Conversations with myself

Sometimes I'm conversing (IMing) with someone over the Internet and they fail to respond. So I have to make up the conversation myself. This is one recent example:


Me:
hi
whats new
oh really?
well that's exciting
what did you name it?
pod?
hmm interesting name for a baby
where did the fire start?
Oh, well next time don't put your mattress in the dryer
That happened to me once too
twice actually
Well, babies should only go in the dryer if they are 3 months or older
yes, I'm sure
that's probably what started the fire
not the mattress

Little fish? More like fish food.

When I was looking for the perfect college, I went to an educational consultant. He was a nice man who told me that it was better to be a big fish in a little pond, as opposed to a little fish in a big pond. Deep down inside, I believed this. During college I moved around a lot and tried many different sized ponds, never really deciding which I liked best. But I hadn't tried the biggest pond of all-- the pond of New York City. Many of my friends lived there, and they allured me with romantic stories of its grandeur. After college I decided to move there, disregarding the wise advice that was given to me a few years earlier. I would give it six months and if it didn't suit me, I would move on. But I fell for New York. I fell hard, like many do. And then somehow, slowly, I began to fall on my face. I had far surpassed the six month mark--it had now been years. There were so many fish, and they were all swimming right past me. I started to feel very small. Then I realized I wasn't a fish at all. I was fish food. So now, here I am, this tiny little flake --floating along, waiting to be swallowed.

Tips for Staying Young: By an Aging 26 Year Old

I remember when I was first born. Man, that was really a long time ago. It was a snowy night in Ontario, Canada and there were doctors all around me, annoying me and trying to make me breathe. Now suddenly I'm already this full grown thing. How did this happen?!? I didn't ask for this. Am I getting old? And if so, how can I stop it? I've heard there is something called wrinkles. Some dogs and cats have them. But I wonder if they are also growing in me. Things need to change. Because at this rate soon I'll be 37. Or worse--47!(The age of our new *aging* president!!!!). I've decided to enact a new 10 point plan for myself which will dramatically slow down my aging:

1.Drink more water.
This seems to be the best advice for everything so I'm going to put it at the top of my anti-aging list. But I wonder...does toilet water count?

2.Take a trip around the world. People who live in other countries are younger than me and I think it can spread.

3.Wear sunscreen, even inside. The sun is becoming increasingly bright due to global warming. My bed and desk already have a tan.

4.Eat less candy, but more Godiva.

5.Finally move into an apartment that does NOT double as a landfill.

6.Celebrate 27th birthday by getting shitfaced, eating an entire pizza, and passing out in clothes and makeup. This is sure to make me look decades younger by the very next morning!

7.Make more friends. People who surround themselves with loved ones have been proven to be happier and healthier. As far as I can see, my cat is my only friend. I need to start bribing people to sit in my living room and watch me torture my only friend.

8.Drink more wine. Wine is supposed to be good for you. Europeans have wine with every meal and they look so attractive when they do that. I will be more attractive if I drink wine with every meal too.

9.Get a "boyfriend." I really want one of these because everyone else says they are fun to play with. I would take it on walks and feed it treats and stuff.

10.Dance until I fall down at least once a day.

Am I President Obama's Illegitimate Love Child?

This is an extraordinary day. Not just because Barack Obama has been elected president, but also for another, possibly more extraordinary reason. Look at the two photos below. Do you notice a similarity between me and our new president? Look closely. Maybe it's obvious. Maybe not. Look at our faces. Specifically, our noses. More specifically, the right side of our noses. Do you see it?





That's right. It's true. Barack Obama and I have the same mole. Now, maybe moles are not typically something to boast about. I've never been particularly fond of mine-- but I haven't detested it either. But now I have a new fondness for my mole, a new hope that it means something special. I can say to myself: "I have a "presidential mole" and you don't! Yes!"

But are moles genetic? And if they are, isn't it curious that Obama and I have our lovely moles in the exact same place???? My mole is a bit smaller than his--but maybe I just have the girl version. Is it possible that I am President Obama's love child? Or maybe I am his sister? He does seem to have million strange siblings from around the world--maybe I was switched at birth somehow. Or maybe, we are merely mole cousins. Whichever is true, I feel proud to say that President Barack Obama and I share more than a deep love for our country. We share a mole.


