Coupons. I Got Some.

And apparently my junk mail filter doesn't allow emails from Jesus.

Meme of Indescribable Awesomeness: It's Not Annoying Because I Made it and I'm Awesome

I hate memes.  


But I'm starting one anyway.  


Because it's not annoying when I do it and my meme is better than all the other memes.  I know because I talked directly to God and God said "That meme is the best meme ever.  

Better than AIDS, even. Nice work."

Also, this meme could turn into a nice little case study on human nature. I'm not telling you what it may or may not say about you, but I assure you that I will be watching.  And judging you.  And someday I'll publish the results and the internet will be like "Wow!  I never knew that about myself!" and then I'll be famous enough to be special-friends with Brett Favre.

Plus, if you don't repost this and tag seventeen other bloggers within the next 23 minutes, your face will catch on fire and your crush will never text you.  Or maybe nothing will happen.  Choose wisely.

Here is a picture:

Here are the "rules":  

1. Copy and paste the rules and the picture into your blog.

2.  If you feel that the rules are imperfect or stupid, change the rules.  No one will know the difference.  Or maybe they will but they probably won't care.  Much.

3.  Tag X people where "X" is any real number greater than or equal to negative twelve.  If you can figure out how to tag the square root of negative i people, then go ahead and tag an unreal number of people.  Or tag so many people that it's totally unreal.  Either will work.  Or go drink some cranberry juice and watch Oprah.  OR do "inverse tagging" where you open up the meme to everyone and then tag those who do it, creating kind of a gallery of meme artwork.

4.  Draw on the picture.  Use anything you want.  Open it in MS paint and draw a cat or a sun or Eddie Izzard.  Print it out and scribble on it then take a picture of it and post the picture you took of the picture on your blog.  Set it on fire.  Smear poop on it and mail it to the guy who owes you money for crack.  Just alter the picture in some way and send it along to be altered further/incinerated/defiled with feces.  You can try to make it pretty or try to make it ugly.  You can add things or erase things.  Just make sure to send it along because I don't know how else I'm going to get famous and Brett Favre won't be fertile forever.  Actually he probably will be, but I won't, and I need to have that man's babies or else I run the risk of dying without having carried Brett Favre's spawn in my womb.

Okay, that's it.  If anyone becomes annoyed with you for tagging them in a meme, tell them I sent you and that I'm super creepy and totally capable of finding them, so they better do the meme because if they don't, either you or that person or possibly both of you will end up huddled in a corner, crying and clutching a cordless phone, screaming "WHERE ARE YOU????!!!!"  

P.S.  I'll probably be in your closet.

P.P.S.  I'm doing "inverse tagging" because I'm too cowardly to guilt people into doing my meme by tagging them (but threats of violence are okay) and I don't like to pick favorites because what if I accidentally don't pick you and you feel like your life is ruined?

If/when you do the meme, I'll link to your blog and everyone can see what you did and maybe even steal your version of the meme and alter it again.

The Gallery: 

ASSHOLE BOYFRIEND did the meme and I am never going to go to sleep again ever.  And no, ASSHOLE BOYFRIEND, you can't slit Joe's throat either.  No throat slitting at all.  I'm sorry.  How about throat punching, though?

Katie of the brand new (and awesomely named) blog Nonsequiturtle did the meme!

Linlah of Corn Bean did the meme!  If you visit, please pay attention to the hands.  They made me laugh endlessly.

I am Almost Definitely Going to Hell for This...

If you are offended by people taking the Lord's name in vain or emailing the Lord's son asking for coupons, please skip this post and go here or here instead.  


If you don't care one way or the other or if you believe that Jesus probably has a good sense of humor and since He is forgiving and kind and totally capable of sin-pwnage, He probably doesn't mind me using Him to make a blog post, please read on.

My friend Kaylin Boehme (who should not be held responsible for the content of this post) sent me a link that led me here:

I clicked the advertisement at the top of the page, thinking that it was simply a button where I could find out more about zombie Jesus, but no.  It was a trick.  I ended up recommitting my life to real Jesus by clicking a button:

After I clicked the button, I was directed to a form where I was free to ask Jesus (or more likely His agent) any question I wanted:

I totally hit "Submit."  I thought about just taking a screenshot of what I wrote and then not sending the email, but that would be deceptive and Jesus wouldn't be happy with me.  Also, it has the potential to turn into a hilarious series of blog posts and possibly also a free meal at Applebee's, courtesy of Jesus.  This is the auto-response I got:

  I will either go to Hell or get free coupons.  Maybe both.  I'm willing to find out.

UPDATE:  I got a response.  It's from some guy named Eric, not from Jesus.  But, like Santa, Jesus cannot personally attend to everything, so I understand.  I guess.

I bet Jesus would have given me coupons, Eric.

UPDATE #2:  Sometimes a comment is so relevant and spot-on that I have to bring it to the forefront for everyone to see.  Julia made one such comment:

"Does anyone else find it hilarious that the ad link on the Jesus Zombie site was for a real jesus site? as if people who thought jesus being a zombie was hilarious would be the kind of people who with a couple of clicks would seriously become online born again christians. they're asking for people to ask jesus for coupons just by putting their ad on that site!"


Exactly.  And that's why it's okay that I asked Jesus for coupons.  

Twitter is Dead to Me. So I Gave it twAIDS.

I normally wouldn't post something like this because I'm classier than that and I have dignity, but sometimes I just post stuff because I can and today is one of those days.  Also I don't feel like I have accumulated enough comments on Friday's post so usually what I would do is not post anything and hope that I can trick you guys into thinking that the post on the top of the page is new and therefore worthy of your attention and commentary.  But not today.  Today, I am posting irresponsibly.  Like if I usually didn't do drugs and then one day, I decided to do drugs and get pregnant and drink moonshine and drive to Texas to meet up with some dude named mikehunt69 whom I met on Craigslist.   That would be irresponsible.  And so is this. 

Maybe you should just read what I wrote yesterday again.  And watch the video because the end is awesome and there is a picture of a cat-shark in it.  And also Bear Grylls.     

Anyway, if you have exhausted all other options, read on...  

I've noticed that Twitter likes to come up with cute little word combinations that make ordinary words or phrases more Twitter-related.  For example:

Twaffic: "Twitter traffic."  

Tweetheart: "Twitter sweetheart" which, in my opinion, is a step down from "Craigslist whore-friend" and is probably not something that should exist, but apparently it does exist and I'm patenting the phrase "twivorce" right now before it's too late and I've missed my opportunity to profit off of the misery of others. 

Twittastic:  "Fanstasic, but not just regular fantastic:  fantastic on Twitter" 

Twitterrhea:  "Twitter diarrhea" which can mean "too many loose, watery tweets" or "tweeting while pooping violently" which is probably something that has actually happened and that makes me die inside.  

Twitterholic: "Twitter alcoholic" or "Twitterer who is like an alcoholic, only instead of alcohol, they are addicted to tweeting" which is is not a real disorder and actually undermines the legitimacy of alcoholism by mere association.  It's like saying "Haha, I'm a twitterbetic and I need to tweet regularly or else I'll have a tweizure!"  You sound like an asshole.    

Twitter posts a random sample from these cute little abominations - "twifinitions," if you will -in their sidebar so that all the Tweeters out there can stay current on the hottest new "twingo" and "twargon."  But today, Twitter finally took this cute little game too far:

Twi-Haiku?  You didn't think of maybe trying Twaiku first?  Or is this some cruel joke on the entire twittosphere where you point out how stupid we are by sabotaging your already scant credibility?  Are you even trying anymore?  

Twuit it Twitter.  I've twad tweenough of your twinanigans.  I will twack you down and twangle you until you twi-die.  Then I will twisembowel you with a twamurai tword.  Then I will twesurrect you.  Then I will twill you again.  With my twuck.  Then I will set you on twi-fire and twape you in the eye with a twap-on.  Because I'm a twiropyronecrophiliac.  And I have twAIDS.  And you will get them!  Haha!

Consider that a tweat.   

Tweace out, bitch.   

Don't Ever Fall Asleep Watching "Land of The Lost"

I think that I might finally have Swine Flu.

I'm all achy and pokey.  Most doctors don't understand what I mean when I say I'm feeling "pokey," but "pokey" is what you feel like when the mere act of existing with other molecules results in an uncomfortable poking sensation on your skin.  I can almost feel the particles pinging off of my face.

My stomach feels... crawl-y.  If stomachs could crawl sneakily, that's what mine would be doing.   I'll be lying on the couch debating whether an empty stomach or a full stomach would be more detrimental to my health and suddenly I feel this little rippling inside of me.  I say "Stomach! What the fuck are you doing?" And my stomach makes a little shivering motion and gurgles and I interpret that to mean "Oh nothing... just go back to doing what you were doing.  I'm fine.  Really.  I'm totally fine and not at all trying to sneak away to find another body that doesn't eat things like 'cheese pancakes'"

Cheese pancakes are when you put cheese in a frying pan and then as it's melting, you try to make it into a pancake shape with the spatula.

Anyway, I fell asleep watching "Land of The Lost" yesterday.  "Land of The Lost" is not a movie that you should watch if you have a fever and there is any chance whatsoever that you could fall asleep while the movie is still playing.  

If you fall asleep while watching "Land of The Lost" (especially if you are already semi-delirious from fever) you will awaken in a hell of confusion and fear.  A hell in which Will Ferrell is running away from a dinosaur and you have no idea why he's doing that and then he's running away from a giant crab and then he's running away from Sleestak which are the creepiest fucking shit ever and then there's flashing lights and a monkey-person peering out from behind a rock and all the while danger music is playing and you are almost positive that you are not going to survive. 

