sardines, or anchovies, like that other guy, so chalk one up for Supermarket Guy Who Let Me Cut Ahead Of Him In Line And Only Asked For My Phone Number And My SOUL In Return), realized you can never trust people whose names end in a vowel, but then I realized my name ends in a vowel, so I amended the rule to people whose names end in "I", and for half an hour I pretended I was Jennifer Beals in Flashdance, which, if you think about it, is better than pretending I was Jennifer Grey in Dirty Dancing, right? Right?
Today is another day.
Today I'm just going to try not to sprain my ankle or wake any sleeping puppies. I suggest you do the same.

If Britney Spears Would Do
a.) Crack, And b.) Charlie Sheen,
I Would Have More Respect For Her. Way More.

Ok, so I lied. But listen. Last night I dreamt that I was a HOOKER. Just for the record, I blame this entirely on Bored Housewife and her friend Becky. Oh, and while I'm at it, I also blame the entire state of Utah. So yeah, dreaming you're a hooker? Not so bad. Dreaming you're a cheap hooker? Bad. Dreaming you're a cheap hooker who only caters to pharmacists who look alarmingly similar to Anthony Edwards? Really, really bad. Sure, there are worse ways to make $40 (yes, $40. But I'll have you know I talked him up from $20 because I am so worth it, baby), I just can't think of any right now. Thanks, Utah.


So in other exciting news, I've given up my dream of my life being made into a Very Special Blossom VH1 Behind The Music episode. Since everyone hates me. Or since no one wants to form a band with me. Same thing. I did take clarinet lessons in 6th grade, you know. Anyway. It's ok, really. I mean, no one even invited me to audition for them, and I may have cried a little in my nachos, but my therapist says I don't need a band to validate me, I just need to have sex with him on the couch in his office for $200 an hour. So yeah, I'm fine. Thanks for asking.


My E! True Hollywood Story Checklist

1. Debilitating Drug Addiction.
Have you seen those Febreze commercials with the people who keep going in and out of their house so they can smell that wonderful Febreze smell again and again and they look insanely and deliriously happy to be doing so? What the hell? I know what you're thinking, because I thought it, too. Is Febreze the poor man's crack? Allow me to answer this one. Yeah, it is. I can attest to this because I bought some (I couldn't resist! I wanted to experience the kind of happiness that occurs in people and, apparently, dogs when Febreze comes over to play, damn it!) and I'm not sure if it's because I got a wee bit carried away and sprayed the entire bottle in one small, enclosed room and maybe inhaled a little too much Febreziness, but I'm pretty positive Unicorns leaped out of the bottle at one point and frolicked with me in what was my torture chamber office, but what magically turned into a field of daisies. I'm telling you, this stuff is so good I'm stocking up now so I can hit the playgrounds first thing next week and sell it to some kids for their lunch money and a Twinkie.


2. Family Dysfunction Causing Irreparable Harm And Thus Turning Me Into The Kind Of Person Likely To Be Found Unconscious In The Back Of Some Guy's Van Wearing A Hula Skirt And Clutching A Stuffed Monkey.
When I was 16 my stepmother, who you should know also bought me this movie (causing me to wonder for years if she was trying to tell me something), taught me to drive. In a cemetery. Yeah. All I could think about was how I was driving over all these dead people, and what if they got mad because they were here for peace, what if they got up and started chasing after me? Would my alien stepmother protect me? Could I drive fast enough in here to get away from them? It's pretty hard to focus on learning to drive when you're acting out Night of the Living Dead scenarios in your head, and that's probably why I crashed her new car into a tree. This is probably also why I have that fear. Of cars. And dead people. And trees. And aliens.


3. Tumultuous Love Affairs With Bad Boys Who Speak Four Languages, But Haven't Figured Out That Brushing Your Teeth Is To Be Done Only In The Bathroom.
So far I have agreed to marry 12 different guys, one girl, and I am one margarita away from ending up in Vegas, drunk, and married for 24 hours to someone who wears a tie, tells me he is President, and lets me call him Martin Sheen.


4. Deep, Dark Secret That Would Keep Me From Running For Office.
My real name is Bathy, and after my father died when I was a teenager my mother took me, my two brothers, Bory and Bris, and my younger sister Barrie to live with her at our grandparents' house. Little did we know that she would be locking us in the attic where she planned to keep us forever while she led her own extravagant life with out the hindrance of children. As if it wasn't bad enough being locked in the attic, our grandmother was secretly poisoning our cookies, which lead to the untimely demise of little blonde Bory (if you ask me that's what the little blonde bastard gets for eating all the cookies, but really, I sure do miss him!). It wasn't until four years later that we were able to escape and in the four years that we were locked up, I have to tell you, my relationship with my brother Bris became incestuous. I can feel you judging me. But I highly doubt that there is a single one of you who wouldn't engage in a little something something with your opposite sex sibling if you were locked in an attic during your pubescent years. Oh wait, that wasn't me, that was Cathy in the V.C. Andrews book Flowers In The Attic! Oopsy. I am always getting the two of us confused.


The list in my head was longer, but I got distracted thinking how funny it would have been if for an April Fool's joke today I had told my brother that my mother told me HE was really my biological father and that the secrets and lies MUST stop.
LOOK, IT'S THE POST THAT WOULDN'T END! KILL ME! NOW!