You should probably just go read something else
...because I have nothing to say. Hi! Nothing! Thhhppbbt!
Still. I'm kind of bored, so I figured I'd write something anyway. Y'all know how I get.
We had an awesome weekend, and I may even get around to posting a story or two about it. Maybe I'll talk about going swimming at midnight with Mad, who chose that exact moment, when we were alone, to ask about whether the Easter Bunny would be coming that night or whether it's all just a total load of bullshit perpetuated by The Man. Or, oooo! How about the time Mad looked at a vaguely pornographic black and white nude I had forgotten to take down from the den, and innocently asked me, "What's that?"
I turned around to answer her, but then I realized what she was looking at, and my eyes grew to the size of dinner plates and all I could manage was a little "eeeeeee" noise from the back of my throat. AB fell off of the couch trying to laugh silently at my INTENSE DISCOMFORT, while I looked at her, all, I'M SORRY I ACCIDENTALLY SHOWED YOUR CHILD SOME PORN, ANNA BETH.
Those are some examples of things that happened. Also: rocking, starring Dukay and Vince, and very loud singing, featuring AB, myself, and Mad. But mostly me and AB. Especially when it is time to really ask yourself, really what is going on? Where is the love?
It was mostly in my den. As I previously mentioned.
And...nothing else! I've been busy, though. Sort of. And this is where I make another confession, but one that is startlingly less interesting than the poop confession of the last confessional entry, but...well, really, I can't top the poop confession. Which is a good thing, I suppose.
But anyway. So one of my friends (hi Dig!) sent me an email last week wondering where in the hell I was, because we hadn't done big social things in days, and I finally had to admit that I have gotten myself this very embarrassing new hobby, that I picked up by accident, in the style of a nasty viral infection.
And, see, (now is where I explain myself to try to make this sound normal. Pay attention) it all started because I hate the radio, HATE YOU, RADIO. All Atlanta stations are desperate to appeal to either the 16-28 year old immature male group, so it's all "Fear Factor" and trying to swallow animal testicles at eight in the morning, which...no, OR it's going for whatever Lifetime-movie lovers (which...okay, sometimes me, but shut up) want to hear, which includes stories of Love and Togetherness and Weddings on the Beach (aw!), interrupted occasionally by Tales Of Children On The Brink Of Death But Who Were Then Saved By The Dog. And even that I could handle, if they didn't feel the need to punctuate an already interesting (shut UP, I said) radio story with snippets of EASY LISTENING MUSIC. I mean...have you heard this? Do you know what I'm talking about? Someone is talking, and then the station will cut away from that to play a few seconds of some heart-wrenching song, and then, WHUMP, back to the interview? It's disconcerting. I HATE. Here's an example:
Lady on radio: So, the dog was whining for me to follow him, and I finally decided I'd better turn off the Springer and go on upstairs...
Sudden CutAway Fairy: Did you ever knooooow that you're my heeeeeeeeeeeeroooooooo?
Lady: ...and there was the baby, sitting in the middle of the floor, just chewing away on something...
CutAway Fairy: Did I ever TELL you YOU'RE MY HEEEEEEEEEEERO? You're EVERYTHING, EVERYTHING, I WISH I COULD BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE.
Lady: ...and THAT'S when I saw that the baby was eating from the big box of broken glass I like to keep next to his crib!
CutAway Fairy: Walkin' on, walkin' on, broken glaaaaaaaaaaaass!
And so forth. I'm guessing this isn't just an Atlanta thing, but it has finally, permanently driven me away from the radio. And don't get me started on the AM stations. Just...don't. And I love me some NPR, but it doesn't hold my attention the way that babies who eat boxes of glass shards might. I need stories! I need entertainment! So what's a girl to do?
Well. A girl goes on Amazon and buys a shit ton of books on tape, is what she does. (We are, of course, now talking about me.) I went on Amazon and bought about ten of the things, which ranged in price from fifty cents to seven dollars (because the tapes are cheap, people! Forego the CDs of Expensiveness!), and now my car is FULL of wondrous, terrible, cheesy Dean Koontz or Jeffrey Deaver crime novels, and I don't even MIND the traffic, and I am like a woman reborn.