Now imagine that you were having a dream in which your hands are giant and your body is tiny and you've just figured out that nouns are a conspiracy but every time you try to tell someone about the noun conspiracy they turn into a land-capable shark and then you wake up and you are only several feet away from the television because you fell asleep on the floor and this is what you see/hear:

One second you are asleep dreaming about land-capable sharks and the next you wake up and you're all "Oh no! Giant crabs! What's Will Ferrell doing there? DINOSAUR!! Watch out Will Ferrell! Why do my hands feel so tiny??  NOW THEY'RE HUGE!!! MY HEAD IS TINY!!!!!  HOLY CRAP HOLY CRAP HOLY CRAP I'M ALMOST POSITIVE THAT I AM IN SERIOUS DANGER!!!!!"

And then you get up and crawl onto the couch because the couch is safer than the floor and you curl into a ball and just wait it out because there is nothing else you can do and you are too terrified to take action.  

And that is why you should never fall asleep watching "Land of the Lost."  

How to be Happy, Reclaim Your Youth and Also Vanquish a Centaur. *Hint*: Bacon is Involved

In the world, there are things.  Some of them suck, some of them are awesome and some of them are just okay.  Some of them smell/taste like bacon.  Those things are usually - but not always - in the awesome category.  For example, bacon beer.  I would drink bacon beer.  In fact, I am willing to bet that the advent of bacon beer would mark the end of productivity for our society.  Bacon-flavored condoms?  That would probably be the best blow-job-getting strategy ever because they taste like bacon but they have no calories.  Everyone wins in that situation.  I might be wrong, but I'm pretty sure that bacon-flavored condoms would also lead to complete stasis in whatever place they originate first.  I'm guessing either Germany or Japan.

But bacon can't just be mixed all willy-nilly with everything.  Baconnaise should never have happened.

However there are certain things that exist in the world that every person enjoys.  Some people don't know that they enjoy these things.  Some people won't admit that they enjoy these things, but I'm pretty sure almost everyone, aside from Vladimir Putin and John Wayne Gacy, enjoy them.

1.) Chicken Skin  

One of the most sacred moments in anyone's life is one in which there is anticipation and/or ingestion of chicken skin.  When you are holding that paper-thin flap of greasy yet crispy integument, nothing else matters.  Chicken skin could stop war.  Well, it could at least delay war by about 15 seconds.   Once everyone got to the part where they actually had to eat a skinless drumstick, they'd go right back to bombing and pillaging.

2.) Bouncing 

Who hasn't looked at a trampoline in someone's backyard and thought "I would give a blow job to just about anyone if it meant that I could have one of those... and the condom wouldn't even need to be bacon-flavored..."

And how sad were you the day you found out that you weighed too much to go into the giant, inflatable bouncy castle?  That's how Anorexia starts.  One moment you're bouncing away your worries inside the inflatable castle in the parking lot across from Walgreen's and the next you're on a glucose drip and you've lost your hair and you almost don't have enough energy to be enthusiastic about the idea of bouncy castles anymore.

The first person who makes a bouncy castle that is built to withstand the rigors of being repeatedly bludgeoned by overly enthusiastic obese people will be a millionaire billionaire.

In the meantime, next time you are feeling down, go jump on your bed.  I'm totally serious.  Go jump on your bed and see if you still feel bad.  If nothing else the idea of jumping on a bed while crying irrationally should at least make you laugh.  Either way, jumping on the bed will make you feel better.

Ceiling too low?  Jump on your knees or on all-fours.

Worried about aversely affecting the life-span of your mattress?  That's what's wrong with you - do something about it.

If you still can't bring yourself to jeopardize the integrity of your all-important mattress, go to the thrift store and buy a cheap mattress that you won't feel bad about destroying during your moments of unrestrained glee.  Keep it in your garage or basement.  I promise that your life will be better.

If you have a memory foam mattress, give up.  Life is pointless now.  You should have thought of that before you sold your life down the river by buying a mattress without springs.  You could try buying a bouncy mattress from the thrift store and keeping it in your basement or garage, but I doubt you'll get any enjoyment out of it.

3.) Popping a Zit

Getting a zit is such a turbulent experience, emotionally.  On one hand, you are upset because your face has been ruined.  On the other hand, you get all giddy and start thinking "I can't wait until I can squeeze this thing!  I hope it's the kind that squirts all over the mirror!"

If I was a spiritual leader of some sort, I would say "Think not about the blemish on your face, but about the mass of sebum and bacteria on your mirror."

I would say other things too, though.  I wouldn't want my principles branded as "Zit Zen."  But I think that is pretty much unavoidable now.

4.) Right-Clicking

This one is very subtle, but I am convinced that it happens to nearly everyone

Next time you are using a mouse with a designated right-click button, notice the way you feel just before you get to right-click something.  There is an almost imperceptible little celebration that happens.

5.) The Last Bite of a Waffle

You know the bite I am talking about.  The one that is approximately three squares by two squares and it's stuffed like a turkey with butter and syrup.  Not only that, but the waffle has been marinating in syrup for the duration of breakfast and some of the syrup will surely have soaked up into the interior of this glorious bite.

People say that there is no way to explain love and that makes me sad because obviously these people have never eaten a waffle or at least not a waffle with real butter and syrup and that is a tragedy.  Either that or they have never experienced love, which is almost as sad.  Almost.

6.) Toys

There is a distinct feeling I get every time I pass the toy aisle at Wal-Mart.  It's like if you were engaged to marry the man or woman of your dreams then suddenly decided that you needed to take a plane to Pittsburgh and the plane crashed and everyone died except for you and you walked away from the incident as a double above-the-knee amputee and that was the meanest joke ever but I still said it because I didn't even realize what I was saying until it was too late and by the time I noticed, it was already too funny so I just left it in there because it somehow lightens the mood when you find out that after the plane crash, the person you had loved is prejudiced against disabled people and he/she leaves you for a centaur and you somehow end up attending the same PTA meetings and all you can do is look across the room at your ex-fiance and the centaur and think "I used to be so happy..."

That's how the toy aisle at Wal-Mart makes me feel.

Sometimes I buy a toy and then I get a feeling like I walked across the room to the centaur and I said "bitch, I'm going to rape him because he is rightfully mine!"  And then I realized that I had legs the whole time and I was never a double amputee and I don't actually have to rape my ex-fiance because he still loves me and we tame the centaur and keep it as a pet and it isn't even mad at me because I give it bacon beer all the time and centaurs love bacon beer.

I think this may be the best thing I have ever written.

P.S.  I talked about blow jobs twice in one post.  I get fifteen points.

COMPLETELY UNRELATED UPDATE:  I'm totally going to start taking screenshots of my followers widget so that when someone un-follows me, I can find out who's missing and track them down and become all emotional on their blog.  Then they'll log in one day and find this:

"WHY DID YOU LEAVE ME?????!!!  I THOUGHT WE WERE GOING TO BE TOGETHER FOREVER, YOU FUCKING CUNT BASTARD!"

If you guessed that the phrase "fucking cunt bastard" was a trap, you would be right.  Just try to leave me now, Asshole.  I'm super creepy and totally capable of finding you.

Rodent

This is Sasha:

Sasha had surgery today. She had to get a tumor removed. I am quite attached to Sasha and her surgery was a little risky because she's getting to be an old girl, so I was a nervous wreck until the vet called to tell us that everything was fine.

When I picked up Sasha from the vet, she was all dopey and looked almost dead.  I picked her up and held her to my chest to keep her warm and she stared up at me with her big, confused eyes because I'm sure she had no idea what was happening but she was glad I was there.  It was like watching a small child trip on acid.  Not that I have ever done that or would ever do that, but I can certainly imagine that it would at least somewhat resemble what a rat on Isoflurane and opiate pain relievers looks like.

My point is that it was heartbreaking.

My sympathy has faded a little since I brought her home.  She's obviously fine and I'm pretty sure she has figured out how to guilt me into giving her treats.  She started trying to chew out her stitches, so I gave her a banana.  She ate the banana and then left the stitches alone for a little while.  The next time she started chewing at her incision, I gave her another piece of banana to distract her.  She soon figured out that chewing on stitches = banana.  Now, she goes to chew on her stitches and I give her a piece of banana and she sets the fucking banana down, looks straight at me and starts nibbling her stitches again like "Oh, I'm sorry... did you want me to stop doing this?  You don't want me to make myself bleed all over the place?  Well, then I would suggest that you give me more bananas..."

Operant conditioning is a bitch sometimes.

Anyway, that's why I wasn't around today.

P.S.  I'm sorry about the clown train.

P.P.S.  You know what?  Fuck John Wayne Gacy too.  I didn't know who John Wayne Gacy was, so I googled that shit and now I'm never going to sleep again ever.  I got sucked into reading every detail of his life and couldn't stop even though I desperately wanted to and Boyfriend saw what I was reading and he was like "Oh no!  What are you doing?????  Stop it!" because Boyfriend can see the future and he knew that I was going to make him put another deadbolt on our door.  And guess what?  He was right.

Stephen King Probably Invented Cancer, Too

I was procrastinating on writing a blog post, so I took an ADHD test online.

I answered all the questions honestly and I thought the results were going to be like "yeah, you have ADHD, it's really no big deal, lots of people have it, go to the doctor and get some Ritalin and you'll be fine."

But no.  That's not what they said.

They said "Serious ADHD Likely!"

And they gave me an HTML code so that I can put a button on my website announcing to the world that my test results came back and guess what?  "Serious ADHD Likely!"

Okay, first of all, did they have to throw the word "serious" in there?  Like "No, you don't just have ADHD.  You have SERIOUS ADHD.  That's the terminal kind.  We're sorry.  But doesn't this fun font kind of make you feel at least a little better?"

And what's with the exclamation point?  Are they excited or yelling at me?  Are they accusing me of having ADHD or congratulating me?  "Serious ADHD Likely!" can really be interpreted in any number of ways:

1.)  Celebratory:  "Congratulations!  Serious ADHD Likely!"

2.)  Damning:  "Serious ADHD Likely!  Welcome to Hell, Motherfucker!"

3.)  Alarmist:  "Serious ADHD Likely!  Run away!!!"

4.)  Joking:  "Serious ADHD Likely!  April fools! Just kidding!"

5.)  Sneaky: "Surprise!  Serious ADHD Likely!"