Amazingly, there is already a video discussing this "presidential mole":

Angry Honey Bear

Angry Honey Bear
Looks at you when you drink tea
Looks at you when you are baking
Looks at you when are preparing for Rosh Hashana
You don’t know why he’s angry
Maybe its because he’s sticky
Oh, Angry Honey Bear
Why do you always wear that stupid yellow hat?

Global Warming? Not in this office.

They say there is something called global warming going on. The word "global" implies that it is occurring all over the globe. But here in this office on the 20th floor, I am really not feeling the effects of this warming thing. It's damn freezing in here!

I thought my body temp was supposed to be almost a hundred degrees. I should be sweating from myself. I should be able to cook an egg on me. My finger should sizzle when I touch my sexy little a**. But that is not the case. I am now the temperature of your common refrigerator and I could easily keep all your perishables nice and fresh for a few weeks, at least. Bring me your cartoons of milk and your leftover thai food. Place them in my arms and I will hug and keep them safe for you to eat.

My Cat Ate Sarah Palin

I am very sorry everyone but my cat ate Sarah Palin. She will not be able to be the Republican vice presidential nominee anymore. It happened last night when Governor Palin appeared at my doorstep selling polar bear skins. I said I didn't need anymore polar bear skins, but that Sarah was tough and would not take no for an answer. She pushed her way into my apartment and said,

"I really think you should buy one. These beautiful bears were killed in the great state of Alaska."

"Guess I'm all skinned out." I told her.

And then my cat jumped up on the table, opened her mouth, and swallowed Governor Palin whole. It happened so fast I couldn't believe it. The whole thing is still kind of a blur.

Cat Becomes new GOP VP Nominee

Republican Presidential Nominee John McCain announced yesterday that a cat is his vice presidential candidate. At a rally in Dayton, Ohio, McCain introduced his new running mate to a large crowd of enthusiastic supporters.

"It's not from these parts, and it's not from Washington. But when you get to know it, you're going to be as impressed as I am. It's got the grit, integrity, good sense and fierce devotion to the common good that is exactly what we need in Washington today. My friends and fellow Americans, I am very pleased to introduce to you the next vice president of the United States--a cat."

Since McCain's announcement, Democrats have been heavily criticizing the cat, named simply, "cat" for having no domestic or foreign policy experience, in addition to not being able to speak.
Senator Barack Obama's campaign manager David Plouffe offered this statement:
"He has chosen a what?!?!?"

Senator Obama commented on the VP pick, while campaigning in New Hampshire.
"I think it's going to be clear to the American people that this cat is just more of the same."

After being introduced in Dayton, the cat was placed on the podium and licked itself for 12 minutes before jumping off and hiding under the stage.

"This cat is the absolute best choice to reform government and keep America safe." McCain told reporters after the rally.

McCain supporters are already showing their extremely favorable attitude towards the cat. Janine Carlson, a McCain supporter at a Columbia, Missouri rally said,

"I like the cat. I feel like I can really relate to this cat because it kind of looks like my cat. Except my cat is orange and a little skinnier."

During an interview with 60 Minutes correspondent Steve Kroft, McCain was asked what domestic and foreign policy experience qualifies the cat to be vice president. McCain replied,

"This cat has lived in a house where there was a television. And therefore this cat knows more about television, news and policy than anyone. It is far more experienced with every issue than the whole Democratic ticket."

Democratic VP nominee Joe Biden dismissed McCain's comment saying,
"I have a cat at home and I sure as hell wouldn't trust it to do anything more than sh** in a box."

The cat has yet to speak in front of supporters, but it did issue this statement today:
"Hissssssssss!!!!!!!!! Reowwwwwwwwww!!!!!!!!"

"Crazy" Type Ladies on Youtube Becoming More Hysterical as Global Warming Increases

"Crazy lady" youtube videos feature mentally instable women with disheveled hair, anger management problems, and strange unidentifiable accents. These women shriek hysterically about their pets, disruptive neighbors, ex husbands, and Jesus. Laugher is often heard behind the camera. It is unclear where these crazy ladies come from or why their youtube hysterics are becoming increasingly severe, but some scientists hypothesize that higher earth temperatures are making the ladies' brains heat up and malfunction.

Do you have a "real dog"?

