It's Too Late to Apologize, Kyle... But Do You Still Want to See Me Strip?

Remember when I wrote that post  responding to that guy named Kyle who called me ugly and unfunny and it was exactly like when Tyra Banks got called fat and then protested by coming out on stage in a bathing suit and everybody said “wow, she’s so brave!” and she was lauded as a hero by self-esteem challenged women everywhere?

That was pretty sweet.

Anyway, I made a video. It's for Kyle.

It may or may not be work-safe, but I think that it probably is. I took special care not to show too much skin, but I make no guarantees about this being work safe if your boss can't handle massive amounts of pure, unadulterated sexiness.

I am warning you that this will probably make you feel weird inside... like being molested or witnessing someone you don't know giving birth. But it has to be done. It just has to be. God told me to do it.

Oh, and I talk in this video, so that means you'll hear my voice and it will probably be all different than what you were expecting and you might develop some sort of psychological disorder if you've become attached to the way you have been imagining my voice. Just prepare yourself, okay?

I start talking almost right away, so you don't have much time to acclimate once the video starts and then I start taking my clothes off and that is awkward and you'll probably die if you go straight from being shocked about my voice to being shocked about my sexiness with no break in between. If you expect to be deeply disturbed by my voice if it is higher or lower than you expected, please take a moment to calm yourself after the initial shock before proceeding with the video. I'm serious, guys.

Anyway, if Kyle was wondering whether he could say sorry for calling me ugly and just let things go back to the way they used to be, this video should clear things up for him:

Letters: Volume 6

Dear Sunglasses;
Why do you make me feel like such an asshole? 
Your functional properties are greatly outweighed by your ludicrously sleek appearance, which, when paired with my face, makes me look like I think I’m better than everyone else.  Which I am, but it is imperative that others do not sense this about me because it makes them very uncomfortable and sometimes they even fly into a jealous rage.
I don’t want to feel like a secret agent or a celebrity every time I need to shield my delicate retinas from the sun.   Do you come in any shape other than “secret agent” and “incognito celebrity”?   What’s that?  You also come in “frat brother” and “pilot”?  AND “Bono”?   
Well, Sunglasses, that sure is a lot of variety…  It’s too bad that I don’t want to look like any of those things.  
Do you know how stupid I feel when I walk inside and forget that you are on my face?  Everyone looks at me and thinks “that is completely unnecessary… “
Or sometimes they think “HOLY CRAP I BET THAT’S CHARLIZE THERON!!!” because we look almost exactly alike – especially when I wear sunglasses.   Which is kind of cool except for it’s a little demoralizing to have people look so disappointed when they realize it’s just some normal but still outrageously good-looking person wearing ridiculously large sunglasses.  That’s why I run away whenever someone looks at me.  I am doing them a service by letting them think that they were actually in the same grocery store with Charlize Theron, even though Charlize Theron has probably never been to Montana and may not even know that Montana exists.   That doesn’t matter.  What matters is that those people can go home and tell their spouses and friends and children that they fucking saw Charlize Theron in the grocery store.  Only they probably wouldn’t say “fucking” around their kids - unless they are bad parents, in which case, fuck ‘em.  They don’t deserve to think that they saw Charlize Theron in the grocery store.  And guess what motherfucker?  I’m not Charlize Theron, so you just lied to your kid. 
Anyway, Sunglasses, you can clearly see that you cause nothing but trouble in my life and the lives of others.  You should be ashamed of yourself!
I don’t know what I am hoping to accomplish by writing you this letter.  I know that it is probably a futile effort because you are so stuck on yourself and unwilling to change.  But there is a part of me that hopes there is a tiny kernel of goodness underneath all that shiny plastic and UV-protective tinting – that maybe you’ll hear my message and reconsider your role in the world.   It’s not too late to change, Sunglasses.  You don’t have to spend the rest of eternity as an indicator of douchiness.
It’s just something to think about…

Dear Milk;
What ARE you???  I have spent the past 24 years being blissfully unaware of your trickery.   Just yesterday, I asked myself for the first time “What the fuck is milk actually?” 
I Googled you, Milk.  Do you want to know what Google told me you were?  It told me that you are a “colloidal dispersion.”  That means “water with a bunch of un-dissolved crap in it.”  DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA HOW DISGUSTING THAT SOUNDS???  And that is on top of the fact that you come from cow boobies. 
I’m onto you, Milk.  You can’t fool me into thinking that you are just another beverage like orange juice or soda.  I am even beginning to question your validity as an addition to cereal.   That’s just putting larger undissolved chunks in something that is already rife with undissolved chunks.  That is weird and shouldn’t be allowed to happen.
Until you can offer me a suitable explanation for your behavior, I am afraid that I am going to have to boycott you.   I am sorry it has come to this, but what am I supposed to do, Milk?   I feel like I’ve been lied to my whole life and that doesn’t feel very good.  