But here comes the confession part, and that is that I keep on getting sucked into these damn tapes. When I get home, I don't want to get out of the car. I want to hear the rest of the chapter, dammit! But driving all the way to Snellville isn't so much an option, so ultimately, I have settled for bringing the tapes inSIDE, popping them on in the den, and sitting there and listening to them. For. HOURS.
And, really, I don't know why this seems so much more shameful to me than just watching television. If I were to sit there and watch TV for three hours, nobody would make fun of me. Conversely, if I were to just read for three hours, nobody would say a word. But...there's just something about sitting in your den, twiddling your thumbs and looking out the window, or picking lint off the sofa, or annoying the SHIT out of the dogs by attempting to brush their teeth with your fingers, while LISTENING to a story. It's just...weird. It's weird.
And I was kind of embarrassed about this new hobby, because let's just go ahead and admit that it puts me squarely in nerd category, but also, LAZY nerd category, because I'm too lazy to use my own EYES to read a book, and instead am all whiny and, "No, YOOOOOOU read it to me," and then this is combined with the sitting and the idle hands, and IT'S JUST KIND OF STRANGE. So when Dukay shows up, I realquick turn off the tape player. So now...uh, now Dukay thinks I just sit in my den, with the television and stereo off, just...sitting. Which is really no improvement, now that I think about it. I think he is kind of scared, actually. Hee! Oops! Sorry, Dukay. I'm not plotting your death.
But anyway! That is what I've been doing. Rocking with Chaos, exposing nine year-olds to pornography, and listening to bad books on tape. It's kind of awesome, and kind of pathetic, and COMPLETELY satisfying. Like eating an entire pie.
So! If you have any suggestions for great books on tape? And by "great", I mean, "really fucking awful"? Don't hold back, people! I will love you forever, and if you have children, I might even expose them to a little bit of accidental porn. You don't even have to thank me.
Guess Who's Coming to Dinner? And...Breakfast?
So, guess who's here.
This lady. And her handsome husband, and her beautiful daughter, the latter of which has descended upon Dukay and Bo with a packet of googly-eye stickers and now we all have several extra eyeballs. In various places. At one point, Dukay had about six, some of which were on his ears. And Bo did not like the eye on his butt, but I thought it was very fetching. And practical! We all need butt eyes!
AB says hi. Now!
Leigh just told me to say something cool, but it's hard when you are as hot as fire. Also, maybe a little bit drunk. I have to go now, to help El Dukay install something on his computer, but know this: I am not a Puerto Rican ballerina, and I can kick your ass in pool.
Heeeeeee. AB is funny. Also, Vince and Dukay are apparently in love, and have been sitting all close and sweet on the sofa for about sixty hours, and Vince wore Dukay's shirt, letter-jacket style, for two days.
It's all about the love here. Seriously. LOVE.
We have drunk (drinken? I completely forget. Blame wine!) everything. We have eaten seventeen pounds of Easter candy. Thank you, Easter Bunny!
I have to go now, and make out with whomever is closest. LOVE! Hope y'all are having happy Easters!
Because really, what else are you going to do on a Thursday morning?
Dukay and I spent a lot of time together in the car this past weekend, driving to and from Charleston. And Dukay is not the best little road tripper in the world, because when Dukay is driving, he wants to FOCUS on driving. He is CONCENTRATING on the road. He just wants to listen to his music, man, and he does not want to make boring old small talk with me, whom he sees every day.
This is boring to me. So I basically just bother the fuck out of him whenever we're in the car together, all, "What's wrong? Are you okay? You haven't said a word in six miles. SIX MILES! Do you want to talk about politics? Do you want to talk about art? What's your favorite color?"
And so on. I am really, really obnoxious. But that's okay, because I am also kind of cute. So it balances out!
Anyway. So we were driving forever, and I decide to try to engage Dukay in a conversation about our most embarrassing moments, and he, naturally did NOT bite. But I did! I got snared in my own little trap, and I ended up telling Dukay my most embarrassing story ever, and now that I've told him, and he didn't break up with me on the spot? I figured, well, what the hell. I'll tell y'all, too. Don't judge me.