A lot of people in New York have those little dogs you can carry around in a purse or wallet or shoe box. But what those people don't know is that little dogs are not actually real dogs. Real dogs should be able to swim in a lake. If your dog is so small that it drowns when it attempts this, it is actually a cat. Below are two photos of cats:

Notes on McCarren Park #2

The other day I decided to go for a jog in the park. There is a wonderful running track where people of all shapes and sizes can walk, run and roll. Sometimes you see soccer balls on the track and you have to kick them out of the way while running. Sometimes you see people's kids on the track and you have to kick them out of the way too.

After running around the track a few times, I noticed there was a playground next to the track and adults were playing on it. Then I realized it was not a playground at all but rather a "stretchground" for stretching and strengthening ones muscles, like an outdoor gym. Two tough looking guys hung off some of the equipment and they looked like they were going to slit my throat if I used the equipment wrong. Luckily there was an instructional sign that told you how to use the machines, but for some reason all the instructions showed people on wheelchairs. That is fine, but I doubt any wheelchair people would be able to get into the stretchground in the first place because it is entirely covered in mulch. Do wheelchair wheels run on mulch? Maybe they do. Maybe the wheelchair people thought of the mulch problem and designed wheels that fly over mulch at ludicrous speeds. I'd like to see that.

I kept jogging. I looked up at the fancy condos which bordered the park. I saw two people sitting on their balcony. I felt so jealous of them- those rich condo owners eating their spinach omelets outside or brushing their teeth outside before they eat their spinach omelets outside. And then I began to think. If terrorists picked their floor to throw a bomb at, man, would they be fucked.

I kept circling the track. I noticed the ROTC was cheering me on from the sidelines. Wow, I must really be awesome at power walking! But then I realized it was just some sort of neighborhood ROTC recruitment day. I looked at all the flabby people trying to make it into the army. These people would never have the strength to crawl through the jungles of 'nam. There was even one hipster girl wearing lime green pants and a yellow shirt. I knew she was definitely never gonna make it. Because damn, look at her camouflage abilities.

Subway Spying

The other night I was on the subway and I started to look around and wonder how many people in that car had posted youtube. And if so how many views did their video get? Did that girl sitting across from me who is reading the Steinbeck novel post that hugely successful video of the two kittens fighting and then a third kitten walks into the shot and pukes everywhere and the other two kittens stop fighting?

But then as I was looking around I noticed a guy with his mouth open. And I started to wonder. Why does this guy have his mouth open? I thought maybe it was only like that for a second when I happened to be looking at him but then I looked down, counted to three and looked up again and he still had his mouth wide open. My mom always used to say "close your mouth or the flies will get in." Doesn't he know that flies can easily get in there and start making a nest? I look down again, this time for three minutes. I finally look up at him again but then realize I'm not wearing my sunglasses, I'm wearing my regular glasses and people can see me staring at them. Wait, the guy's mouth is still wide open but now he's smiling. He looks a little more normal, but I bet there's tons of flies in his head now.

Family History Revised #2

"Family Circle" was a pointless organization within Grandma Bea's family which would organize events for the Spiegel family. They would have meetings every Wednesday night in the basement of Shloymee's bakery on 43rd Ave in Bensonhurting, Brooklyn. The whole family would sit in a circle on the floor to discuss events like "Breakfast at the Diner Two Doors Down from the Plaza Hotel" and "Herbie's Bar Mitzvah, Take Two." Grandma's father Sam got everyone to attend by bribing them with day old rugulah from the bakery upstairs. Everyone had a job at Family Circle. Grandma was appointed treasurer because she had received a B- in math at Queens Jewish Public High School #467. She was in charge of the $5 budget every month during 1939.

One day Grandma and and her friend Lila went to Coney Island. When Grandma ran out of her allowance money she remembered she had the treasury money from Family Circle in her cleavage. She kept it there because daddy said to put it somewhere dark where nobody would ever look for change. It took about eight minutes to get the money out of there. Eventually she pulled it out but it was sweaty and smelled like tongue. She also found an old Good & Plenty in there and popped it in her mouth.