Dear Papercut;
Fuck you.

Dear Sand;
There are a number of issues I have been meaning to discuss with you.  You are a fairly respectable surface, Sand.  There’s no denying that.   But I feel that there are some areas of your performance that could use improvement.  
The first issue I would like to address is that of your attraction to wet surfaces.  When I have been wading in the water and I decide that I am done wading and ready to put my shoes back on, I am caught in the midst of an irreconcilable conundrum:  do I wade to the very edge of the water and stand on one foot while I try to dry off the other foot so that it is ready to be inserted into my shoe and stood upon so that I can repeat the process with my other foot?  Or do I brazenly walk across you to the parking lot where I will do my best to scrape you off of my feet before inserting them into my shoes again?  
Neither option is really a good option, Sand.  If I choose the first scenario, I almost always end up stumbling into the water and getting one or both of my shoes wet.   This also makes me look like an idiot to bystanders.  If I choose the second scenario, I have made the poorer choice because everyone knows that there is no way to rid your feet of sand without getting them wet again and that will only lead to scenario one again unless you are at a beach with one of those neat little foot-showers.  I love whoever invented those.   Anyway, my point is that if you were less attracted to wet surfaces, this problem wouldn’t exist.  Please think about working on this.
The next issue I would like to discuss with you is that of your inherent opposition to effective forward propulsion.  What I mean is that it is very hard to run on you.  That is all well and fine until I am being chased by a rapist or a murderer.  Then it gets kind of dicey.   Some might say “well, if you are being chased by a rapist or a murderer, just avoid sand… duh.”  But what if I am in the desert?  What then?   Do I just lie down and allow myself to be ravaged and then chopped into tiny pieces and buried?  This is why you need to work on this area of your performance, Sand.  I can’t always avoid you when I am fleeing from rapists and murders. 
Speaking of burying things, do you have any idea how hard it is to dig a hole in you?   For every shovel-full of you I move, you fill in between ¾ and 5/4 of the hole I have just dug – which, if you need to have fractions explained to you - means that I am left with either a pathetically shallow hole or a mound - which is the complete opposite of a hole and not at all what I am trying to accomplish when I have set out to dig a hole.  
With these small changes, you could be unstoppable, Sand.   Everyone would want to be on you all of the time.  You would be the most popular recreation-surface on earth – even above grass because grass makes people itchy and usually that is overlooked because grass doesn’t cling to wet surfaces (at least not when it is still growing in the ground), impede forward motion or prohibit hole-digging.   But if you solved these problems, you would have a leg-up on grass for sure.  
I sincerely hope you consider my suggestions and I look forward to being on you once you have implemented my advice.  

Dear Decoy Deer Statue on the Corner of Adirondack and Willow;
Please stop scaring me every time I run past you.  It makes me feel very stupid when you startle me for the sixteenth time in as many days and I make a choked-up little squeaking sound and frantically paw at the air with my hands before I realize that you are that same damn fake deer that scares me every day.  
Maybe you could move out from behind that bush so that it doesn’t look quite so much like you are lurking? 

Boyfriend Ate Two Whole Bags of Skittles and Now He is Terrorizing Me

Remember how I said “I am going to write another post today”?  Well, I’m trying, but Boyfriend is not being very helpful at all. 