So here it is. In honor of this nasty, rainy, cold St. Patrick's Day, and the ridiculous amount of alcohol that will probably be consumed tonight, I give you: My Most Embarrassing Moment EVER. And, for the third entry in a row, I'm writing about poop. Let's stop this trend really, really quickly. Just as soon as I finish this story.
Okay. So. Back in college, I was dating this guy we called Lumberjack. Jack lived with a shitload of other guys (oh, it's a PUN! Reread! You’ll laugh!) in this highly-sketchy, crappy (ha!) house near campus. All the guys in the house had girlfriends, and all of us girlfriends found ourselves hanging out a lot of the time, while our boyfriends played video games and got drunk and generally acted like frat guys. So on one of these occasions, I was on the front porch smoking cigarettes with the other “house” girlfriends when girlfriend #2 (Just you wait!), who I kind of knew but not really, felt the sudden urge to “drop the bomb,” if you get my drift. So she went inside, hit the bathroom, and did her thing. And then: TERROR. The toilet. Would. Not. Flush. Of course.
So she came tearing back outside, freaking the fuck out, not knowing what to do, because she had just taken an insanely not-ladylike shit in the boys’ toilet, and it was just a matter of time before the odor of it all overtook them in their Playstation trance, and her boyfriend would realize that she was a HUMAN PERSON who did things like MAKE WASTE and he’d break up with her and tell everyone and she’d never get married and so forth. We other ladies sprang to action, if by “sprang to action,” you mean laugh loudly at the predicament and light new cigarettes. But then when we saw that #2 (see? SEE what I did there?) was really honestly panicking, we stubbed them out and headed inside to find a plunger.
And, y’all. There really was something insane going on in that toilet. I’m just saying.
But we dealt with it. I dealt with it, actually, because of four girls, I was the only one who had mastered the art of the plunger. So there was relief and much thanksgiving and so forth, but #2 was also extremely, extremely embarrassed, and probably thinking that maybe we would run down to the sorority houses and tell EVERYONE about the experience, so she started crying.
Now, at this point, there were four of us. Myself, #2, my best friend Ames, and another tertiary girlfriend. We were all trying to comfort #2, who really kind of needed to just calm down already, but she just wasn't having it. She was, like, BAWLING. So I did what any good friend would do, namely, I told her an embarrassing story of my own. Involving poop.
See, the first time I went home to visit Jack’s family, I was sharing a bathroom with Jack. His parents lived in this old farmhouse, which was very nice, but the plumbing? Not so much in the “advanced” category. The plumbing was from Little House on the Prairie. Possibly the plumbing was Amish.
So anyway, the first night I was there, I used this plumbing. And it did not respond...well. It did that gurgling, water-rising thing. And I freaked out accordingly. And there was nothing I could do -- no plunger, not even a toilet brush, and there I was, staying at a house with random parents I hardly knew and a semi-new boyfriend, and all of them had already fallen asleep. I thought fast. Fast! And this is what I came up with.
1. I opened the window.
2. I grabbed a dixie cup.
3. I scooped out the poo.
4. I threw it out the window.
5. I hid the cup in the trash can.
So...yeah, that’s what I did. And, eventually, the water sort of went down and the toilet went back to normal, and I thought all was right with the world. Until the next day, of course, when it turned out that I had thrown the poo ONTO THE BACK PORCH. But even THAT was okay, because they had a big dog.
I know. Oh, I know. Y'all, this is awful. You can stop reading now if you want to.
And...and it wasn’t until I watched LJ’s dad scooping up my own, personal deposit with the dog’s pooper scooper that I almost died of abject humiliation and shame. At that moment, I decided that this was the exact sort of thing I would take to my grave.
Until I had to deal with an uncontrollably bawling #2.
And told her, and the tertiary girlfriend, and Ames, the whole story.
Everyone laughed, and #2 felt better because she could now be secure in the knowledge that, if I were to ostracize her for the circumstances of her bowel movement, she could respond with equal ammunition. We all swore each other to secrecy. We. Swore. We went on with our lives. Until.