Before they went on the rides they decided to eat lunch. Grandma ate nine or ten hot dogs, three ice cream sandwiches and a chocolate frozen banana. Lila had a four sticks of cotton candy and eleven packages of Chuckles. Then they rode the Cyclone and got sick. After that they decided to play the carnival game “Knock your Baby off the Brooklyn Bridge.” In this game there would be five plastic babies sitting on a ten foot replica of the Brooklyn Bridge with real brown water underneath. The point of the game was to throw baby bottles at the baby in front of you and knock your baby into the water. There were four babies and four players at a time. Whoever knocked their baby into the water first won the coveted “Coney Cone”--a calorie packed, monster ice cream cone that was topped with five scoops of ice cream and whole Hershey Bar. Herbie had once won the Coney Cone when he was only five but he sold it to another boy for fifteen cents.

Grandma sat in the seat in front of a baby wearing a blue dress. Lila sat in front of a baby wearing what looked like a white confirmation dress. Grandma said that was probably the Catholic baby from little Italy. Grandma and Lila both lost. The Catholic baby fell into the water anyway. Then Grandma heard a familiar voice. "You're in big trouble Beatty!" She turned around. It was her little brother Herbie. "I followed you." said Herbie. "I saw you take the Family Circle money out of your boobies. That was the money for the stuffed cabbage eating contest! Daddy is gonna rip you apart and feed you to the carp!"

That night was a Family Circle meeting. Grandma didn't have a plan for replacing the money. Before the meeting she quickly drew a counterfeit five dollar bill on the back of yesterday's butcher order receipt. When it was time to count the Family Circle funds, Grandma took out the fake five dollar bill and handed it to Sam who began to examine it. "Hmm..something is not right here." He held the bill up to the light. "In pastrami we trust? What the hell is this Beatty?" He turned the bill over and continued reading. "5 lbs pastrami, 43 lbs tongue, One 3 ft Salami. Beatty!!!!! Where's the money?!" "She blew it all at Coney Island" piped Herbie. "That's it Beatty! You are excommunicated from Family Circle forever! You are banned from all Family Circle events and forbidden to partake in all Family Circle delicacies! That includes the rugulah you have in your mouth right now! Spit it out Beatty! Spit it out!"

A Letter to Paul Mercurio

Dear Paul (aka Scott Hastings),

I am just writing to tell you that I love you. I remember that day I first saw you in Strictly Ballroom. I was an awkward ten year old and you were a beautiful Australian movie star. I don't know if the movie plot was your idea, or whether you really fell in love with Fran (just Fran), but that movie really had a huge effect on me. It made me not care that I was ugly and had cystic acne. (Well, maybe I didn't have cystic acne until I was twelve but still) I realized that maybe a guy like you (you) could fall in love with me. And it didn't matter that I wasn't as flexible and acrobatic as Tina Sparkle. I had my own Latin (Jewish) flair.

I had many fantasies about the two of us. Many of them involved plot lines from the movie (Strictly Ballroom). For example, you would be an amazing ballroom dancer and I would be a clumsy beginner. I would ask you if I could be your partner and you would act cocky and say no. Eventually you would give in and start giving me lessons. You would always wear those black slacks with a wife beater. And I would wear ugly, baggy clothes, with a really great body underneath. As dance lessons progressed I would slowly start wearing tighter, sexier clothing. One day I would take off my glasses and take down my hair. Soon after that you would fall in love with me. Well, that can still happen.

Now I am 26 years old. I know you are married and have about 3 or 4 or even 5 children, but I thought this was my last chance. I saw you on a clip of the Australian version of Dancing with the Stars yesterday on youtube and figured what the hell. You did your famous slide across the floor with your knees entrance. It was so cute. You were wearing those same black slacks with the wife beater that you wore in the movie. Even though about fifteen years have gone by and you've put on some weight and lost some hair, you still look as cute as ever. True, I hadn't really thought about you in about 11 years or so, but I really have loved you all this time. I was just wondering if you'd like to go out to dinner sometime. I just thought I'd take a chance. After all, a life lived in fear is a life half lived.

Family History Revised

When my Grandma Bea came over here from Lithuania, she had with her a vision-- Bloomingdales and tongue sandwiches. She kept that vision alive over the years. At 16 she met Riter and Al who were already married by about age 10. Or maybe they were brother and sister, nobody really knows. Riter and Al and Grandma Bea all used to work at Bloomingdales after school. At the end of the evening Riter and Al and Grandma would all ride on a subway home to Bensonhurting, Brooklyn. Then they would eat a large dinner of tongue sandwhiches and chocolate. Uncle Julius would be the one cooking the tongues. Uncle Julius was Grandma's uncle. He was a giant. He was so huge that he was taller than the Metlife building. He was over 5 feet tall.