That sentence up there?  The one that I wrote just then?  It took me 27 minutes to complete it.  Do you want to know why?  Because Boyfriend is all cracked out on sugar and excited about Halloween because he is the most festive fucking person I have ever met in my life.  He has been almost constantly interrupting me with a steady stream of overly excited verbal diarrhea, including jewels like:
“Never eat a burrito from both ends… ”  
And “you should Google the ‘Merry Maids’… maybe we can get one and she’ll make me cookies… wait… we don’t have internet, huh?  Remind me to Google ‘Merry Maids’ when we get the internet again”
And  “Do you want to get me some milk?  Are you going to answer me?  No seriously… can you get me some milk please?  Do you want me to be grumpy?”
Guess what he’s doing now?  Really… guess.
I bet you didn’t guess that he is eating a burrito, reading TIME magazine and singing the theme song to Transformers, but that’s what he’s doing. 
He just cracks like this every now and then.  He spends the majority of his time being the level-headed, responsible one in our relationship and then, out of nowhere, he decides to eat two whole bags of Skittles and his blood sugar goes all crazy and he loses his shit and starts doing stuff like bumping into me with the top of his head while laughing uncontrollably.  
He just asked me to get him milk again.  He says that he will write stuff for me while I’m away getting him milk.  
Boyfriend:  Milk is a great source of vitamins and minerals and it helps the body grow to be strong.  It’s nutritious and delicious! Did you know that milk comes from cows? No, seriously, think about that.  That’s fucked up. I don’t care though.  I think they should replace water in drinking fountains with milk.  Not skim milk though. Skim milk is bullshit.
That was Boyfriend.  He wrote that, took one swig straight out of the jug of milk and then said “Mmmm… That’s good.  Can you take it back now?”  And then he set the jug of milk in my lap. 
He is antagonizing me on purpose because I spend too much time blogging and not enough time staring at him and listening to him prattle on about milk.  
Now he is lamenting the fact that FedEx doesn’t go by “Federal Express” anymore because they had to shorten it “since even drunk people can say FedEx and then even drunk people can send packages… try saying Federal Express when you are drunk: (makes incomprehensible sounds)”
Now he is asking me if I ever heard the story of how FedEx started because “it is a story of triumph… like, they should have made a basketball movie about it except instead of basketball, it would be about packages… and about overcoming the odds – can you go to Tassimo dot com?  Oh wait… nevermind.  Are you just writing down everything I say?  No seriously?  Are you?  Stop it!” 
He’s getting kind of mad, but guess what?  Maybe he should stop talking and let me actually write a real blog post.
Now I am trying to convince Boyfriend that my journalistic integrity depends on being able to post the truth about him.  He said “I am going to sue you for libel - I don’t even know what that means, but I’ll do it!” 
Do you want to know what’s weird about Boyfriend?  To most people, he seems introverted, even downright shy.  He almost never talks.  But when we are hanging out in the confines of our apartment, I cannot get him to shut up.  When he is attention starved or hyperglycemic he talks almost constantly.  Right now, he is literally reading every ad in TIME magazine out loud to me.  He is yelling “Pleasing cheeses!!!!!!”  Apparently there is an ad for pleasing cheeses.  It’s like if there are words in his head, they are going to come out of his mouth regardless of whether they are pertinent or even intelligible.   Sometimes he just sits there and makes sounds. 
Okay, he went into the kitchen to make sugar cookies.  He is yelling something, but I can’t really understand him.  I’m just going to ignore him and let him talk it out with himself and then maybe I can actually write something witty or intelligent.  Oh wait… he figured out that I wasn’t listening and he stuck his head around the corner to announce:  “This recipe is crazy!  There’s two of everything – two cups of sugar, two sticks of butter, two teaspoons of vanilla… except the flour kind of fucks it up since there are five cups of it.”
He likes round numbers and orderliness.  He can’t stand it when I dig for cookie dough and mess up the symmetry of the ice cream we are eating.  He has a total boner for charts and graphs – he makes spreadsheets in Excel for entertainment.  
I was going to write a post about my aversion to sunglasses, but -
He just wrote “NANANANANANA” on my thigh.  I tried to stop him several times but he was doggedly persistent in his goal of branding my flesh with his inane scribbling. 
I should probably stop writing and pay attention to him before I end up looking like I passed out first at a frat party.   He is really ruthless when he gets into “drawing-on-skin” mode.  I feel like I am writing in a war-zone with dangerous and chaotic events happening all around me – except for that I’m not really in any danger. 
I’ll write about sunglasses tomorrow.  Maybe.  Or maybe I'll write about something else.  I like to keep things mysterious...