Senior year fraternity formal. Imagine twinkling lights, a fine restaurant. Expensive wine and nice dresses. We actually drove from Nashville to Florida for this event, it’s that big of a deal. And about twenty of us were all sitting at this long table, sipping our wine and playing “I Never.” Which is...always appropriate during a fine dining experience, but whatever. Still, though, it was pretty tame stuff, all things considered (by which I mean “considering how ridiculously drunk most of us already were”), like “I never had sex in the fraternity house,” or “I never threw up on that nasty ass couch and pretended I didn’t.” It was tame, people. TAME.
But then? It was Ames’s turn. Ames. Who is missing that part of your brain that filters things. And also that part that remembers things. Like where she was sworn to secrecy. That part. Because she promptly announced, in the loudest voice imaginable, “I never threw my own shit out a window in a dixie cup.”
Total silence. No one was drinking. I actually wasn’t paying all that much attention, and for some reason, I did not immediately realize she was talking about me. I was thinking car window, road trips, some drunk thing one of the drunk ass guys did on the way down here or something. But no. ‘Cause at that point, Ames pointed her finger at me, and hollered, “DRINK, WOMAN!"
Oh, the mortification. MORT. IFICATION. I died. Right then, I died. I am writing this entry from beyond the grave. I did not survive that experience. And the worst part was that...uh, I had never told Jack about it. And so of course, Ames told him (actually, she told EVERYONE, because everyone was now SPELLBOUND) the whole story, INCLUDING the part about JACK'S DAD having to POOPER SCOOP my POO, and Jack almost lost it, but not so much in a good way. Everyone else DID lose it. And, of course, remembered the whole story, detail for excruciating detail, when we got back to school on Monday. Thank God we graduated the next month.
So, to summarize:
1. I have bad poo experience in Indiana
2. I tell friends about bad Indiana poo experience in Nashville
3. Bad Indiana poo experience is shared with everyone I know while in Florida
4. I feel need to share bad poo experience with Dukay somewhere in between Charleston and Atlanta, and:
5. Now I feel like sharing bad poo experience with everyone in the WORLD, and THANK YOU, INTERNET, for allowing me this golden, golden opportunity.
And, this concludes Miss Doxie's Poop week. From now on, I'm talking about bunnies and unicorns, and I don't want to hear SHIT about it.
Happy St. Patrick's Day!
P.S.: Also, a big, non-poop related thank you for the nominations for the Diarist Awards! Y'all nomiated me for best comedic entry AND best journal. That was so nice of you! It makes me feel special and loved, and makes me feel comfortable sharing very, very excruciatingly embarrassing stories with y'all. Aren't you GLAD?
Anyway. If y'all want to vote, here is the main voting page thingy. Now, go drink a green beer!
In Which I Never Learn
...because, after I wrote that entry, about the pooping and the car and the going to the vet? Uh. Well. I made Dukay take the dogs to the vet, and Dukay took the other dogs into the vet first, and left Bo in Dukay's (new) car, and...uh. Bo pooped in Dukay's driver seat.
Right there. Driver's Seat. It was Dump of Displeasure II: The ReDump.
Wait, maybe it should be Poo Two. Or...actually, maybe I should stop thinking about this.
Anyway. Now, this happened, um, because possibly...possibly I had forgotten to mention the poo predicament to Dukay. Okay, yes. I forgot that. But still, TOO BAD, SO SAD, because if he'd only read this SITE every once in a while, he would learn important things about which dog to take into the vet FIRST, and which dog you NEVER, EVER LEAVE UNATTENDED IN THE CAR while you take someone else inside, BECAUSE BAD IDEA, DUDE. Hope you brought Clorox.
See, all y'all know. If I asked any of you, then you would say, "I plan on taking Bo inside first, because I do not want a close, intimate relationship with the poo of another living creature, particularly not before lunch."
For you are all brilliant.
Anyway, after the major explosion that was Dukay after the dog pooped on his seat, things calmed down considerably, and we drove to Charleston.