6.)  Jeering:  "OMG!  LOL!  Serious ADHD Likely!"

7.)  Mocking:  "Neener, neener, neener!  Serious ADHD Likely!" 

8.)  Incredulous:  "Serious ADHD Likely!  I can't believe it!" 

9.)  Insane: "Serious ADHD Likely! I think corn tastes like banjo pie!  Planes!!!!!!!!!"

10.)  Rueful:  "Serious ADHD Likely!  Oh no!"  

11.)  Accusatory:  "Serious ADHD Likely!  Get her!!"

12.)  Angry:  "Serious ADHD Likely! How dare you have Serious ADHD!  Young lady, what would your mother think?"   

13.)  Relieved:  "Serious ADHD Likely! Oh man, I thought I was going to have to tell you that you had AIDS!"

14.)  Bereft:  "Serious ADHD Likely!  OH GOD NO!  NO, NO, NO!!! GOD!!!!!!!!!! WHAT HAVE I DONE??????"

15.)  Amused:  "Serious ADHD Likely!  Huh." 

16.)   Cautionary:  "Warning!  Serious ADHD Likely!  Also possibly flammable!"

17.)   Santa:  "Serious ADHD Likely!  And to all a good night!"

18.)   Sarcastic:  "Serious ADHD Likely!  Cancel all your life plans, this is one serious disorder that you have.  I mean it.  You are pretty much doomed to a life of secrecy and lies, destined to be forever chained in your basement like the freak that you are."  

As you can see, the statement "Serious ADHD Likely!" is quite open for interpretation, and I am confused.  To make it worse, there is a picture of an orange blob that kind of looks like a paint-by-numbers picture of a baby head that is on fire.  Or maybe the baby's head is made out of fire.  I don't know what to make of it, but it can't be a good sign.  It makes me think that they probably meant the phrase to sound damning, like "Serious ADHD Likely!  Welcome to Hell, Motherfucker!  Have you ever painted a picture of a baby that is one fire? If you haven't don't worry.  There are little numbers here to tell you where to put which color of paint.  You'll catch on soon enough and you'll have plenty of time to practice because it is what you are going to be doing for all of eternity.  That's right.  Hell is an infinite series of somewhat disturbing paint-by-number projects.  I bet you wish that you had lied a little on that ADHD test, huh?"

Anyway, I just re-read my post from yesterday and I realized that it kind of sounded like I was trying to justify removing my blog's feeding tube, or something.  Like it wouldn't be able to survive on its own without medical intervention.

And that is not the case.  It was not at all a goodbye.  It was more of a "I hope you still like me when or if I start writing posts about ten different topics that have no real connection even though you feel like they should, but no - they definitely don't and don't even try to connect them because there is no possible way to connect Jesus, Swiss cheese, miniature golf courses, unicorns, black holes, cats and mutton."

The good news is that I am funnier when I'm unmedicated.  At least I think so.  But that might be because I am unmedicated and thus very easily entertained by myself.  I'm not kidding.  When I am trying to tackle life without Adderall, give me a paper clip and a ball of yarn and I will either Macguyver you a better mousetrap or ignore the paper clip entirely and just bat the ball of string around like a cat.   Either way, I will be able to entertain myself for at least 45 minutes or until something more entertaining comes along, whichever one comes first but I'm willing to bet it will be the second one because come on, who pays attention to anything for 45 minutes straight when the world is full of objects, some of which are moving and others of which are sparkly?  Maybe Bear Grylls, but I'm sure even he has been distracted by a SuperBall from time to time.  Or maybe not.  I don't know. I'm not God.

In fact, things probably won't even change that much around here.  Maybe they'll even get better.  Maybe I'll... hold on for just a second...

Can I show you something?

I found it on the internet and thought "you know where that belongs?  At a miniature golf course.  Every single miniature golf course ever has some sort of creepy clown somewhere.  And if you don't see a creepy clown at a miniature golf course?  You are probably the creepy clown.  Go to the doctor.  Get that shit checked out.

I think clowns should sue Stephen King for ruining their credibility.  If Stephen King never wrote "It" clowns would still be the harbingers of fun and laughter.  But not anymore.  Since Stephen King wrote "It" clowns have become as scary as children.  And children are only scary because Stephen King wrote "The Shining."  You know what?  Fuck Stephen King.  Because of Stephen King, every time I see a set of twin girls, I get all panicky and I start to taste bile in the back of my throat, but no matter how scared I am I can't help feeling bad for their mother because she has to live in a constant state of fear and apprehension because not only are they twins but chances are that someday they are going to want a clown to come to their birthday party and then the universe will implode because that is way too many creepy things all in one place at one time and that is how black holes are created.  They didn't teach you that in science class, but it's true.  And you know what else they didn't teach you in science class?  When your dog dies of rabies, that's Stephen King's fault because I'm pretty sure he created rabies too. And Syphilis.  We should probably assassinate Stephen King preemptively before he makes better AIDS.  Clown AIDS.  Shit.

We need a counter-strike.  I'm pretty sure the only thing that can counter clown AIDS is unicorns, so we'll need about 8,000 of those and then maybe some cheese because it is a known fact that rabid, AIDS-ridden clowns cannot resist cheese and we'll need something to distract them while the unicorns are getting into formation.  It's got to be Swiss cheese though, because I'll be damned if I ever feed a clown cheddar.  That would be like shoving a dollar bill into a gum-ball machine.  It wouldn't work and you'd never get it back.  Just trust me on that one.

I bet you didn't think I was serious when I said that I'd write about all of those things that I listed earlier.  Well, you have underestimated me.  You may be thinking "but Allie, you haven't written about mutton or Jesus yet..."  But don't worry... I'll get to it.

Do you know what I bet Jesus liked to eat?

Ham.

It would have been too easy to just say "mutton."  


P.S.  I promise that not every post will be this random.  But some will be.  I like to inject a little WTF from time to time.  It's good for you guys.  Like mutton.  And Jesus.

Do You Like it When I Write Letters to Inanimate Objects? Do You Wish There Was a Place Where You Could Read Nothing But Letters to Inanimate Objects? Introducing "Random Acts of Personification"

My friend Timoteo of Canadian Doubles  contacted me about contributing to a group-blog that he started on Tumblr.  This blog will be composed almost entirely of short posts addressed to inanimate objects, much like my letters but awesomer.

If you are a dolphin or a smoke alarm, you should definitely click here and read the letters we wrote to you.  You may also be interested in visiting the site if you are a spoon, a fork, a rhinovirus or a pillow.  Or perhaps you are just a person who enjoys reading letters written to the previously listed objects/organisms.   I won't judge you.  Go ahead and click here.  Or here.  Or even here.  They all go to the same place, but maybe one link is better than the other ones.  But probably they are all the same.  I'm honestly not trying to trick you... but you are going to click all of them just to be sure, huh?  Typical.

Actually, good for you for taking matters into your own hands and challenging what people tell you.  Never become complacent.  Keep clicking things.  Click everything.  Maybe you'll end up in Narnia someday.

Probably not, but no one would ever get to Narnia if they didn't at least try sometimes, so you should never stop trying.

I think that might have been profoundly inspirational, but I can't be sure.

Don't Stand in Front of My Flame Thrower, it is Very Powerful

I was a bad blogger today.  I should have written something rad for you to read this morning, but that didn't happen.  I have emails to respond to and phone calls to make and those aren't happening either.  I feel like I deserve a medal for re-filling my humidifier.

I am tapering off of my ADHD medication.

I am halfway through my last prescription from my doctor.  I am not allowed to see that doctor anymore because I graduated from college and she is only a doctor for college students.  I know, it doesn't make sense to me either.  Anyway, if I want to stay on my medication, I have to go find myself a whole new doctor and get diagnosed with ADHD all over again or something.  Remember when I told you about going to the bank and depositing a check so I could buy my ADHD meds?  Remember how that involved 36 steps?  Guess how many steps are involved in getting a new doctor so I can get diagnosed with ADHD again?  Probably 387, but I am too attention deficient to actually count right now.

Anyway, I am hedging my bets and tapering off of my medication in advance because I know myself and I know what will happen if I don't:

1.)  I will take my medication until I have about two week's worth of pills left.  I will then think "I need to get more of this... eh, I'll do it later."

2.)  I will procrastinate until I have one pill left.

3.)  I will take my last pill and, upon observing the empty bottle before me, I will panic and try to figure out what I have to do to get more medication but alas, the process is too complicated and there are lots of phone calls involved and I will give up half-way through because I have ADfuckingHD and it is getting worse by the second since I procrastinated on my responsibilities and was thus forced to go straight from being massively medicated to being completely unmedicated within the span of a few hours and that is not ever a good idea and I will probably die.  

The worst part?  All that stuff up until the part where I die?  That is me WHILE I AM TAKING MY ADHD MEDICATION.  Yes, I am that dysfunctional even while heavily medicated.

But I am choosing to taper off of my medication anyway so that when if I don't get around to finding myself a new doctor, at least I won't die.

So basically, I am giving up on ever being productive again.  I think that's what this boils down to.

This is so unfair.  It's like if you had diabetes and your doctor was like "You can't have your insulin until you eat eighteen Pixie Stix, a 16-ounce package of Skittles and a doughnut."

Or if you needed a heart transplant and your surgeon was all "Oh, you need a heart?  Well, you're in luck!  We have one for you at the top of that mountain over there.  You just have to climb up and get it.  You might have to fight some tigers.  Good luck!"  It's kind of like that too.

You shouldn't have to overcome your disorder to get medication to help you overcome your disorder.  That is the kind of thing that causes the universe to implode.

Can I be frank?  I am sitting here on my couch literally vibrating with hyperactivity.  You know when you are walking along and you see something out of the corner of your eye and you think it is a werewolf or a zombie or Ted Bundy and it scares the shit out of you but then you realize it was just a leaf or a sprinkler and really you are going to be fine but you still have all that adrenaline rushing through your veins and you just want to explode into action but that doesn't make any sense because there is nothing to run away from and you are at the Renaissance Faire and people would, you know, stare at you, so you just keep that crazy feeling bottled up inside and it makes you feel like you are going to spontaneously combust at any second?  That's how I feel.