Here is an abnormally tan/orange-looking picture of my thigh with the word "NANANNANANANA" written on it in blue ink.  
I promise I am not actually this orange.  I just had to crank up the saturation of the picture so that I didn't look pasty and also so you could see the word clearly, becuase otherwise I might have just looked like I had a bruise.  
God, please excuse me for this post.  
P.S.  Do you want to hear something interesting about you guys?  I have written much, much longer posts than my last post, but since my last post had 36 numbered steps, you got all intimidated and were like "meh - too long."  I am sorry I made you undertake a multi-step task to read about how I abhor undertaking multi-step tasks.  It just isn't right. 
I always write long posts when I remember to take my drugs.   I still have an ADD brain that has lots of thoughts, but suddenly I have the focusing power to actually express all of them.  You should see me talk - I'm like... well probably a lot like Boyfriend was tonight.  

Roommates Part 1

This is the post I promised to write ages ago about why I ended up living in a bathroom-less "studio" above a mentally unstable masturbation-superstar and down the hall from an overly friendly heroin addict and his suit of armor.  If you didn't read that one, here it is.

If you've already read it, you are probably wondering "what on Earth could make a person voluntarily subject themselves to that kind of living situation?"

And this is the first installment of my four-part answer:


I shared a room with my younger sister for 15 years.

Sibling cohabitation is not something that I would recommend to parents who aren't trying to foster animosity between their children.

But, to my parents' credit, they had noble intentions.  They made the decision partly out of budgetary restraints and also out of the hope that living in such close quarters would force my sister and I to resolve our differences - which is an admirably optimistic point of view.

Unfortunately, the theory did not take into account just how much my sister and I disagreed with one another.  We fought constantly- sometimes violently - about everything from how loudly she breathed to how much my feet stunk.  Neither of us slept very well because I think we were each afraid of being murdered in our sleep by the other.

But my sister's cat was probably the worst part of all of it.  This particular cat felt that it was necessary to be making loud noises all of the time.  It even made noise in its sleep.  And the noises it made weren't cute little noises, either - they sounded like a duck with a speech impediment choking on a car accident between a truck full of squeaky toys and an ambulance.  Go back and reread that sentence.  It was a work of art.  Okay, now carry on...

When I tried to solve the problem by putting the cat outside, one of two things usually happened:  First, my sister would fly into an animal-rights-inspired rage and say something like "you aren't treating the cat with respect!  She should be treated the same way you would treat a human being!"  And then I'd retort with something along the lines of "Yeah?  Well guess what?  I used to put you outside when you were a baby and were still too stupid to get back in by yourself.  I would definitely put you outside with the cat right now if I thought you wouldn't eventually find your way back in." And we would go back and forth like that until someone either got stabbed with a fork or distracted by a phone call from a boy.

But what usually ended up happening is that the cat would be locked out of the bedroom but not outside of the house.  It seemed like a compromise, but it wasn't.  The cat - having been thrown out - would begin clawing on the door and screeching, which was even worse than the other noises and usually prompted my sister to begin crying and yelling "See? See what you did to her?  She needs me!  And she's all alone and scared out there in the dark!"

In essence, I was forced to choose between a noisy cat and the same cat only noisier plus an angry, angry little sister who didn't have the sense to know that she was being manipulated by a cat who was nocturnal and therefore not at all afraid of the dark.

I chose a tent.

The idea was born out of an epic battle between my sister and myself in which I threatened to move outside and live in a tent "even though I'll probably freeze to death" because she was being so pig-headed.  Obviously I had to move out to the tent or else I would risk losing the argument.

My family owns a good-sized chunk of property in rural North Idaho, so it was not difficult to find a suitable tent site.  I set up my tent close enough to the house to be visible to those who may pity me but far enough away to give the illusion that I may be in actual danger and therefore worthy of pity.

It actually turned out to be a pretty cool little setup.  I began spending more and more time in the tent and one by one, my worldly possessions trickled out there with me.  I think my parents began to fear that I liked living in the tent a little too much and that maybe this experience would lower my standards for future living arrangements (which it did) and that I would eventually settle on being a bum (I have not yet resorted to that, but it is not out of the question.  I think I would be pretty good at being a bum because I am resourceful and fairly unencumbered substance addictions.)