And we drove. And then we did some driving. And then we drove some more. And then we were still not there, so we did the natural thing, and that is DRIVE SOME MORE, and then we did the next natural thing, and that is we exited the highway too soon and got totally turned around and lost, like the tourists that we are.
But somehow, we eventually found our hotel, and it was lovely, and we managed to find a wonderful restaurant for dinner, and frankly, we were feeling pretty fucking proud of our grown-up, traveling selves. We are so awesome, we were thinking. But we were wrong.
Somehow, as we entered South Carolina, Dukay caught Curse. We're not sure when it happened. But for some reason, every time Dukay ordered food, for the entire weekend, something would be wrong with his order. Every time. It didn't matter if we were at an expensive restaurant or at a hole in the wall; somehow, something was WRONG.
And, Dukay does not deal real well with "wrong." He is a send-backer, which clashes with my own passive-aggressive-"no, it's fine"-restaurant martyrdom. Frankly, his way is probably better, but for some reason, I am physically incapable of sending back a meal. If I found a human thumb in my risotto, I would probably just pick around it and sigh dejectedly; this is the depths of my commitment to not be a pain in the ass to any server at any time.
Also, I am a complete and total chicken, and I am convinced that if I'm a bitchy little diva, someone is going to spit in my food. And, while Dukay does not deal well with "wrong", I do not deal well with spit. I HATE SPIT. Spit freaks me the heck out.
But anyway. At the first restaurant, Dukay's salad was never delivered to our table, and his requested medium-cooked steak showed up frighteningly, terrifyingly rare. Very rare. Rare as in, mooooooo.
So, at first I'm all kidding about it. "Baby," I tell him. "Charleston is flirting with me! Charleston doesn't like you. Charleston wants you out of the way."
The next day, at lunch, Dukay ordered barbecue shrimp. They arrived after I had already finished my meal, and they were still frozen.
This gave me a new theory. "Baby," I suggested brightly. "Charleston thinks you're fat."
Later, Dukay tried for a basket of hushpuppies. They never showed up. My theory was beginning to grow darker. "Baby," I whispered across the table. "Charleston wants you dead."
When we arrived at our final dinner reservation on Saturday night, Dukay explained all of this, in painstaking detail, to our server, who was both horrified and highly entertained. He, in turn, told the chef, who very kindly sent us out an assortment of special things and came by our table to make sure Dukay hadn't, I don't know, CHOKED on something and DIED, because that was about how his luck was going.
But, besides eating everything and drinking everything in our vicinity, we also went on a ghost tour, which was both incredibly touristy and tremendously awesome. The most awesome part was maybe where our tour guide almost got into a smackdown with a competing tour guide from another company, and I got all het up with this newly-forged loyalty to our tour guide, whom I had known for a very special twenty minutes, and proceeded to go all oh NO YOU DIDN'T and called the other tourguide a dried-up old hag.
And then we had to leave the city before she tracked me down and spit in my food. You understand.
There's more, and I should tell you about how Dukay met up with his friend Popsicle, and the two of them ordered seventy pounds of barbecue on Sunday afternoon, and THAT didn't end well. Or how I made Dukay shop pretty much all day on Saturday, but he didn't complain very much because he is vying for sainthood all of a sudden. Or how I made poor footwear choices, because Charleston is a walking town, turns out, and when you are in a walking town, cute pointy high shoes are A FUCKING BAD IDEA, IDIOT, and now my legs are sad at me, and I have actually managed to give myself shin splints, because I am really, really stupid.
All of that happened. But what's important is that we went to Charleston, it was the best weekend I've had in years, and Dukay and I had a lovely, romantic time, even though Charleston possibly wants him to die.
And now, all that's left? Is to pick the dogs up from the vet. Y'all pray for me. And also for the upholstery.