I have all of this energy but no way to direct it.  It's like I'm holding a flame thrower and spinning around randomly shooting fire at everything and thinking "Man, this thing could be really useful if I knew how to control it and what to use it on..."

I should probably stay the hell away from Billy Joel, that's for sure.

Anyway, I fully intend to keep blogging.  Some days will be better than others.  I'll try to minimize the number of consolation cat pictures that I post.  If you email me and I don't respond, it's not because I hate you.  It is because I am dysfunctional and a little crazy and it's hard to type when my whole body is shaking with psychotic enthusiasm over nothing in particular.

Alright, I'm going to go throw this:

at my wall repeatedly until I am un-psychotic enough to go to bed.  Which might not be ever.

P.S.  That thing in the picture is a squishy orange ball that Boyfriend bought for me to play with when I'm having an ADD attack.  I named it "Big Thing."  Big Thing and I have such a tortured relationship.  On one hand, I love Big Thing and I would never do anything to hurt it.  On the other hand, there are few things in life that are more satisfying than throwing Big Thing against a wall, so basically Big Thing is asking for it just by existing and being fucking awesome at bouncing off of walls.

Nevermind... I Found It

But I'm still drunk.

Drunk. Need Chap STick

I am drunk.

I need some fucking chapstick.  That is all.

Roommates: Part 2

 Julie 

I left for college earlier in the summer than most students.  I moved into a temporary dorm room all by myself on the eighth floor of an 11-story building occupied by only myself, two RA's and, for a week, hundreds of Japanese middle-schoolers who laughed and pointed at me in the elevators.  I like to think that they were saying nice things like "Oh my!  What a delightful necklace she has!"  Or "That girl looks like she would make a good fire-fighter, if that is the career path she were to choose for herself!"  But I'm pretty sure they were actually saying "Hey look!  There's that girl who walks to the showers in only a towel and then locks herself out of her room and has to go wander the halls for help while still wearing only a towel!  She must have no dignity!"

By the time I carted all of my worldly possessions across campus to move into a permanent dorm room with an actual roommate, I was socially starved and almost excited to begin the adventure of living with a stranger in a 12 X 14-foot space.

I was scared to death of Julie from Day One.

I have never been very comfortable relating to other girls.  It's kind of like if I was raised by wolves and then re-introduced to society and I kind of made a successful transition because I didn't die or maul anyone, but I definitely missed out on the development of some pretty crucial social skills, like gossiping and being damningly judgmental about nearly everything.  Being around most other girls make me feel like I'm a cave man who has come back to modern times and now must try to learn how to pee into a toilet and fit in with all the cool kids at school.  Like Encino Man.   Relating to other girls makes me feel like I am Encino Man.

It didn't help that Julie is the kind of person who organizes her books in descending order of height and her wardrobe by color.  When she opened her closet, there was a perfectly color-coded rainbow of designer clothing sitting there staring at me - mocking my terrible ineptitude: "Go home, Encino Man... you'll never fit in here.  Did you buy that shirt at JCPenny? Who cuts your hair?  Wolverine from X-men?  He really fucked up your bangs..."

Julie vacuumed our dorm room probably three times a week.

I have trouble keeping a room clean for any length of time over five minutes even when I am desperately trying to be tidy because I'm terrified of the consequences of untidiness.  I almost always find something destructive and messy to do, which, come to think of it, is also reminiscent of Encino Man.  Or an untrained puppy.  At any rate, Julie didn't care much for my adorable antics.

But that wasn't what made Julie hate me.  What made Julie hate me was a box of Wheat Thins.

Against my better judgment, I agreed to share food with Julie.   I had originally wanted to maintain completely separate food budgets because I eat like a starved horse, but Julie insisted that sharing the responsibility of purchasing food would be the best option.  I put up a good fight, but in the end, I was just too intimidated by Julie to persevere:

Julie:  "So do you want to share food or each of us buy our own food?"

Me:  "I, uh... I want to have us buy our own food because --"

Julie:  "I want to share food."

Me:  "Oh, okay."

Even still, I almost never ate her food.

I tried to be the best roommate ever.  I tried to be fun and up for anything and I even braided Julie's hair and I don't really know how to braid, so Julie was just like "It's alright.  I'll do it myself..." and I watched her do it so I could do it better next time only there never was a next time.  I let Julie dress me up before going out because I didn't want to embarrass her with my caveman-like tendency to wear black and brown together.   I acted all excited when Julie unexpectedly rearranged all of our stuff every few weeks "just for fun."  When Julie couldn't make herself pee in the dorm bathrooms because she was a nervous peer?  I sat in the stall next to her and sang "Tinkle Tinkle Little Star" until she could go.  I drove Julie across three states to see her boyfriend on a three-day weekend.  They ditched me for two days to go have "Catholic sex" (whatever that means) and I had to sit in her kitchen and talk to her extremely awkward parents about "values" and whether or not I wanted to have kids and why Julie hadn't come home yet.  I told them that she probably went to see Mt. Rushmore and that she also probably saw someone famous there and got waylaid because she wanted their autograph.  The point is that I sacrificed for Julie and she dumped me over crackers.

It all started innocently enough...

Even though we had agreed to share food, I still asked permission before I ate anything that Julie bought.  It's just another of my weird character flaws.  I even still ask Boyfriend if I can eat the food he buys and we've been living together for about three years now.  Boyfriend puts up with me a lot better than Julie.  Julie started to get annoyed with me for pestering her for permission all the time.

One day, I asked Julie if I could have a handful of her Wheat Thins.  She said (and I quote) "yeah sure, help yourself.  You really don't have to ask." She was obviously irritated with me for intruding on her thoughts to get permission to eat her crackers.

I was scared of Julie and I was morbidly terrified of angry Julie, so I helped myself as instructed.  I would periodically grab a handful of the Wheat Thins, assuming that Julie was doing the same, too fearful to ask if it was still okay that I ate her crackers.  The Wheat Thins lasted about a week.  I ate the last three Wheat Thins.  It didn't really seem like a big deal because normal people don't usually have psychological meltdowns over crackers.

Things got a little awkward when Julie stopped talking to me.  I could tell there was something wrong because her passive-aggressive rage was palpable.  I am psychologically incapable of withstanding tense silence for any length of time, so I desperately tried to make conversation:

Me:  "Do you know what I like?  Christmas!  I can't wait for Christmas!"

Julie:  "Yup."

Me: "I agree.  Uh... I'm gonna go to Jamba Juice... do you want anything?"

Julie:  "Strawberry."

Me:  "Okay.  I'll be back. "

And then I'd go sit in some bathroom somewhere because it was 11:47 PM and Jamba Juice was closed and I should have thought of that before I asked Julie if she wanted a smoothie, but I didn't and then I would have to think up some story for why I came back without a smoothie, but I would just settle on waiting it out in the bathroom stall and hoping that Julie would fall asleep and forget about the smoothie.

The weeks of monosyllabic conversations wore on and I felt more and more uncomfortable every day.  I tried to talk to Julie about it, like Encino Man would have done because he doesn't understand girls and the fact that they like to pretend nothing is wrong until they are consumed with psychotic rage over a box of crackers.  I asked Julie several times if she was upset and she always said "I'm fine" but in a tone of voice that actually meant "fuck off you cracker-eating whore."

I was too scared of Julie to push the topic any further.

After three or four weeks of being shunned in silence, I finally asked Julie out to coffee to discuss our issues, whatever they may be - at that point I hadn't a clue what I had done wrong, but I was willing to bet that buying Julie a Frapuccino would help.  

Over coffee, Julie informed me that she had arranged to move out at the end of the semester.  I politely inquired about the reasons behind her decision and she made some snide comment about not wanting to live with someone who ate all of her food behind her back.

All of her food?  Behind her back?  I began to think that brooding on the issue for too long  had caused Julie to hyperbolize the situation slightly.

I gently pointed out that I had bought another box of Wheat Thins for her.

Julie said it was too late.  The damage had already been done.

She moved out in the night, leaving me with nothing but a vacuum-mangled bobby pin and a growing sense of self-consciousness around members of my own gender.

Coming Soon:  The roommate who made me feel like I was being molested almost all the time.  By a bum.  In a landfill.

Are You Bored? Do You Want to Berate Yourself in Front of the World? Do I Owe You a Drawing? Diagnosis Bear? And Other Life Questions.

Just a quick little note...

Joe (dogimo of "Consider Your Ass Kicked" in my comments section) created a blog called "Review You Own Blog."  Readers submit reviews of their own blogs that are impartial and maybe even comical and if they are good enough/not biased/not spam, Joe will post them on his site for the world to see.

I think this idea has some real potential.  I think it can be funny and real and good for everyone involved.  But Joe needs a little help getting it off the ground because, as we all know, breaking into the blogosphere (which is a word that I detest but still used just then) is not easy, especially when you are making a blog that is dependent on audience submissions.  So let's help out Joe and promote ourselves while doing it!  Everybody wins!  Yay!!

I wrote a review of my blog for Joe and he liked it enough to post it, so you can read it here.  After you read it though, please think about submitting your own!  I would love to read what you guys have to say about your own blogs and I'm sure that Joe would too.  Just make sure to keep it professional and throw in some criticism too.  Really tear yourself apart.  It'll be fun!

One more thing about Joe:  I think I click over to this post at least three times a week, sometimes multiple times in one day, just to look at it.  I have it bookmarked.  It makes me laugh so hard every time I see it.  It never gets old.  Also, there's a backstory behind it.  Kind of.  I like the totally unexplained one the best though.  Just "Diagnosis: Bear" and the awesomest bear picture ever.