For almost four months, I lived in the tent, as happy as a clam (apparently clams are quite content with life).  All the while my poor mother fought a three-way internal battle between her desire to let me express myself, her natural instinct to keep me from freezing or being eaten by a bear and her fears that I would spend my future as a vagrant because of some gross oversight on her part.

Sometime around November, my mom finally cracked.  She told me that she had decided it was too cold outside for me to be sleeping in a tent.  She never mentioned her fears about my future as a hobo.  I argued with my mom, saying "but Mom, I want to live in the tent!  I like the tent!  Don't you want me to be happy??"  I could see her sanity crumbling, but I had no idea that I would drive her to do what she did next.

She built me a box.

She built me a sound-dampening box in my room inside the house.  I don't know how she made the leap of logic that this wouldn't turn me into a hobo, but she did.

I came home from school one day to find my mother in a chipper mood.  She was cooking and humming and smiling like someone who had just recently been granted a reprieve from their lifelong sentence in a mental institution.   She greeted me as I walked in the door:  "Hi sweetheart!  How was your day?"

Me:  "Good...."  I was suspicious already.

Mom:  "Did you learn anything in school?"

Me: "Oh, just the usual - like how to cook meth and give a blow job... what's going on?"

Mom: "What?  Oh, nothing..."  (She looked away and began chuckling to herself)  "Are you going to go into your room?"

I dropped my books and backpack on the floor and sprinted to my room, at which point I noticed the sound-dampening super-fort that my mother had built for me.

Me:  "Mom?  What is this?"

Mom:  "That's your new home, Sweetie"

Me:  "But I live in a tent... remember?"

Mom:  "Oh, your dad and I already packed up the tent.  We thought you wouldn't miss it once you saw that we made this for you instead."

Me:  "You want me to live in a box in my own room?"

Mom:  "It's made out of soundboard so you won't be able to hear the cat.  It will be fun!  Like living in a fort.  You used to love forts when you were little."

Me:  "Yeah, but that's because I was five, Mom."

Mom: (looking a little hurt) "You don't like it?"

Me: (feeling guilty for hurting my mom's feelings) "No... I... I like it.  It's just that... I don't know how you think that this is a better idea than a tent."

Mom: "It's November, Allie.  We live in Idaho.  It is going to snow soon and there are bears and mountain lions. They are going to be attracted by the food you are hoarding out there and then they will eat you and you'll die."

Me: "What do I do when my friends come over?"

Mom: "Ask them if they want to see your awesome fort?"

Me:  "Normal parents don't do this to their children, Mom."

Mom: "Just go check out your fort.  I put up all of your pictures inside of it and everything."

I reluctantly crawled inside the box/fort.   It wasn't actually as bad as I thought it would be.  My mom had indeed hung up pictures of me and my friends.  She may have tried to sneak in a family picture or two.  I couldn't stand up inside of it, but I could crawl around comfortably.  And my mom was right - I couldn't hear the cat.

I lived in the box-fort for close to six months before we moved and I finally got my own room for the first time in my life.  It almost seemed cruel that I had to go away to college to live in a cramped dorm room with a passive-aggressive crazy person so soon after finally discovering the freedom of having my own space.

Up next: The passive aggressive roommate.

About Last Night...

I have decided to re-post what I wrote last night but with sober commentary.  There are definitely some things that need clarification.   I will attempt to explain the thinking behind what I said last night, but I can only guess in some places.  Like I have no idea why I wanted to go to the bike path that badly and I no longer understand the point of Twitter or why I said that I did in the first place.  I know that I felt like I reached some profound understanding last night, but I have absolutely no recollection of what that was.   Anyway, this is why I don't drink very often.  Carry on.  

This is "sober me." 

This is "drunk me."


Okay you guys.  I am going to do my first real drunk-blog.  On a Sunday night.  Because I don't have a job so I can do stuff like this and it doesn't matter.

That paragraph wasn't so bad.  I got my point across clearly and succinctly. What's next? 

I kind of planned something like this as a publicity stunt earlier, but I never did it because I am a coward.  But today Boyfriend impulse-bought a bottle of wine at Safeway and he hadn't made pasta yet and I guess I kind of got tricked into drunk-blogging. 