Vay-Cay-Shun, All I Ever Wanted
Tomorrow, El Dukay and I are taking the day off work and going to Charleston, South Carolina, for the weekend, to stay in a hotel with clean sheets and clean towels (this morning I may have been, uh, OUT of clean towels and supplied a disgusted and wet El Dukay with four HAND TOWELS with which to dry his very substantial frame after his shower. This may have happened because I am a shitty housekeeper, but shut up), and to see architecture and do shopping and to celebrate my birthday AGAIN, because I am a bratty, bratty girl who thinks my birthday should be celebrated in a week-long extravaganza of parties and drinking, and can you believe that this whole paragraph is ONE SENTENCE?
It is. Oops.
Anyway. Our trip means I have to board the dogs, which they HATE, OH THEY HATE THAT, and they are right now this second sitting on the sofa and glaring at me with little daggers of hate, because They Know.
They Know, because they saw the suitcase, and their two brain cells collided together in an epiphany of understanding, and that epiphany said:
Clothes Box = Mom leaving = Evil bad vet place where one time I woke up and MY BALLS WERE GONE.
They remember, y'all. Sometimes, I catch Bo looking forlornly at the place his balls used to be. I also think that is what they are looking for when they dig in the yard. I think they are saying, "Is this where they hid my balls? They must be around here SOMEwhere," and then I feel guilty, and this drives me to drink. Y'all know.
So I'm all excited about our trip (see: clean towels), but I am feeling unreasonably guilty about the boarding thing. The dogs all just got back from the vet, because February was Dental Awareness Month, and that does not apply to me, who did NOT go to the dentist, but it did apply to the dogs. I had all four of their evil little teeth cleaned, and they have to be put under for that, and they DO NOT LIKE IT, NO.
When I took them to the vet, I took Tasha in first, and left Bo in the car. (I have to take them two at a time. I am not a superhero, people. I can only do so much.) Well, while I dropped Tasha off, and signed the paperwork, I could see Bo in the car, just...looking at me. And he was Mad. Boy, was he Mad. This is what was happening in Bo's brain:
Bo's Brain: MAD. MAD MAD ANGRY. HATE MOM. AT PLACE WHERE BALLS WENT. BO SO, SO MAD RIGHT NOW. BO GET...BO GET REVENGE.
So then I went out to get him, and had to wrestle him out of the front seat, where he'd hidden himself behind my purse, and my heart broke into fifty million tiny pieces as I lifted his Angry, Angry self out of the car and took him into the vet, whining all the way, and looking at me with those big, puppy dog eyes.
AND IT WAS SO SAD. GIVE ME A MINUTE.
Ahem. So. I get him in there, and they take him away, and I went back to my car. Where I discovered, on the back seat, the LARGEST PILE OF SHIT you have ever SEEN in your natural life.
Y'all, let's recall: Bo is a dachshund. That pile of shit was LARGER than Bo. It is like he had been saving it for weeks. I would be willing to bet that it was more shit than Dukay produces in a solid month. The pile itself was so tremendous that I CANNOT FIGURE OUT how Bo managed to expel said shit from his body without getting up on his two front legs to allow the CASCADE OF FILTH that spewed forth from his behind. It was a miracle. A miracle of unhappiness. It was a dump of displeasure.
So, I had to go BACK into the vet, where they loaded me up with paper towels ("I'll probably...uh, yeah, I'm going to need that whole roll," I had to tell the skeptical receptionist), and a trash bag, and then I had the intense pleasure of trying to clean forty-three pounds worth of excrement from the back seat of my CAR.
Basically, you can imagine how psyched I am about making that trip tomorrow morning. It should be awesome. Look, I'm feeding all the dogs cheese and Immodium, and nobody can stop me.
But if any of y'all are in the Charleston area, and you see two people roaming the city, looking confused and clutching hotel towels in their hands, well.
That's totally not me.
Go , Shorty
Hello! Here are a series of things, things that have nothing to do with each other, in any way whatsoever, Amen.
Thing One: At the end of comment time, there were 372 comments wishing Mr. Phil a speedy recovery. I went ahead and rounded up to 375, because...well. It just sounds better to me. And so, I made a donation to the ACS in Mr. Phil's name for $375. Thank you all again for all of your help, and thank you particularly to the wonderful people who emailed me or commented that they would be willing to match this donation. You are Awesome. In the end, all of y'all helped raise close to $800 for the ACS.