P.S.  If I owe you an MS paint drawing, please, please, please, please, please, PLEASE email me (ickybana5@hotmail.com) with the password (the new one... you should know where to find it...) and what you want me to draw for you.  I had to change the rules on this because the previous rules were a little overambitious for my ADD.  I mean, I had to look up your email address and then open Hotmail and type in your email address and then it might be wrong and most of the time it was wrong and then Hotmail would get all pissed off and tell me that I failed and I would feel bad and then I would have to go search through all of my comments and find you and what you wanted me to draw for you and it was TOO MANY STEPS!  I should have known better, but I always think that I'm way more capable than I actually am and I overestimated myself and now I owe lots of people lots of things, but I'm going to get it done.  I promise.  I'll even throw in a bonus.  Maybe.  It'll be a surprise and everyone will get something different.  It won't be anthrax.  It might be a picture of me, though.

P.P.S.  I'm probably also going to post a regular post today.  After I figure out what I'm going to write about.  It might be cats.

Drunken Email/Drunken Video

Tonight, I received the following email:


"I'm drunk and I think it would be a wonderfull idea to see how many words I can construe using only the letters of your name. A L L I E. Go. 

A. ALL. LIE. LEI. SHIT. THAT'S NOT VERY MANY. MAYBE I SHOULD MAKE A POEM OUT OF THOSE WORDS? WHY IS CAPS LOCK STILL ON?

It was ALL A LIE if you can't get LEI'D. SHIT, THAT'S NOT REALLY A POEM IS IT?

Oh well, that's what you get. You're welcome.

Love,

Nikole

Ps. I am not a parapalegic."


This is why I love you guys.  I have such a random-email-filled, wonderful life.  


Nikole's drunken email also reminded me that I promised to post a video from that one time  when I got impulse-drunk off of a bottle of cheap wine from Safeway and then went on an adventure on the bike path and wrote an angry letter to the Crap Blog Detective in which I called him a "douche bad."  If you want, I can post more footage of that night, but I think this short clip sums it up pretty well. 


P.S.  I'm totally going to get drunk with Nikole someday.  

Lieutenant Horatio Cane from CSI: Miami Hates My Boobies and My Neighbor's Children Probably Saw My Vagina and That's Why I Don't Shower

I stayed up until 4:00 AM last night for no reason.  I was doing so well with going to bed early, but then I just couldn’t control myself last night.  It’s like I binged on being awake and now I’m all hung-over and I just realized that my left breast is bigger than my right breast, so that’s weird. 

I came to that realization because I had to take off my clothes to take a shower this morning and I needed something to do while the hot water got going, so I looked at my boobies in the mirror. 

Remember when I said that I don’t like showering?  That’s because showering forces me to acknowledge my body and all of its flaws and also because my shower is in the upstairs bathroom which is one of the “non-heated rooms” in my house because remember how Boyfriend and I have blankets over all of our doorways because we can’t afford real heat?  This means that our living room is almost always nice and toasty but our bedroom and bathroom are cut off from the heat by the blankets so they just kind of settle to a temperature that is only marginally warmer than the temperature outside which might not be a bad thing if I lived in Hawaii, but I don’t live in Hawaii.  I live in Montana.

So basically, this is me taking a shower: 

I wait until my disgustingness outweighs my aversion to showering, then I walk upstairs and turn on the hot water.  Then I go do something else while the hot water gets going – like read or take a walk or look at my boobies in the mirror. 

If I make the unfortunate mistake of taking my clothes off before I turn on the water, I will have to wrap a towel around myself and sit on the toilet lid shivering violently because I don’t want to go retrieve my clothes from the hallway where I left them because that would mean that I’d have to move the box I put in front of the door to act as a barricade in the event of an attack by the killer from the movie Psycho and also I don't want to let the killer from Psycho in if he's already out there.

I continue to sit on the toilet and shiver and hate the hot water for taking so damn long and hate Boyfriend for never getting around to putting locks on the bathroom door because he doesn’t take my shower paranoia seriously and he thinks I can just get over it but he hasn’t seen Psycho and he doesn’t understand.

You know what?  I haven’t even seen Psycho either.  I just saw the previews on some ad for a late-night horror movie marathon and then made up the rest. 

Anyway, once the hot water gets going, I always feel like I am very near to actually being able to get in the shower, but I’m wrong.  I have to fiddle with the shower knobs until I get water that is not scalding but not prohibitively freezing to come out of the shower head.  This is nearly impossible. 

What usually ends up happening is that I spend five minutes hovering over the tub darting my hand through the stream of lava water to tap the cold water knob ever so gently and at first I think I’ve hit the sweet spot because the water-temperature becomes bearable for approximately three seconds before plunging into what can only be described as liquid ice.  Which should technically be just “water” but I assure you it is not.  My shower reinvented chemistry.  And when the water gets cold, I realize that I have tapped the cold water knob too far – which is depressing because I don’t think I am capable of the motor control necessary to tap it any more gently. 

So most of the time I just end up settling on whatever temperature would kill me the slowest.   I step into the ancient claw-foot tub, which is way too tall for someone of my stature and then I try to close the shower curtain because no matter how cold the water is, the ambient air temperature is always colder.   The only problem is that the shower curtain does not close very easily.  It wraps almost all the way around the tub, but comes up about three inches short.  The only way I can get it to close is to pull it inward and overlap it on itself which leaves me about four-square feet of space to move around in and if I go outside of my boundaries, I will be enveloped by the clammy, germ-infested shower curtain.  It kind of reminds me of the game “Operation.”  Do you remember that game?  It was the one that made you think you’d die if a surgeon ever touched the edge of your incision?  The one that made you think your organs were just random pink blobs floating around in your body, waiting to be removed through any one of several gaping holes that magically appeared on your body for no reason?  And somehow, you were lead to believe that if you successfully removed the heart, the spleen, the large intestine and the knee-cap, you win and the patient gets better even though in real life you’d probably be sued for malpractice and go to jail for manslaughter?  That game.  But instead of getting buzzed at when I fail to stay within the boundaries I am provided, I get slimed by the nasty shower curtain. 

Then I actually have to wash my hair.  Remember when I told you guys that the pesticides I accidentally drank that one time tasted like Sauve “Ocean Breeze” shampoo?  I know what Suave “Ocean Breeze” shampoo tastes like because I almost always get some of it in my mouth and/or eyes.  I try to close my mouth and eyes very tightly throughout the entire shampooing process, but invariably I am startled by something which I automatically assume is the killer from Psycho but which is probably just the shower curtain and I gasp and open my eyes and the shampoo goes in my eyes and mouth, blinding me against my potential attacker. 

So there I am, crouched in my battle stance, completely entangled in my nasty shower curtain, pawing at my eyes and drooling out soap suds, terrified that some fictional movie character from a movie that I haven’t even seen is going to stab me and I realize that I am just going to have to go through all of this again in a few days and suddenly life seems pointless and I don’t even know who I am anymore. 

And that’s not even counting the part where I have to get out of the shower. 

Getting out of the shower is also terrifying because one of these days I am going to slip when I’m stepping out of my awkwardly tall bathtub and hit my head on the towel rod and then I’ll be found naked in a pool of my own blood and Lieutenant Horatio Cane from CSI: Miami will be like “her left breast is larger than her right breast… what a freak!”  and then he’ll realize that he’s in Montana and technically that’s out of his jurisdiction so he’ll go back to Florida but not before he judges me for being misshapen.

If I manage to exit the shower without accidentally ending my life in a pool of blood and embarrassment, I have to put on lotion.  That might not sound so bad until you consider that my economy-sized bottle of Suave Cocoa Butter lotion has been sitting in a room where the air temperature is only marginally warmer than the air temperature outdoors, which, at this time of year, is usually about nine degrees Fahrenheit.  But I’m vain, so I’d rather coat my entire body in a layer of semi-solid lotion ice than risk looking scaly.

I don’t know what this particular lotion is made out of, but whatever it is, it is insoluble on skin.  Try as I might, I cannot rub it in.   Also, I think it’s magical and infinite.   I’ve been trying to use up this lotion for two and a half years now.  I made the mistake of buying it in the summer of 2007 and it has outlasted my best attempts at getting rid of it so that I can justify spending money on new lotion.  I use the lotion at every chance I get.  Door squeaking?  Coat the hinge with lotion.  Out of dish soap?  Maybe the lotion will work.   Probably not, but maybe.  I even set it out next to the bowl Halloween candy this year, hoping that some teenage hooligans would take it and use it to vandalize something.  Sadly, that never happened. 

Once I have covered myself with way too much lotion because maybe that will use it up faster but probably it won’t, I have to wash the lotion off my hands so that I don’t get it in my hair.

My sink has two faucets:  one of them makes lava water and the other one makes ice water.  They are not willing to compromise.  If I want to wash my hands, I have to turn both the faucets on and move my hands back and forth between them really fast before my nerves can pick up the sensation of burning or freezing.  To make it worse, the lotion is even less soluble in water than it is on skin.  I usually just end up getting the lotion all wet and then using huge amounts of toilet paper to wipe it off.

Then I can finally put my clothes on, but remember how I left them out in the hall?  I have to push the heavy box out from in front of the door and then run really fast past the window in the hallway to avoid exposing myself to my landlord’s two young children who may or may not have already seen my vagina, so it probably wouldn’t be anything new to them but maybe it would be and I figure that it’s probably best to minimize the number of times I expose my landlord’s children to my vagina.  Also, I don’t want them to judge me for my misshapen breasts.

Running really fast on a wood floor past a flight of stairs when your body is coated in super-lotion is probably not the smartest life-decision, but then again, neither is leaving your clothes out in the hallway when you go into the bathroom to take a shower.  But that’s what happens when you are impulsive and incapable of thinking things through before acting. 

How I am not dead yet is beyond me.  I guess it’s probably because the killer from Psycho can’t get past the moderately heavy box that I use to barricade my bathroom door.

Billy Joel Almost Killed Me

I just realized that I should probably post somethingtoday... then I was like, “well,what should I post?”