I got "tricked into drunk-blogging"?  I don't remember what I was thinking there, but I am pretty sure no one tricked me.  I think it was more like Boyfriend bought some wine because we were going to make pasta with shrimp (because buying shrimp is always a smart thing to do when you are poor) and he wanted to use the wine in the dressing.  Then *I* was like "I know what would be a good idea!  Let's get drunk!"  And then we each had a glass of wine (and by "each had a glass of wine" I mean "I had a 16-ounce coffee mug of wine and I don't know what Boyfriend did because I was too busy drinking and tweeting") and I got really drunk and Boyfriend didn't because he is responsible and has a normal BMI.  And *he* didn't get so excited about getting drunk that he forgot to eat dinner until 9:00 PM.

I am already one coffee-mug full of wine into this thing, but I drank it really fast because I hate alcohol but I still want to be drunk like a normal person. 

Are normal people drunk?  What did I mean when I said that?  I think I was probably referring to the fact that most people my age drink all the time and they are just fine with it, so I should be too. 

I feel like I am doing really well with being coherent so far.  I guess we'll see if I feel that way in the morning.

It is now the morning and I don't feel like I was being coherent even at this early stage.  

So anyway, I'll keep updating this as the night wears on.  Maybe it will be interesting but I can't exactly guarantee that.

Yeah, not that interesting.  Maybe I should get some friends.  

I will try to respond to comments as you guys make them.

Didn't do that. 

Oh!  And I will be tweeting because I hear that tweeting while drunk is like an out-of-body experience.  Like maybe I'll finally understand what Twitter is for or some shit. 

If you haven't looked at my tweets from last night, you should probably do that.  I think I am much better at drunk-tweeting than drunk-blogging.  Probably because the character-limit on Twitter makes it difficult to ramble. I am prone to rambling as it is, then you add alcohol and I pretty much transform into F. Scott Fitzgerald.  If you got that reference, good for you.  And I'm sorry your English teacher made you read that book.   

Okay.  I'm getting bad at typing so I am going to go drink more (logically) and then we'll do this again.   Who is we?  I am the one typing.  I guess maybe I have multiple personalities while drunk. 

I can clearly see that I was referring to "you guys and me" when I said "we" and I think I knew that when I first typed "we" but then I forgot that that was what I was talking about 19 seconds later and I became confused by myself and started questioning my psychological integrity.    

I am probably going to say something super offensive.  I just have a bad feeling about all of this.  But I'm doing it anyway because I'm drunk and I can't stop blogging because I'm a blogalcoholic.  That didn't make sense but it kind of did.

I don't think I said anything offensive or very interesting for that matter.  I talked about bears a lot and "the bike path" because, for some reason, I had a total boner for the bike path last night.  

Well, I'm not actually an alchoholic since I don't really drink alcohol.   I am more of a seasonal binge-drinker.  I go months without drinking and then BAM!  I randomly decide to get drunk because I am impulsive.  Have we covered that already?


Yes.  Yes we did cover it.  Lot of times.  And I am glad that I clarified on the alcoholic thing.  If I didn't, you guys might have thought that getting drunk all by myself on Sunday night was a regular thing in my life.  It's not.  I'm just impulsive.  

Okay.  I am going to hit post now.  Should I update this entry or make new posts for all of my subsequent (which is a big word for a drunk person) posts?  Is that redundant?




I like how I am writing like I'm talking on the phone.  Like I need to alert you guys that I may stop writing soon.  It's not like you were watching me type.  I could have just ended after "probably" and everyone would have accepted that as the end because there were no more words after it.  

UPDATE: (I forgot to put that in there last night) So I just left a comment on Mr. Asshol douch-face's blog (remember the guy we were all going to insult because he insulted me? )

The insult "Mr. Asshol douch-face" isn't really as hardcore as I thought it was last night.  Especially since half of the words are missing an "e".  I've been insulted by drunk people before and I always kind of looked down on them, like I would never be dumb enough to get drunk and start yelling at people in a less-than-cogent fashion.  Does it still count when you do it on the internet?  

I almost think it's worse when you type out something like "Mr. Asshol douch-face."  Because if you are just saying it aloud to someone, the possibility exists that it will still sound phonetically similar to what you are intending to say and perhaps you'll be granted a bit more leniency by your audience since there is no backspace button for speaking.  With typing, there are no excuses.  And phonetics don't matter.  

This is the comment I left him:

I am going to edit this part parenthetically because there aren't any paragraphs.