Aren't you proud of yourselves? You should be! I kiss you!
Thing 2: Completely unrelated. I warned you.
So, Dukay and I were talking about music the other day, specifically, music we used to know but haven't thought about in a long time, and we had this conversation:
Self: Wait, wait, what was that song, that Cracker song, and...Get Off This? Was that it?
Dukay: Yeah, that was it, but I don't remember the words, something...if you want to change the world, something something...uh...
Self: Yeah, shut your mouth...uh...something...uh...
Self: WELL THE GUITAR PLAYER'S HANGING OUT IN HOLLYWOOD SAYING HE'S JUST TRYIN' TO GET SOME SLEEP BUT EVERYONE'S COMPLAINING ARE YOU TRULY DEEPLY CYNICAL CAUSE BOY YOU KNOW I LOVED YOU SO WHEN NO ONE KNEW YOUR NAME AND YOU WERE POMPOUS.
Self: I think I just blew up.
Dukay: Baby...where...did that come from?
Apparently, it came from some long forgotten part of my brain, that has just been holding onto those lyrics, much in the same way that it holds onto the rap-type part of "Hook" by Blues Traveler (SUCK IT IN SUCK IT IN SUCK IT IN) and all of the words to "We Didn't Start the Fire" (HARRY TRUMAN DORIS DAY). This is not necessarily information I need, and the fact that so much of my brain power seems to be occupied with keeping these useless nuggets of information totally intact means that, almost certainly, important things must be seeping out of my ears on a pretty regular basis. Next time I forget something important, LIKE MY OWN PHONE NUMBER, which I forgot last week when I was at the cell phone store, I am just going to shrug and say, "Listen, don't blame me. Blame Cracker. They bogarted all the good brain cells."
Bastards. You realize, this is what my reliable brain cells have retained. Just say no, people.
And, thing three: Still, no connecting principle here. La la la. Talky words.
So, it's March 6th today. It is my birthday, which makes me twenty eight, which seems VERY OLD TO ME all of a sudden.
Do you want to see some scary math? 30 - 28 = 2.
TWO. TWO YEARS UNTIL I AM THIRTY.
So, I may be freaking out. Send wine.
P.S.: TWOTWOTWO. TWO.
UPSATE: HELLO! It is now 12:39, which mEans it isno longer my birthday. We had a party and thuings. Love yo!
P.S. DUkay says hi! And lotsof other peolpe too. HEllo!
HOLY CRAP, Part II
Well, I think it pretty much goes without saying that y'all are the awesomest people in the world. As of right now, there are 364 comments wishing Mr. Phil well, and zero having to do with online gambling and pornography. (Incidentally, that is a miracle, right there.)
In all seriousness, I am overwhelmed by everyone's kindness. I am so appreciative of all of the wonderful comments and wonderful emails I have received over the past few days. I am very touched that so many of you took the time to leave a note; it means so much to Phil, and it means so much to me. Thank you, thank you, thank you, a thousand times, thank you.
I'm going to go ahead and wrap this party up at 4 p.m. so that I can get all of these printed and bound and everything (know how many comments there are? So many that a mere STAPLE will not hold together all of these good wishes. No! BINDING is required! At Kinko's!), and then I will make an online donation for the final amount to the American Cancer Society. And I'll let y'all know what that final amount is, of course. Again, thank you, from the bottom of my heart.
And, because I don't want y'all to think I'm, like, going soft or something with all of this love and squishiness, I will leave you with the most current list of google searches that visitors have used to land on my page. Welcome, new readers! Sorry I'm not porn!
GOOGLE SEARCHES USED TO GET RIGHT HERE, LIKE, WHERE YOU ARE:
Ding Dong Nutrition
My sister's tits
Who invented alcohol?
Biggest vagina ever
A normal day in the life of an Amish person
Picture of dog peeing on a tree
Pictures of people who have peed on me
That dog peed on me
Tricks to removing cockroaches from your ear
Ashamed in my sister's panties
Oh, y'all. Welcome to Miss Doxie: A happy place where charity, the Amish, and your sister's panties all come together. I'm so glad to have you here.