 I thought aboutposting Part 2 of my roommate saga, but I need to ration my high-quality posts because I like to save them for when you guysare starting to doubt my abilities –  then I'm like “oh, you think I am selling-out andwriting only about boring, inane things now?  Well, suck on this post!”

Basically I don’t feel like my blog has sucked enough latelyto justify using up one of my “lifeline posts.”  So instead, youguys get to read about this.  Whichis basically nothing.  I’msorry.  I'll probably be forced to use one of my lifelines soon enough.

Anyway, I was looking around earlier today and trying tobrainstorm for post ideas and I got distracted and started videotaping myselftalking because I do that sometimes since I’m so important and everything.   Then I watched the video I madeof myself talking because I knew that I said some awesome things, but Icouldn’t remember exactly how awesomeit was so I needed to reassure myself that it was awesome by watching it again. Being impulsive and overlyinterested in subjecting myself to the judgment of the internet because, faceit, I need more judgment in my life - I hit “publish to YouTube” – which is something that I will probablyregret, but I’m going to be famous so it won’t matter.

If you want to watch my train-wreck of a video instead of reading this train-wreck of a post, you can find it here.

I think my original point in writing this was that I wasgoing to talk about scars, but I don't remember how I was planning on arriving on that subject… oh yeah! I was going to tell you that I was looking around for things to write aboutand that before I got distracted by talking about how I got distracted by filmingmyself, I got distracted by reminiscing about my badass life-wounds.  I say “life-wounds” because I wanted tosay “war-wounds” but I haven’t been in any wars.  I still wanted to make myself sound awesome, though - and "life-wounds" sounds pretty awesome – like I was attacked bylife.   Do you want to see mylife-wounds and hear the stories behind them?  I sure hope so because that is what's going to happen...

1.) Scar on Face:  

Mom thinks I'm ready to walk.  Takes out of walker and places on ground.  Not ready to walk.  Sense freedom, run away.  Take three glorious, freedom-filled steps - fall facedown in gravel.

I don’t knowwhy my mother chose to teach me how to walk on a gravel driveway, but she did.  And now I have a sweet scar on my face.

2.) Scar on Head (Approximate Location):

I am 4.  Dad makes a big mistake - he plays “Running on Ice” by Billy Joel.  I really like that song.  Logically, I start sprinting around thehouse, flailing my arms.  When sprinting and flailing both fail togive proper expression to how much I truly love “Running on Ice” by Billy Joel,I start spinning in circles as fast as I can.  I get dizzy.  I run into the wall with my head.  I am bleeding. A lot.  Mom calls 911.  I go to the hospital.  The doctor (Doctor fucking Crane – Iwill never forget that) says “she needs stitches.”  Dr. fucking Crane is holding a needle.  I see the needle.  Dr. Crane approaches me.  I begin flailing andkicking ferociously.  I am restrained in a rolled-up blanket.  Like a cat. I am yelling “I HATE YOU! I HATE YOU! I HATE YOU!” and bleeding all over the place.  I manage to wriggle free of the blanket.  I kick Dr. Crane in the chest.  He must have been feeling diplomatic because he offers me a lollipop. My insatiable appetite for sugar distracts me long enough so that I can be restrained in the blanketagain.  Damn that Dr. Crane and his trickery!

3.) Scar on Knee:

 Playing tag.  Tried to jump barbed-wire fence gracefully- like a deer.  Failed.  Tetanus shots soon followed.  Probably also rabies.  Idaho fences are known for their rabidity.  Holy shit... "rabidity" is a word!  I don't think it means what I think it means though... whatever.

Okay, I just Google it and apparently, "rabidity" means "excessive enthusiasm."

Basically, I just told you that the fences in Idaho are known for their excessive enthusiasm.

4.) Chipped Tooth

A couple years ago, I impulse-bought a Happy Meal toy from a thrift store.  It was a tiny, stuffed armadillo.  It had a tag on it.  I didn't want the tag to be there.  I tried to rip it off with my hands, but I was not strong enough.  I used my teeth. To my horror, a chunk of my left front tooth was torn asunder from my face.  The tag was still firmly attached to the armadillo's ass.  And there it remains.

If that is not the weirdest way anyone has ever chipped a tooth, I don't know what is.  

I Started to Write A Post That Would Eventually End With Me Telling You How Many Socks I Found While Cleaning (Probably a Million) But Then Tragedy St

I've been cleaning up all day.  My mom is coming to visit me at my new place for the first time, so I want it to look nice.  Also, disorder and chaos are emotionally devastating for my mom, so I thought that I would try to minimize her risk of encountering those things.  Which is hard when you spend most of your time living in a vortex of disorder and chaos - it's like you can't recognize it anymore even when you try.  Like if you lived off of Cheez-Whiz and Boone's Farm your whole life and then went to a wine and cheese tasting and tried to actually be effective at it.  It wouldn't work.   

Anyway, that is why I haven't posted yet.  But I'm posting now, so it's all okay.  I needed a break from doing responsible things and -

Fuck.  

Guess what?

Boyfriend just got home and I said "Hi!" and he mumbled something, but I couldn't hear what he said and I couldn't lip read because he was standing on the other side of the blanket we have hung over our entryway (because we can't afford real heat, remember?) so I said "What?" and he said "Uh-oh..." and I said "What?" again only more urgently this time and Boyfriend didn't answer me, so I walked into the other room and said "What?" again but I guess I really didn't need to that time because I saw that Boyfriend was holding a letter from my bank and I knew immediately what had happened.  

I said "How much?"

Boyfriend said "Seventy-five dollars..."  

I said "Fuck... that is like nineteen burritos... how did this happen?"

Boyfriend: "You spent five dollars more than you had."

Me: "And then they charged me seventy-five dollars because I didn't have five dollars?"

Boyfriend: "Apparently."

Me:  "The world is a bad place."

Boyfriend: "Can you talk to the bank about it?"

Me: "No. The bank hates me.  I'm on some list or something.  A list for bad people."

And I am.  I am on a list of bad people because one time I deposited a check and someone at the bank misplaced it and I spent money because I thought I had money but I didn't.  When I was finally notified of my ludicrously overdrawn account, I had managed to amass over $500 in fees.  

I was being persecuted unfairly for something I didn't do.  Like Jesus, or LC on that one episode of Laguna Beach.  

I went to my bank and talked to some asshole lady who smelled like she was trying too hard to fit in with her teenager.   She looked like Kate Gosselin, but I didn't know that then.  

Anyway, she reduced my fee to only $200 - because, apparently, they weren't allowed to waive fees in excess of X amount of dollars and I was over that amount so it meant that I had to give them money anyway - and she apologized for the mistake but in that way that means "fuck you, you peasant sheepfucker- you are beneath me!" instead of "I'm sorry."  

They finally deposited the check that they had misplaced and deducted the $200 "hassle fee." 

Do you know what that Kate Gosselin-looking, Clinique Happy-wearing asshole did?  She put the $200 in my account and then forgot to waive the difference... meaning that I had just poured $200 dollars into a black hole of rapidly growing service charges that weren't my fault to begin with.  

Again, I went merrily on my way and spent money impulsively, completely unaware of my continuously mounting debt.  I don't remember how much I owed the bank when I finally realized what had happened, but for some reason they were angry at me for it.  They told me that they would waive the new fees but that I would never be able to challenge another overdraft charge EVER - even  though I told them all about the Kate Gosselin/Clinique Happy woman and how she told me that I was good to go once I had paid the $200 that I shouldn't have even had to pay in the first place.  

I tried to get overdraft protection, but I am in debt because I owe the hospital money from this one time when I crashed my bike and landed on the bar with my hoohoo and I started pissing blood so I went to the E.R. where they had enough time to tell me that I might be bleeding internally, but not enough time to actually see me until after I waited for three hours, trembling and crying because I was almost certain that I was going to die.  And when I finally did get to see a doctor, he was not a hoohoo doctor and he actually started talking about the weather while he was "assessing me" and then?  He gave me some ointment and told me to see if I was still peeing blood in the morning because if I was, I was probably dying.  

Anyway, I now have negative money.  I have to pay $75 just to have no money.  That seems just a little unfair. 

I was going to tell you about how many socks I found, but instead I ended up complaining about how poor I am.  I'm sorry.  I bet you wanted to hear about the socks. 

UPDATE:  I think the ratio of the word "fuck" to other words goes up when I'm dealing with the bank.

UPDATE:  I am sorry, Shaky Jake - you were so excited that I said nice things about the bank before.  I said mean things about the bank today.  Maybe my bank shouldn't be such a cunt (which is possibly even more satisfying to say than "fuck").  Again, Jake, I am sure that your bank is not a cunt at all... but mine is.  

Sometimes I am Overwhelmed by How Awesome You Guys Are...

Sometimes I read through my comments and I almost feel guilty because some of them are so unbelievably funny that I feel bad for having them buried within my comments section.  I mean, many of you have your own blogs that you could be writing that awesomely funny stuff for... but instead you choose to leave me a paragraph or six that straight knocks me on my ass with laughter.  

I appreciate this more than you will ever know.  Sometimes my comments are funnier than I am.  Actually quite often.  Here is just a sample of what I mean (most names are links even though they may not look like it):

Noelle (who doesn't have a blog but probably should): "...Christmas tree shopping is an emotionally devastating experience for me."

-"On the other hand, scissors with a corkscrew in the handle sound really fucking dangerous. And you don't drink. I however, enjoy drinking while I cut things. You should bring them to my house."

-"Me and Ben got drunk at James Bar the other night, and I spent an inappropriate amount of time telling him how badly Brett Farve makes me want to buy levis. You and Duncan need to come back and make games/wine nights less awkward."

-"...So, for breakfast, naturally I would eat a plate of butter. My mom told me this was gross and so I comprimised by hollowing out the insides of bread and filling it with butter. I called it "eskimo bread". I would love to eat this now, but I am a grown-up."

-"...too bad you have to wait until christmas for your giftbasket of fancy tampons and cosmopolitan."