I am drunk and you are a douche bag. So there's that. (I opened with a zinger. Booyah.) Seriously though, if I was a mean person, I would probably call you a queef-faced man-child with stupid disease. (that was almost as good as "Mr. Asshol douch-face) I guess I just kind of did. (Yes. I did. And I don't know why I would have hesitated because that is not a very hurtful insult.) And guess what? No, serioulsy... guess what? DOUCHE BAG!!!!! (Yes, I think I already called him that. Twice. In fact, it probably wouldn't have been very hard at all to guess that that was what I was going to say. So much for the element of surprise.) ahahhahaajjajajja (Am I Mexican? Why am I laughing with J's? More importantly, why am I even laughing? It's like I think I invented the term "douche bag" or something.) I am so glad I am drunk and that we're friends. (Since when am I friends with this guy?) Kind of. (Oh... I see what I was trying to do. I think I was trying to be mean when I said "kind of." Like I thought I had tricked him into thinking we were friends and he would be surprised when I sarcastically informed him that we were not actually friends. Ouch. That must have really hurt him.) You should really do something better with your life though. (now I'm all serious and advice-y?) You aren't a good person. (That was harsh. I will be really surprised if this guy hasn't killed himself yet.) What if someone stopped blogging because of your insults? (That's actually a valid point. Good job me.) Would that be funny? (No. Absolutely not.) Kind of, (what??) but it is also immoral you fucking douch-y ass-bandit. (There I go with the "douche" thing again. I guess that's my go-to insult when I'm drunk. And I think when I said "kind of" in response to when I asked "would that be funny" I was trying to get all tactical and make him think that I agreed with him so he would be more likely to listen to me and then he'd be more vulnerable to my verbal onslaught.) I bet you looked at my blog and you were all "I could never compete with that." Becasue you totally couldn't. (Yeah, me, I bet that is exactly why he insulted me. Good catch.) I could out-blog you while drunk. (I'm really spitting fire now. Watch out, guy.) Whatever that means. (Oh, look at that! It's almost like I actually knew I was being an idiot but then just said "ah fuck it - I'm drunk and it doesn't matter.") If you want to find out, you should probably challenge me to a blog-off now because I am drunk and I would totally own your ass. (I am so glad he did not challenge me to anything. I don't think I was capable of owning asses at that point.) Can I be frank? (Oh please, can I?) You are a douche bad. (FAIL) I don't know if I told you that already, but I should have. (Oh, I told him already. In fact, you'd think I was writing a pay-per-post promoting the term "douche bag" except I got drunk and messed up that last one and ended up promoting "douche bad" which is probably a rival company and I am going to get fired in this imaginary pay-per-post fantasy of mine. Am I still drunk?) Dude. (That is not a complete sentence by any stretch of the imagination and should not be ended by a period.) YOu told me I was lame and even though I am, I am also not lame at all. (I am sure he understood what I meant.) I have a fucking trophy in my living room. (No I don't.) For all of my accomlishments. (Oh yes - my "accomlishments". There are so many of them!) It says "Allie: BEST FUCKING PERSON EVER!!!!!!!!!!" (it doesn't) and it totally has all of those exclamation points too (It definitely doesn't because guess what? It doesn't even fucking exist in reality.) Have you ever thought about life? I was going to say something profound here, but I forgot what I was going to say and so I just said this: Probably not. because you are a douche bag. (I think that was the point at which I gave up on making a convincing argument and just settled for repetition) Later, tater. (Because that is something that normal people say) -Allie (Yup. It was definitely me who said all that.)

I think I won, but I'm not sure. 

Well, technically I couldn't have won because I was never in a competition in the first place. Details...

UPDATE: I am ]\just ate dinner. (I was trying to hit backspace and just ending up hitting ]\ instead) I had pasta. It had shrimp in it and Boyfriend was video-taping me and he tried to make me feel bad about eating the shrimp because he knows that I personify inamninate objects and that is just not fair. He said "Don't leave that shrimp in there... it DIED for you!" and then I had to eat the rest of the shrimp because I felt bad. It might be a funny video but I honestly don't know if anyone else in the world would understand. Does anyone else feel bad for leaving a shrimp or two behind? Like maybe they died for nothing because you aren't eating them? I feel l9ke a big jerk.

