She Makes Me Cry, And Not In That OHMYGODSHE'SAMERMAID!SHELIVESUNDERTHESEA!IHOPESHEGETSTHEHANDSOMEPRINCE! Kinda Way.

Seriously. I hate The Little Mermaid.

If I Could FORRRRRGETTTTTTTT
I Wouldn't Be Having This Conversation With Myself,
And I Wouldn't Live In Fear Of A Potato Revolution.

Ok, so, seriously? If I was Julianne Moore and everyone, and when I say everyone I mean Gary Sinise, started telling me that I was crazy and my 9 year old child never existed, that he was a figment of my imagination? I would just go with it. It wouldn't take some freakish poor excuse for an alien guy shouting "You need to FORRRRRRGETTTTTTTTT" and tons of broken glass and people being sucked up into the sky right before my very eyes to make me say "Yeah, you know what, you're right, it really is unlikely that I would allow the burning hot seed of Anthony Edwards to be planted in my baby hole, even if I did have that dream that time about me being a prostitute and him paying me $2 for some lovin'. I think I'll not run around screaming SAMSAMSAMSAMSAM in the loudest, shrillest voice possible just in case SAMSAMSAMSAMSAM is not just an imaginary child, but an imaginary HEARING IMPAIRED child or, say, I don't know, a DOG and go to Vermont and make my own maple syrup instead." And that is all that I can say on that. Really.

Anyway. Back to my OhI'mjustpeelingpotatoeslalalaheywaitisthat?ohmygodthepotatoes!they'reALIVEandscreamingandPISSED dream now. Over and out.
WWDDLD?

Juicy Juice: Drink Of The Sleep Deprived
Or
Did She Just Say Anus?

Maybe I take my dead Presidents’ birthdays seriously, ok?
I cut down a cherry tree Monday. I didn’t even have to use an axe, I just flashed my pearly, bloody, Crest-y whites at the tree and it cut itself down, baby. What? I don’t know.
The latest Deathstrips symptoms include, but are not limited to, itchy toes, an incomprehensible admiration for Aaron Neville’s mole, loss of sense of smell and taste, and random profuse bleeding. Of the mouth. And ANUS. No, I kid. But really I’m not in the position to rule anything out yet, especially since I have not slept in days and today I broke down in tears when I couldn’t find a parking spot outside Starbucks, which had I actually found would have been pointless anyway since I am unable to drink coffee or any fluid other than my own (or David Schwimmer’s) saliva since my stomach swallowed itself after Day 3 of Crest’s 7 Day Plan to Rid Me of My Pesky Internal Organs. Help me.
No, don’t bother. I’m sure this is one of those Character Building Experiences I will look back on later fondly and did I mention the cherry tree cutting?

Anyway. While we’re on the subject of bodily fluids, you should know my family is breeding like rabid bunnies who heard Glenn Close was coming to town, and I feel the need to warn you because this can only mean they will run out of space in HELL soon and some of you might end up doomed to roam the floors of Target with Oprah Winfrey, Daisy Fuentes, and the cast of Saved By The Bell for all eternity. Yes. It is that bad.
Brothers #1 and #3 have both knocked up their wives, and brother #2 probably would have knocked up all of the ladies in his How Not To Drive Drunk class by now if not for the tragic accident involving brother #1 hitting him in the “berries” with his little league bat so many years ago, rendering him sterile (Seriously. You can’t make this stuff up). Hello? We are not a family that should be spreading our crazy seed.
Last weekend was my nephew’s 4th Birthday party and none of his little preschool friends showed up. After countless “Where my friends are?” and my brother and sister-in-law’s pathetic attempts to hide the truth by saying they were all sick (Ha! Like that time your prom date was “sick” and didn’t show up to pick you up and later when you convinced your mom to be your date you saw him slow dancing with that slut Mindy to “Open Arms” by Journey), I knew I had to tell my nephew the truth, that his little friends’ parents feared our family would teach their innocent children about Juicy Juice enemas and have them snorting lines of coke off the Buzz Lightyear paper tablecloth before playing a rousing game of Pin the Tail on Jonbenet Ramsey. Which is exactly what we did at my 4th birthday party! Or no, we didn't. But still. The truth is out there. And it hurts.

Yeah, not sleeping is bad, bad, bad.