Sarah P: "I was reading a true crime forum today, and everyone was getting all confused between two Kyles because they are both registered sex offenders.  Now, this.  *Shakes head at state of the world*"

-"I always worry one item on a shelf is lonely or that, in an odd number of items, a bunch of them will pair off and shun the singleton. Even numbers are best for dinner parties and knickknacks."

-"...one day, he unrolled the fresh toilet paper roll about halfway, and wrote on one square, "God hates you.""

-"I will never understand why they make a person with ADD call the doctor every month for a refill prescription, go pick up the written prescription and hand-deliver it to the pharmacy. It's like they're just fucking with ADDers."

Becky: "I'm so sleepy right now that when you wrote about your statcounter, it reminded me about my statcounter account, and I wanted to check it out but I never go straight from anyone's blog to statcounter because I'm afraid one day someone will see in their statcounter account that that's where I went after reading their blog, and then they'll think I'm vain and county of readers. I usually go to google for no reason, then to statcounter."

Dan: Please be aware that sand is a stone killer, and I don't even mean that in the erosion-turns-rocks-into-sand way, though that's also kind of worth keeping in mind. But SAND! KILLS!!!! I think that more people are killed by cave-ins of sand-holes each year than by lightning, bad taste, and chewbacca together. ("Sand-hole" sounds like something people would call me in jr high. You know the type.) Not to mention the chafing. Please, do not mention the chafing. Just don't mess around with sand. Somebody will get hurt. Possibly Spiderman, if I recall the movie properly. 

Also, that deer told me he thinks you're cute, but not when you're "sexy lion," which translates in deer to "rutting carnivore." You know how sensitive those sandholes can be.

Tony: "Cancer research < having fun with drunk Allie in my book. I'll tell you why. Cancer's still going to be there tomorrow, but drunk Allie? Well, that wears off after a couple of hours."

-"I'm sorry about the paper cut. It's amazing how something so frail can cause so much pain."

mysterg: "...I don't plan on having any babies so you would just end up having to eat my sperm with someone else's unfertilised eggs. Which could mix inside of you and make you pregnant and then you would sue me for child maintenance. Thank heavens I recognised your dastardly plan before it was too late!"

-"Maybe Kyle just saw your bald picture and thought that bald = cancer = ugly? Although I might screw a bald chick if she was dying from cancer and it was her last request from the make a wish foundation. Because I'm a charitable guy."

Organic Meatbag: I'm not drunk! I'm just belligerent!! Tonight I shall soak in a hot tub filled with grief and Kahlua, and maybe some of you will be invited, and maybe some of you will be INVITED!!!

Nope...not drunk...

Nooter:  "That was nuts!  You're like a cinnamon jelly bean thats been soaking in lemon juice and dipped into a bag of crack then used as a suppository."

Amber: "I googled Crap Blog Detective to get a picture for the pic I am making for you, and YOU ARE TOTALLY NUMBER ONE ON GOOGLE BEFORE HIM!! ALLIE, YOU WIN!!!!!!!"

Lacey: "as a child, i tried to swallow a large percentage of my food whole, so that it would not experience the trauma of being chewed."

Amy: "...it's like he thought "I have these tags, what do I do with them? I can't hold them while I run on the treadmill. I need to put the sneakers on. I can't do that while I hold them. I'll put them here. Hands empty, mission complete. On with the shoes, off to the treadmill."

Woman in the Midst: Raw:  YOU are a winner with a capital "w" - capitilization of the "w" purposely omitted so that you would notice and again declare yourself a WINNER! - =)

ASSHOLE BOYFRIEND: "I hate hearing someone behind me say; "Are you going to pay for that dildo under your shirt? or do you want us to call the Police?" Bothers me every time."

timoteo: "...I left one such note on my fellow interns sandwich, with a caption reading "Please don't eat me, my family will miss me""

-"I'm not sure what the appropriate response is to this situation. I'm gonna cop out by slow clapping."

writteninthemargins: "P.S. I like your blog.  P.P.S. I'm not really that crazy. Well, my boyfriend says I am, but you can't trust him. He's British."

Cinema Obsessed: "...It's like "Well don't dress up like you work at Wal-Mart before you leave the house. It almost obligates you to show me where things are.""

miss. chief: "Dear Allie, 

Hi. How are you? I am fine. Do you like cats? What about porcupines?

The end."

My Mom (yes, my real, live mother who felt the need to make an empty profile so she could comment): "Hello darling, this is your mother. If I have stumbled on to how to actually comment on this new-fangled blog-thing, it will be a miracle. I mean, I’m still figuring out my cell phone. After reading your little site (every word) I am caught between thinking, “That’s my baby girl right there!” and “My God, does she have a life outside of blogging?!” 

Seriously though, it’s not too late to become a comedy writer, after all, look what it did for Dave Barry! You can just leave the microscopes and molecules to someone else to mess with. At least I can understand this stuff—I hate to admit it but your college papers left me behind in the first sentence. (For those of you just tuning in, my daughter is brilliant and talented and I’m sure she will find a cure for something if she doesn’t become a famous comedienne).

Carry on, love. Duncan.....you’re a good man!

P.S. How is your toe and have you made an appointment with the dentist?"

Sarah: "Can I just say how amused I am that after all that your mom completely breezed past the part of the story where you poisoned yourself to compliment you on the fact that you are a gifted humorist and writer?"

Shaky Jake: "I'm high on nougat right now, and that doesn't even require a prescription."

Anonymous: "I'd like to tell you a short story. Almost two years ago, I (a girl who grew up with 15 pet dogs and was certainly not a cat person) took in a cat that had grown up in the wild from a kitten. He was at least 3 years old at the time, and I had slowly gotten him used to me (and only me) and fed him and cared for him outside and all. Then one morning I woke up to find him on the front doorstep, hardly able to breathe. I (miracle of miracles) somehow managed to get him to the vet, and he was made all better. Now at that point, it was the middle of winter. He couldn't stay outside with breathing problems. So he became an inside cat. (Side note: he can't meow. The most he can muster is a whispery "meh". It's precious.) So he's been an inside cat for two years now, and you can't even tell he was ever outside, he's so spoiled. He weighs like 15 pounds, I swear. Anyway, I was never able to think of a good name for him. Nothing I tried fit him at ALL. So for two years, he's answered to Kitty. This is embarrassing when relating funny stories, to admit that my cat is called Kitty. I tried to pretend that I named him after Sully in Monsters, Inc. because Boo called him Kitty, but I think we can all agree that was a pretty thin cover, and everyone thinks I'm just a retard who can't think of what to name her cat.

My point here, Allie, is that after two long years, YOUR AD BLOG NAMED MY CAT! Seriously. I clicked on an ad to help you out, and found a "good cat names" quiz and I answered all the questions truthfully and it told me to name him Charlemagne, which is a horrible name, so I took it again with less truthful & honest answers, and it said Sebastian! Which normally is not a great name. But it TOTALLY fits him. So thank you, Allie, for making an ad blog and naming my cat!

The end."

angryredhead: "I think we should ban the French language entirely, as it obviously makes no sense at all."

Jamie: "I am less offended by your post than I am by the fact I have to tell people my daughter has assburgers. That dude should have changed his name to something french."

-"How very selfish of you to go have experiences and leave us here without new posts..."

Caitlin: "glad you didn't die."

-"...then someone says "WHY ARE YOU YELLING" and then the other person say "I DON'T KNOW" -or- "I'M NOT YELLING" and then person one says "YES YOU ARE!" and then person two says "WELL I'M SORRY, I CAN'T HELP IT" ......and then that continues on for like another five minutes..."

Canoncowgirl: "The whole time I've been reading your blog (all a couple weeks or so) i've been confusing "hyperbole" and "perabola" which is dumb because if anything I should be confusing hyperbole and hyperbola but I was totally imagining a single arch (and a half) none of that top and bottom mirror arch crap. so apparently I'm not only confused regaurding the english language but also on geometry terms."

Tia: "Repulser.

Rhymes with "ulcer."

You know, like as in "his job was to be the repulser so no one would bother the lions."

Ok maybe it's not a word.

Kaitlyn:  "Way to wreck a productive afternoon and give me arachnoiditis."

Rikki:  "Fuck jeans.  Sorry I said fuck. I am totally following your bad example, but, to *everyone's* relief, I don't hate you."

OhSweetSara: "So I'm going to go ahead and freak out the 4 people who follow me on twitter to help you with your cause. 

If this makes them stop following me it will be totally worth it because I only started following them because they were following me and I felt obligated, but I'm too nice to un-follow them because twitter is a dick-head and tells people when someone stops following them, and I don’t want to be that person. But their tweets are really annoying and about cat food coupons and I don't even have a cat so I don't care, but if they stop following me because I tweeted '#mandatorysexparty' then that would be awesome, and I would totally want to give you a prize."

Ellie: "You ate ALL the cookies? Now I want cookies. I have cookie dough in the freezer, but that would mean defrosting is necessary. The complexity of life is overwhelming".

Lizard. dot lizard.: "OK this is off-topic in that it doesn't relate to your eventual point, but, the bird thing? Is there something weird going on with the birds? Last week about four different sparrows committed Kamikaze on the windows at work - and they're not even clear! And today there was a dead finch by the window, and then later THWACK! a QUAIL. We don't even have quail around where I work. Some quail flew however many miles, just to fling himself against the window and die!  I have pictures to prove it. 

So what's up with the birds? Is this an attack, or a desperate sort of warning in which they're sacrificing their little birdie lives to tell us HEY! HEY! YOU IN THERE! WATCH OUT!  Watch out for what?" 

Stephanie: "If it were me? I would have let people think I had cancer and then milked the "sympathy boyfriend" situation for all it was worth. Apparently my adolescent self was not too proud for pity dating".

Sherri: "...AND you got to visit a meth lab. NO FAIR."

Nicole: "Thank you for your letter to Cosmo. If one more issue tells me to use ice cubs on my partner, I am going to...eh I have no real repercussions."

That Chick: "...my best friend would come up to me and say, "dear, you're awful angry. Is your uterus leaking?"" 