Okay, so Boyfriend never actually tried to make me feel bad for not eating a shrimp. He tried to make me feel bad for not eating a tomato - but that is not the same thing as a shrimp and you would think I could have recognized that, but no.

Anyway, I asked Boyfriend if he wanted to go on an adventure and he was like "it depend on where you wan to go adventuring," And I said "on the bike path!"

(I like how the text suddenly gets all huge.  Also, I have no idea what my fixation with "the bike path" was, but for some reason I thought that there would be something really cool there or something.  There wasn't. But I did almost break my leg when I ran away from Boyfriend and fell into a ditch.)

So maybe that is where we are going to go.

Who knows?!

WE could go anywhere.

(Not really. We could go to the river. Or the bike path. Or maybe Taco Bell. But anywhere? Not buying it. Too poor. Wow - that last sentence had a double meaning!)

UPDATE: So I didn't update as much as I thought I would. I was too busy advernturing and then Boyfriend bought ice cream and that distracted me and so did Twitter.

"Advernturing" - good one.

And guess what?

Oh, I couldn't possibly...

I get Twitter now. It is like a conference call only with typing instead of talking but if it was talking, each person would only be allowed to talk for 12 seconds before being cut off. It keeps everything even and it forces you to be very efficient. Like, a lot of times I write out "it is" when all I need to do is "it's" - I knew that before, but Twitter really drilled it home. And does it seem like shortening "it is" to "it's" should save way more than one measly character? It does to me. We should set things on fire to protest.

That didn't make any sense. Why would anyone want to be on a conference call where they get cut off after 12 seconds? That would definitely get in the way of productivity and would not be a good idea at all.

Or not.

I'm glad I clarified that I didn't actually want you guys to set things on fire in real life. Or maybe I was trying to convey that you had the option of not setting things on fire. I'm sure you would have been so confused if I hadn't told you.

I should probably go to bed now. Boyfriend is sitting next to me on the couch and sighing loudly and hinting about how he has to get up in the morning to go to his job like a real person. I told him that I need to stay up at least long enough to drink orange juice, but I just looked up and he is already in the other room brushing his teeth so I don't think he heard me. Jerk.

A "real person"? Am I Pinnochio?

Anyway, thanks for being awesome. And thanks for helping me beat down douche-face crap blog-guy.  

Yes. Thank you. And thank you for supporting me when I called him "douche bad." That must have been difficult, but I know you guys had my back.

And guess what I just realized? That dude? the one we were just talking about? He writes insults on practically every place on the whole internet and most of the people he insults go look at his blog to see who the hell he thinks he is and they probably look at his comments to see how others are reacting so as to gauge their responses accordingly and guess what that means? ALL of us just got some major exposure by commenting on his blog. And for that, we win.  

I like how I didn't realize this until I was hammered and then I was like "oh yeah! Good marketing move sober me!"

You're welcome.  
I really do end up accidentally making good blogging decisions. And then I make some bad ones too. Like drinking half of a bottle of... hold on... "Ravenwood" wine from Safeway. That may not have been such a good blogging decision.

That would be "Raven's Wood." I don't know how I got that wrong because the word "Raven's" is separated from the word "Wood" by almost four whole inches on the label. There should have been no confusion whatsoever as to whether those words should be combined.

Anyway, I am rambling (really???) and that means bedtime. Also, Boyfriend came back from brushing his teeth and he is standing in the doorway glaring at me like I am the worst girlfriend ever for getting drunk and ruining his "real person"-who-goes-to-bed-before 4AM routine. Psh... Sorry. Jesus.

I think I was really was pissed off at boyfriend for going to bed. How dare he ruin my little party?! And just because he had to get up to go do cancer research in the morning?? Unbelievable...

This is a picture of me from last night. After you get beyond the fact that I am unbelievably hot, you may find yourself wondering about that scab on my chin. That is from when I tried to get rid of a zit by putting toothpaste on it (it's supposed to work - look it up if you don't believe me). I think I put on waaaaaay too much toothpaste. I put a Band Aid on it and left it overnight and in the morning? No more zit, but I had melted my face off. If I end up posting videos from last night, you will see that I am quite fixated on this scab. I keep asking boyfriend "can you see my scab?" And "do I still look hot even though I have a scab on my face?" At one point, I even ordered boyfriend to film me on my "good side" so no one could see my scab.