Grandma had a friend named Lila. One night Lila slept over at Grandma's house. Grandma's parents were sleeping upstairs. Lila brought some cigarettes over and they decided to smoke them. But grandma had never smoked a cigarette before so she didn't know how to do it. Lila lit a cigarette but then before she could start smoking it Grandma said- "Hey I'm hungry,lets raid the tongue drawer." Lila set the cigarette down on top of a lamp in the living room. Grandma and Lila went into the kitchen and picked at the tongue for about five minutes and then Lila smelled smoke. They realized the cigarette had caught the lamp on fire. They pushed the lamp on the floor and stamped the fire out. Grandma's little brother Herbie heard the noise and came out of his room. He was wearing his Coney Island Cyclone pajamas. He saw Lila and Grandma crawling around on their knees looking for something. They were looking for the cigarette butt. Suddenly Lila shouted "I found the butt!" and held it up. Grandma said "shhhh Daddy will hear!" The girls turned around and saw little Herbie sitting there watching everything. "What are you doing Beatty?" he said, "You were smoking, I know. And I smell tongue too. You should be ashamed of yourself-- smoking and stealing tongue on the same night! Daddy's gonna kill you." Grandma grabbed Herbie's little neck, "You aren't going to tell Daddy anything, you little brat! Cause if you do I'm gonna rip up all your toy neckties! Anyway, we have an excuse. We'll just say the lamp caught fire by itself."

The next day there was a knock on the door of Grandma's room. It was Grandma's Dad, Sam. Sam was a mean religious man who banged on the table during every meal shouting "God's watching you and he doesn't think you should be eating all that meat!" Lila and Grandma were still asleep and Sam had woken them up. They sat up in the bed as Sam walked in the room. "I know you girls were eating tongue and smoking last night and I'm not going to tolerate it!" From now on NO TONGUE! If you want tongue you better go to the cow yourself and de-tongue it!" "No Daddy!!" Grandma Bea cried. "You can't do this to me!"

But he could. From then on Grandma ate pastrami instead.

Late night ramen noodle habit out of control

I never really liked ramen noodles when I was young. Mostly because there was always some kid who dumped their leftover noodles in the water fountain after lunch. I very much dislike staring at half eaten noodles while I am drinking water. In college I gave them a second chance. But they seemed slimy and limp to me, as if they had been sitting in that water fountain since third grade and finally fished out ten years later, landing in mouth. Then, a couple of months ago, something strange happened.

As I was walking home after a late night out, that dude who is in charge my cravings, my hypothalamus, (I'm going to call him Bill Clinton) began screaming "RAaaaaaMEN NOOooooDLES! I WAaaaaanT RAaaaaaaaMEN NOODLES!" I tried to ignore him because not only did I dislike ramen noodles, I knew ramen noodles were NOT a nutritious late night meal. Yes, there are more harmful foods (hollandaise sauce, fried ice cream, gushers) but the more I tried to suppress Bill Clinton's cries, the louder he wailed. I had to give him the bag of dehydrated soup he desired.

Over the next few weeks my ramen noodle intake began to increase. The noodles no longer tasted slimy and limp. Now they were satisfyingly salty and delicious. I started thinking about the quantity of noodles I had been consuming. Was Bill Clinton taking over? One night I casually mentioned to a friend that I was going to pick up some ramen noodles on the way home. My friend was horrified. But I knew that something inside me had changed ever since I'd heard Bill Clinton crying.

That night I thought a lot about ramen noodles. On the one hand, they are absolutely repulsive. On the other hand, they are delicious. I woke up the next day in cold, salty, artificial-chicken-flavored sweat. I decided I didn't care if ramen noodles were unhealthy and disgusting. I wanted to keep Bill Clinton happy. If he wanted ramen noodles, he was gonna get ramen noodles.
`

Happy half birthday to me!