Josh Gard: "As a regular guy who can appreciate a cute though slightly odd girl, I can say that Allie pulls off the sexy lion much better than a lot of girls could!" 

Alice: "...I was asleep on an apple green vintage couch on a busy street, inexplicably wearing fairy wings. True story. Moving sucks.

Kaloo: "But this makes no sense. Everyone knows that Scissors stab Eyes. And without Eyes Rock is going to miss horribly..."

Duncan (AKA Boyfriend): "At least we can all agree paper sucks in any situation."

Nikole: "Are you people kidding? Have you never been cut by paper? It is the most excruciating ordeals one could possibly experience. I assume even moreso than natural childbirth..."

-"My brother's girlfriend once told me that my mom was sandy. Confused, I yelled, "No, her name is Jeanne!" in the middle of Baskin Robbins. Apparently she meant that my mom had a sandy vagina (figuratively speaking) because who wouldn't be irritable with sand in the vag? Seriously, think about the mechanics of chaffing. Basically, she was calling my mom a bitch but how was I to know sandy could be used as that kind of a descriptor?"

-"My cousin/roommate loves milk an unnatural amount."

Erin: "Can we be best friends?  If not, I'd settle for some coupons..." 

Don-Guitar: "...I'm very plebeian when it comes to coffee. I like Folgers artificially flavored hazelnut, brewed (not too strong) in my dollar store drip coffee maker. I don't adulterate it with plant extracts (like cane sugar), artificial sweeteners, dairy products or synthetic dairy products and I dislike all other brands and varieties of coffee."

Matthew: "Will you marry me?"  (I drew up a marriage license for matthew and I and emailed it to him, but he hasn't sent it back yet.  I'm giving him three more days and then I'm going to post it on my blog for everyone else to fill out too...) 

Hope: "...I don't think my boyfriend is an alien, but he is waterproof. Seriously."

Schmorley: "I find it disturbing that Gerber makes baby food and really badass knives and hatchets. I mean really, baby food and knives? I was wondering if you also found this to be disturbing." 

Laurel Kornfield (I cannot tell if she is being serious or if she's just the funniest person ever): "Pluto is still a planet. Only four percent of the IAU voted on the controversial demotion, and most are not planetary scientists. Their decision was immediately opposed in a formal petition by hundreds of professional astronomers led by Dr. Alan Stern, Principal Investigator of NASA’s New Horizons mission to Pluto. One reason the IAU definition makes no sense is it says dwarf planets are not planets at all! That is like saying a grizzly bear is not a bear, and it is inconsistent with the use of the term “dwarf” in astronomy, where dwarf stars are still stars, and dwarf galaxies are still galaxies. Also, the IAU definition classifies objects solely by where they are while ignoring what they are. If Earth were in Pluto’s orbit, according to the IAU definition, it would not be a planet either. A definition that takes the same object and makes it a planet in one location and not a planet in another is essentially useless. Pluto is a planet because it is spherical, meaning it is large enough to be pulled into a round shape by its own gravity--a state known as hydrostatic equilibrium and characteristic of planets, not of shapeless asteroids held together by chemical bonds. These reasons are why many astronomers, lay people, and educators are either ignoring the demotion entirely or working to get it overturned."

Sy: "...It's like a cat. Yeah you can dress it up and parade it down the street, but if you...the power giver... doesn't feed it, it is just a worthless lump. Fine, you have to bury the cat, or at least make a nice stew out of it, but regardless...the effort to feed it once in a while makes you awesome and the appliance weak."

Thank you for making me laugh so hard every day.  

P.S.  My "no-internet debacle" is no excuse for the fact that I have been terribly tardy with the "prizes" that I owe some of you... if I owe you, please email me with the password, and your request (contact button at top of sidebar.  Alternatively, ickybana5@hotmail.com).  I may even surprise you with something extra. Don't count on it, but maybe.  

Guilt...and Why You Shouldn't Ever Go to the Grocery Store if You Personify Inanimate Objects

I carried a discarded Otter Pops box for three miles today.  

I found it on the side of the road and at first I ran past it.  Then I started feeling guilty about not picking it up because I started to think of all the bad things that could happen as a result of my negligence - What if a bird gets its head stuck in there?  What if someone saw me totally ignoring my responsibility to personally keep the planet clean and free of discarded Otter Pops boxes and then they judged me for it?  What if a child runs across the road to check out that brightly colored thing on the other side and is struck by a car?  What if next time it rains, the dye from the packaging material seeps into the soil around it and then next year a wild strawberry plant grows in that location and produces a strawberry that is just full of toxic chemicals waiting to be ingested by an unsuspecting person who will later die of colon cancer and have no idea why because they always took care of themselves and ate their fruits and vegetables but actually?  That's what killed them.  And it would be my fault.  

I turned around and ran back to pick up the box.  

It was an unwieldy thing and not easy to run with, but I live in the middle of nowhere and trash cans are not easy to come by so I had no choice but to carry it with me for miles.   As I was running along, trying to ignore the strange looks I was getting from passing motorists, I started to hate my guilty conscience.  Why do I always feel like I have a moral obligation to do these things or else something bad will happen to the world, my mom and everybody?  Why can't I just ignore trash on the side of the road like a normal person?  Crap... was that a beer can?   

And it doesn't stop at roadside waste, either.  I feel the need to donate a dollar to breast cancer research every time I go to Safeway even though I only have seventeen dollars in my checking account and I know that I am going to get an overdraft charge but the cashier looks so nice and she was smiling at me and then she was watching me while I was deciding whether to check "yes" or "no" to donating a dollar for breast cancer and I just couldn't check "no" because then she'd see me do it and she'd think I was an asshole and I'd think I was an asshole for personally ruining the lives of researchers and breast cancer sufferers everywhere.   

There is another obstacle I face every time I walk into the grocery store.... and here's where it gets really ridiculous... I feel bad for all of the unwanted items on the clearance rack.  That's right - I experience emotional distress over the "feelings"of inanimate objects.  I start thinking "Oh those poor scissors!  They are on sale for 80% off and no one has bought them yet!"  And then?  I feel like it is my duty to buy them and rescue them from the terrible abandonment they must be experiencing.   

Luckily, I usually have Boyfriend there to try and talk some sense into me.  Sometimes it doesn't end well.  Tthe scissors incident (which is a real incident that I am just getting ready to tell you about) is a good example:  I was in the local IGA with Boyfriend and we were walking past the clearance aisle and there was a bin of items that was marked "50% or more off! WOW!"  On the very top of this bin were the scissors I was just talking about.  Actually, they were scissors with a corkscrew on the handle.   I thought "Oh those poor scissors!" and then I said "hey... we should get these..."

Boyfriend: "What is it?"

Me:  "It's scissors with a corkscrew on the handle."

Boyfriend: "That's stupid."

Me:  "Don't say that!"

Boyfriend:  "Why not?"

Me:  "You'll hurt their feelings..."

Boyfriend:  "They're scissors, Allie..."

Me:  "I know... but they have been rejected by everyone else and they are sitting here in the super-clearance bin waiting for someone to buy them but obviously no one has bought them even though they are eighty percent off and now you just called them stupid!"

Boyfriend: ....

Me:  "Take it back." 

Boyfriend: "What?"

Me:  "Take it back... what you said to the scissors..."

Boyfriend:  "I... I am not going to apologize to a pair of scissors in public."

Me:  "Then can we at least buy them and you can do it at home?"

Boyfriend:  "Do you have any idea how ridiculous that sounds?"

Me:  "Please?" 

Boyfriend:  "Fine... (whispering) I'm sorry, scissors..."

Me: "Pat them."

Boyfriend:  "WHAT??"

Me:  "Pat them... to let them know you mean it."

Boyfriend:  "I draw the line at patting the scissors."

At this point, I felt strongly that Boyfriend was being demeaning toward the scissors, but - because I am not actually insane - I decided not to push him any further.  Plus, I totally patted the scissors and mouthed "I'm sorry..." when Boyfriend wasn't looking.   

Boyfriend likes to make use of this little quirk of mine when he wants me to do something.  When he can't finish his fries he'll ask me if I want them.   If I'm too full, I say no and then Boyfriend says "but how do you think the fries feel?  You don't want to hurt their feelings, right? I bet they totally want you to eat them and now they feel rejected because you're 'too full...'" And then I throw a mustard packet at Boyfriend and immediately regret it because I start feeling bad for the mustard packet. 

According to Wikipedia, this "object personification" is probably a symptom of my synesthesia:

"For some people, in addition to numbers and other ordinal sequences, objects are sometimes imbued with a sense of personality. Recent research has begun to show that alphanumeric personification co-varies with other forms of synesthesia, and is consistent and automatic, as required to be considered a form of synesthesia"

But that doesn't necessarily make me feel any better about it.  However, it gives you guys a psychologically justifiable reason to not write me off as completely insane, so I figured that I better include it just in case.  I mean, I don't think you typically run across people who project emotional vulnerability onto scissors.  But maybe other people do this too, in which case I would love to hear about it!  

This little problem of mine has lessened with age.  When I was young, I felt terribly guilty every time I walked on grass because I thought the blades of grass would get hurt.  I cried when I lost my mitten because I pictured my poor little mitten sitting alone in the cold and feeling abandoned.  I became emotionally attached to a dead fish that I was supposed to feed to a sea lion and ended up carrying the fish around and singing to it until my mom convinced me that the fish wanted to go play with his friend the sea lion.  I think this all sounds pretty normal for a kid, but for an adult?  Something tells me no.  

Most of the time I can use logic to overcome my tendency to look out for the emotional well-being of inanimate objects, but I still feel twinges of guilt every time I throw something away and I have a very hard time eating Goldfish crackers.  

P.S. I read this to boyfriend and he vehemently denied insulting the scissors.  He remembers the incident and the fact that he said something was stupid, but he asserts that "I would never say that about scissors!  You can pretty much add anything to scissors and it makes them more awesome!" 

I just wish he felt that way when those poor scissors needed to hear that.