For A Quarter A Day You, Too,
Can Help Buy Me A New Pancreas And True Love

Someone really needs to tell Crest to add to their list of things you can do while wearing their White Deathstrips. "Shower/get ready in the morning?" Pshhaw. Watch The Bad News Bears Go to Japan at 3 a.m. because you have almost completely phased out the need for sleep thanks to the searing pain in your teeth and the sliver of pancreas you have that hasn't already disintegrated from the bleach? Check. (A love story, a little boy killing Godzilla with his baseball bat, and "Take Me Out to the Ballgame" sung in Japanese all in one glorious movie, people! I can die now. No, really. I can. Everything else in life is bound to be a monumental disappointment in comparison).
And speaking of Valentine's Day, in honor of all the people everywhere getting Kissing Bears/Blushing Bears/Huggin' Bears/gonorrhea today, I give you an entry from the diary of a true romantic. Anna Nicole Smith. Yeah, no. A fourteen year old me.



I guess this answers the whole "Were you born this way or was it the alien abduction and subsequent anal probing that made you this way" question.
I love my fourteen year old reasoning though. I was convinced having a quarter would have changed my life because he would have "had" to pay me back and then he would have "had" to talk to me again. And declare his undying love. And ask me to go steady. And had hot unprotected sex with me in his Mazda Miata. Sigh. I'm going to try this tactic out on my mechanic and/or mailman tomorrow. Yeah. If you see a crazy woman running down the street chasing a man in uniform/overalls yelling “I know you NEED a quarter and I have one, I have a quarter for you! TAKE MY QUARTER” it’s just me. Do not be afraid.
And let this be a lesson to you. Always keep an extra quarter on you, and if you're going to use two exclamation marks be sure to turn the two dots into a smiley face. OR you could not and instead you could really enjoy lying awake at night staring at the glow-in-the-dark stars on your ceiling wondering what might have been if you had just had a goddamn quarter/if your parents had not made you eat kielbasa and sealed your fate in hell. The choice is yours, Daniel-san.
Go forth and be brave, pound puppies.

They Also Told Me To Drink The Special Kool-Aid,
A.K.A.
How To Win God's Smile Of Approval

So. I have decided to obey my voices. Sort of like Obeying My Thirst, only with less thirst and more voices screaming "Buy Crest Whitestrips, buy Crest Whitestrips! So what if they cause you to digest your own stomach lining, at least you will have the whitest teeth this side of Tullamore and then your mechanic/mailman/friendly neighborhood grocer who bears no resemblance to Anthony Edwards whatsoever will want to give you the John Cougar Mellencamp hurt-so-good bad touch and it won't matter that you put regular dish soap in the dishwasher instead of dishwasher detergent and flooded your kitchen with bubbles or that your toaster burst into flames when you were trying to make english muffin pizzas in it because the whiteness of your teeth will blind everyone to everything but your good qualities, which let's be frank, consist of your ASS, your keen fashion sense when it comes to socks, oh and your ASS."
What? Yeah. You know how it is.
Hopefully I don't end up looking like this, and hopefully the intestinal organ failure warning on the box is just a precaution and hopefully I don't end up vomiting my own (or David Schwimmer's) blood, because that would probably stain my teeth and gee, I'd really hate to have to do it twice. Hey, maybe Crest will ask me to do a testimonial for them!

We have secretly replaced Belle's spleen with a spleen made entirely out of Swedish Fish, let's see if anyone notices!
"Wow, your teeth are like, totally white! I think something gummi just oozed out of your belly button... So it really only took 7 days to get your teeth that white?"

Excuse me, I have to go write out my last will and testament.

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.

Don't Hate Me Because I'm Beautiful,
Hate Me Because I Ran Over Your Dog
On My Way Out Of Town




I have deserted you again, mes petits legumes.
Either Martin Sheen has had me arrested for breaking and entering and kidnapping and holding a gun to his head, forcing him to speak to me in Latin and call me his First Lady, or, a family crisis has caused me to travel home, where the townsfolk's idea of fun is to sit in parked cars in the Dunkin' Donuts parking lot, blasting Los Lonely Boys and drinking Yoo-Hoo.
Either way, life is currently not the bowl of peanut butter cups it was promised to be and I will be MIA until someone bails me out of jail or something.