Today is my half birthday. It makes me think of how much time has gone by since my regular "full" birthday. I believe it has been oh, about six months. Yes, six months. And what has happened in that last six months? A lot. A WHOLE LOT. Lets make a list:

1. Did laundry a bunch of times
2. Bought 3 or 4 pairs of new shoes
3. Did not clean the bathroom
4. Changed from "winter" clothes to "summer" clothes
5. Ate about 90-100 sandwiches
6. Got hair cut twice
7. Took cat to the vet and found out she weighs 13 pounds..gross
8. Started buying smart water
9. Called landlord to fix windows but he still did not fix the windows, that bastard
10.Switched from 15 spf daily moisturizer to 30 spf moisturizer
11.Continued with confused quarterlife portion of life
12.Answered exactly no trivia questions correctly
13.Found one shit free dollar on the street
14.Made a mountain out of a molehill
15.Dropped cell phone in toilet

Why is that turtle pillow still staring at me?

As I am writing this there is a turtle pillow sitting on the couch next to me and it won't stop staring at me. I don't know what it wants. I don't have any food for it. Although, now that I think about it, I saw a fly buzzing around about ten minutes ago. But the turtle pillow made no attempt to catch it. Or maybe turtles don't eat flies. Maybe the turtle pillow is sad because it wanted the fly but has not evolved with features that are conducive to fly catching. Maybe it needs love. It is rather fat and maybe nobody has loved it in a while because of its grotesque, puffy build. Its purple and blue shell is kind of delightful though. Maybe it is mad because it does not want to be on the couch next to me but rather in my roommate's room, where it belongs. It looks like it is trying to get off the couch but I don't think it has moved since I started writing this.

Its black beady eyes are really starting to annoy me now. Look away turtle pillow!! Look away!!!

Notes on summer and McCarren Park.

I've started to take a lot of walks in the park now that it's summer. I take myself out daily like a dog. Here are some of my thoughts and observations.

The other day as I was walking on one of the park's paths, I smelled doodie and looked down to see some smeared dog diarrhea covered in flies. As I came closer the flies scattered a bit--as if they were slightly embarrassed to be devouring shit (even though they were like ALL doing it). So I started to wonder. Do they actually eat the shit? If not, what do they do with it? And why aren't flies bothered by the smell of shit and dead things?

I watched a brother and sister throw a frisbee up in a tree. The frisbee didn't come down. I wondered why they threw it up there at all, those idiots. They ran to their mom and pointed at the tree but she just sat in her lawn chair. I figured she would at least get up and try to shake the tree around. But she really liked sitting in that chair I guess.

I was sitting on a bench watching a little girl chasing a little dog that was not on a leash. She grabbed its behind but it was able to get away from her. I wondered if it was her dog. Then the dog's owner walked by with two other dogs on leashes. When she saw some random little girl chasing her dog she screamed at her angrily "Don't do that, don't do that!!!" The girl ran off, terrified. When I left the park I looked at the park rules. It said that all dogs must be on leashes. I felt sorry for that little girl because she got yelled at by some retard woman who didn't read the park rules.

Dear Mr or Mrs. Idiot

Dear Mr. or Mrs. Idiot Blowing Disgusting Black Shit Out of Your 14 Wheeler on Thursday Sept 28, at Approximately 1:45 PM in Williamsburg Brooklyn,

I hate you. You ruined my day and my clothes and shoes and skin and caused me to have an awkward transaction with a bank teller. I hope you go to hell. You or your truck needs to like, die.

It was a wonderful, sunny, warm, autumn day and I was walking to the bank. I had almost arrived at my destination and was standing on the curb with other pedestrians from the neighborhood, waiting for the light to change. I was holding two Netflix DVDs and my Ipod, which was currently playing some Jimmy Witherspoon.

All of sudden I saw your smoke far off in the distance. What the hell is that? A fire? Oh, wait...HOT DAMN. It's coming out of that disgusting truck. Your truck was bouncing down the street, not a care in the world, thick black smoke happily streaming out of the top. It was creating an evil, cancerous cloud everywhere. The pedestrians and I coughed and moaned in disbelief covering our faces and squirming our bodies, wincing from the fumes as your truck passed us. The light changed right then and we had to walk across the street directly into the cloud of death, which your truck had excreted moments earlier.

Unbelievably, I made it safely across the street and I looked down at my Ipod so that I could turn it off before entering the bank. OH MY GOD. WTF IS THIS????

There, all over my precious Ipod, were hundreds of little black dots-- the residue from the smoke which YOUR devil truck had been puffing everywhere!!! These dots had somehow attacked me as I crossed the street and attached themselves onto my poor, innocent Ipod. I looked at my hands. They were COVERED in dots. The dots were all over my arms, legs, chest, shirt and shoes. And God knows if it was all over my arms, legs, chest, shirt and shoes it was probably all over my face too. I didn’t even have a mirror to check. I thought I probably looked like I had some sort of explosive infectious discolored freckle disease. Now I still had to go into the bank looking like this. Ok, I thought, DON’T PANIC. It should rub off easily, right? WRONG. I rubbed furiously as I walked up the steps to the bank and nothing, nothing came off. I’m stuck this way. What should I do? Walk all the way back home to wash it off? Then come back? Just pretend I don’t know it’s there? Find a Starbucks and use their bathroom and scrub myself like mad? Nope, there’s no time. I have to go to work soon. I just need to go into the bank and make my transaction and deal with this later. I went into the bank, approached the bank teller and our conversation went like this:

Me: Um….do I have…um…little black dots all over my face by any chance????
Bank Teller: (laughing AT me) Uh…no…….
Me: Oh ok, well can I use your bathroom because I have this black soot shit all over my arms and legs and chest and shirt and shoes cause this big truck just drove by and was polluting all this smoke and it rained down on me and all these other people and it won’t come off so I need to wash it off right now because I know I look ridiculous.
Bank: We don’t have public bathrooms.
Me: Ok, well can I make a deposit?

I left the bank and went home to scrub my tainted skin off, hoping the black shit would come off too. Unfortunately your dirty, toxic, mystery formula seemed to be imbedded in me forever. Soap and water was just not good enough. I had to rub my whole body raw with little mini eye-make up remover pads in order to even start to get it off. And I can still see the dots all over me. I don’t even know what these black dots are. What is it? Oil? Dirt? Nuclear warheads? Who the fuck knows? All I know is that it’s stuck on me and it stained my clothes and shoes and you need to either pay or for it, or die a horrible death and let me laugh while it happens.

Sincerely,

The Girl you Totally Screwed With

I Killed the Queen

We had Ants. I will capitalize "Ants" out of respect for the poor fuckers who are now all dead.

It started with a few Ants wandering around aimlessly on the linoleum tiles of the bathroom floor. The cats weren't interested in them and I found them only mildly annoying as I watched them while sitting on the toilet. "We have to get rid of these ants," I would think. Then I would flush the toilet and go back to my bedroom to stare out the window for a while. My mom told me to watch them closely and I'd see some kind of trail but I just saw black specks mingling chaotically.

Then, as the days passed, it appeared that these Ants had found their purpose. They were now walking in a single file line next to the bathtub and coming in and out of the bathroom door--from somewhere to somewhere. But where? I did not know. It started to bother me that they had a system. "We really have to do something about these goddamn ants." I would think. I finally got down on my hands and knees and followed them out of the bathroom and up the legs of the kitchen table. They were all over the table. Gross. How could I have missed this every day? This was the table where my roommates and I kept pre-recyclables (gently rinsed trash waiting to be brought downstairs). There was a paper bag filled with old magazines, an ice cream carton, a pseudo-washed jar of honey and a couple of empty beer bottles. The Ants were particularly enjoying the honey jar. There were about 100 Ants sucking the side of the jar, frozen it seemed--in ecstasy. Supposedly ants fill up with food and then return to the colony to regurgitate it back to the others. I was feeding an entire colony of Ants with an old honey jar.

But where were they coming from? I followed the trail back to the bathroom and discovered their point of entry in a tiny crack next to the shower. These fuckers were amazing! They were living underground somewhere and somehow smelled honey in my second floor apartment, tunneled their way up through the walls of the building, squeezed out of a crack next to the shower, marched along the bathroom floor, up the kitchen table, onto the prized jar of honey, back down the table leg, into the bathroom, up the wall next to the shower, into the crack, back through the tunnels in the walls of my building, down underground to god-knows-where colony to feed the zillions of Ants and their beloved queen.

I was fascinated by these tiny evil (not so evil) beasts. I watched one carrying a dead one. For 15 minutes it tried to stuff its poor deceased friend back into the crack. It tried every possible angle but I was worried it might have to leave it there unattended. I felt bad for it and wanted to help it along. "No, no, you back into the crack first and then pull the dead one in after you. Yes, yes, there you go." Finally it figured it out by itself. I wondered if they were gonna give it a proper burial. Would they have a ceremony? I imagined a million Ants gathered in a circle while the dead one was carried in. Small bonfires would be burning, and there would be chants. It would look like the scene in that Indiana Jones movie, though I don't remember which one.

After disposing of the recyclables and spraying the kitchen table with Mr. Clean, the Ants were scattering all over the place. "Where the F is that damn honey??" They were thinking, "Shit, shittttt! Queen's gonna kill us!" Then they power walked their way back to the crack. Sure, removing the food source was going to get rid of them, but next they were going to go after the cat food, I know it. So...

I went to the hardware store and bought a tube of combat ant killing gel. On the back of the gel it said to avoid contact with skin. If I did get it on myself I was supposed to rinse vigorously for 15-20 minutes. 15-20 minutes?!?! This shit was toxic. I squeezed half the tube onto the Ant crack.

I spent the day sitting on the bathroom floor, watching the Ants as they set in motion their impending death. The poison had become the new honey. The blob of honey-looking ant killing gel was now covered in oblivious ants. They were filling their bodies with poison so they could return to the colony and feed the others. I imagined the reguritation and devouring of the poison. "Great job!" The queen would say. "Where did you find this stuff, this is incredible! Tastes homemade!"

But later that night it would strike like a stomach flu. The ant who had first filled up with poison would grab its stomach and say "Ooooh I don't feel so good." It would stumble around in pain for a while and fall over, moaning. Then it would finally breathe its last Ant breath and its mini soul would leave this earth forever. Others in the colony would be wondering what was going on. "Somethin' didn't agree with him, I guess" they'd say, glad it was not them. But soon they would be grabbing and moaning and keeling over as well. Soon it would be all over. They would be wiped out completely. And yes, that's exactly what happened.

That night I went out to dinner and when I came back a few hours later there was only one ant devouring the poison. The others were back at the colony, spreading death. The next day they were all gone. A part of me missed their complex feeding arrangement. But there was no way to get them back. I had done the damage. Goodbye bathroom Ants.

Choose Your Own Adventure

You are a goat. You are in a barn in Northern Ireland. It is night. Your owner, Mr. McGillistein, has just finished his sixth pint and he's stumbling around inside the barn singing "Oh lordyyy I can't bake a caaaake, Oh lordy I can't bake a caaaaake". He's been singing this for over fifteen minutes now and you are getting rather annoyed. You:
A) Run at him at full speed and knock him over, causing him to pass out for the rest of the night.
B) Play dead until he gets close to check on you and then bite off his naughty bits, once and for all.

If you chose A. You charge at him at full speed. He falls in pile of hay against the barn wall. Thud. He moans "caaaaaaake" and rolls on his side. He puts his hands under his head and begins to snore. Peace until morning. Huzzah!!!

If you chose B. You lay down and whimper, then roll on your back like a roach. You are fake dead. It takes McGillidrunk 26 minutes to notice. You know it's been 26 minutes because you have a special digital goat clock implanted in your ear. It tells you what time it is every five minutes. It's so cool. McGillistein crouches down next to you and says "Oh, litter feller, what happ-----" You quickly go for his crotch and take a big bite. His screams reach London. He grabs a knife from his back pocket and slits your throat. You stop biting and go limp. You are real dead.

The End

Step One: Getting Organized

There was a guy sitting next to me on the train today reading a book that was open to a page with the title "Step One: Getting Organized." That is always the first chapter in self-improvement books. I sometimes think that reading those books is going to make a big difference in my life. I come up with very ambitious outlines for my new found organization:

Dishes: Do every day by 8pm
Litter Box: Stand by cats as they are shitting and immediately pick it up-like organized dog owners do
Yoga Video: Do roomate's Yoga video for one hour every day
Laundry: One SMALL bag of laundry every week
Cooking: Cook new recipe every night after work. Keep a file of recipes
Lists: Write out a To Do List every day at 7:30 AM sharp. Keep lists in ONE notebook and not on random receipts
Novel: Write Novel
Play: Write Play
Business: Start Business
Business Cards: Make business cards for business
Desk: Do not use bed as desk!!!!!!!

I always feel so fabulously organized after I write these types of resolutions.
But then things start to pile up at an unbelievable rate. Especially cat shit in the litter box. How does that happen?