I’ve moved.

You can find me at:





http://slurredpress.wordpress.com/

During my cherry coke breakfast this morning I thought about my definition of snuggling

(I know, I know. Who do I think I am? Brenda Walsh?).



When I say, “As a child I loved to snuggle.” I don’t mean it the way you think I mean it. I mean I liked to SNUGGLE.



Time Out!

I wasn’t planning on veering off into another direction now, but what the hell is going on in that picture?

”Snuggle can’t care for all the world’s colors?”

Apparently not, since he’s denying the happy little Asian girl a smooch.

You’re not fooling anyone, Mr. Bear. I’m onto your botanical bliss scented racism.



Time In!

“As a child I loved to snuggle.” doesn’t mean I liked physical intimacy, laundry, or physical intimacy with laundry. I’m talking about the bear himself. Those commercials were so wondrous. I had every one of them on VHS. I’d even sit incredibly too close to the television just so I could block out the rest of the world and be close enough to rewind my favorite parts (slow motion bouncing onto a pile of fresh laundry). I was far too young to even remember what I saw in that guy. I feel like I dated him. I watched that video every morning for weeks until I wore myself out.



Is this also the way Katie Holmes feels about Days of Thunder?



Would I let Snuggle Bear slowly push a sugar packet race car up my thigh… in bed? The answer is, I don’t know.



Now I will consult Wikipedia.



”The forms of physical intimacy, in order of increasing degree of intimacy **(but not necessarily in order of increasing enjoyment), with each form generally those preceding it, are: physical closeness, touching, (especially tenderly), touching intimate parts ***(including outer course), and sexual penetration.





**Wait a second, was that supposed to be a joke? I know I’ve lost my mind when encyclopedias start telling jokes.



Me: “So, encyclopedia… what’s your favorite song?”

Encyclopedia: “Turn the page!”

Me: “What, you’re not in the moooooood?! C’mon, tell me!”

Encyclopedia: “No, I said TURN THE PAGE!”

Me: “OH, OH, I GET IT! HAHAHAHAHA ENCYCLOPEDIA YOU ARE ALWAYS TWO STEPS AHEAD OF ME! NOOGIES!”

Encyclopedia: “HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!”



***Outer course. It may impregnate you, but don’t be alarmed. Your baby will be…out of this world.

This may sound weird coming from someone who farts first in the ladies restroom, but I’m not easily embarrassed. Maybe I should explain what I mean by farting first. More often than not you will not be alone in the restroom when things take a turn for the worst. You ask yourself, “Did I see another pair of dangling legs in this restroom?” You will usually check before you squeeze as you please. I prefer to squeeze first as if I’m participating in some sort of contest. More often than not I hear a shuffle of feet and a flush right afterward. Does this make people uncomfortable? People, does this make you uncomfortable? If anything I’m giving you, yes you, the ultimate opportunity to express yourself just as I do behind that closed door. It’s the go-ahead. It’s your butt/bat signal. I’m softly (warmly) whispering to you, “Feel the breeze. Let it fly.” Now if I said any of that out loud I’d be embarrassed.



Possible scenarios:

Me: *fwaaaaarp* “Your turn!!!”

Me: *pooooooooftttt* “I know you are, but what am I?!?”

Me: *brrrraaaaapfftttttt* “Engine 51, Squad 52!!!”

Me: *awaaaaahhhnnnnffffff* “No, you’re out of order! I’ll put the system on trial!”



I’m not being entirely inappropriate. I won’t wait until you’re gone to show my face, either. Mostly because when someone else does that we’re so curious to find out who dealt it that we will actually creep down slowly, quietly, until we can study the shoes hard enough to recognize them later.



(Sidenote: Why did a synapse just fire in my brain yelping, “Put Crouching Tiger, Hidden (butt) Dragon in your Netflix queue”?)



Then what? What if you do recognize those shoes later at an office luncheon?

Are you going to look him/her right in the eyes and say in time with each corner of green bean casserole cut with spatula, “I. know. You. Farted.”?



I’m positive I’m that girl. Let’s explore my possible work reputation in the form of movie titles.



Das Butt
Cacablanca
American Doody
Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Behind


Now what I’m about to say has nothing to do with butts except for the fact that I may/may not be the orifice located near the center of a giant one.



Dear Mom Number Two (you wouldn’t be thinking what I’m thinking if I hadn’t just said butt three times),



You left a package of homemade fudge (this is getting out of hand) and a bag of Italian spices for me to deliver to your friend, Kelly, when you left home for Italy. He copied me on an e-mail he sent to you which included a paragraph you wrote about me being a bright young lady with a nice job and a great future ahead of me. I was touched, and then I had to tell him I lost your fudge. Not lost like, “Oops, where’d the fudge go?” More like, “I forgot how much the staff loves chocolate.” I spilled the beans. He spilled the beans. Sherry, I found out something horrifying. I will spill the beans again. He doesn’t like fudge.



He copied me on an e-mail he sent to you again that started with: “Just spoke with april at work. The acorn never falls too far from the tree does it? Thanks so much for the fudge, it was greatly appreciated and enjoyed.”



Don’t tell him that I told you. Just give him an extra batch next year. Tell him that I told you he said “You effing lost the fudge, you little wiener? I don’t even celebrate Christmas. I celebrate Fudgemas! You effing ruined my Fudgemas!”



I sent him back an e-mail that said, “Oh, The acorn does fall far from the tree. It falls far from the oak tree, to be exact. Maybe you should just stick with “apple” which is also my nickname. Then the whole thing comes full circle, you see.”



We decided to meet in the lobby of my building so that I could give him the last of the goodies. I had never even seen a picture of your man friend, Kelly, so I asked for a description and traded one of myself in return. Before I received his mine went out something like this: “Corporate version of Minnie Mouse!”



His came back to me like this: “I'm 5'10", brown hair parted to the side, blue suit, white shirt, purple tie.”



I was nervous for two reasons. One, I had just sent someone I didn’t know a sassy e-mail. Two, I had just compared myself to a cartoon mouse. Sadly, the description was accurate and he noticed me right away. “April?!” he said. I blushed really hard like I was meeting someone from “It’s just lunch!” and we sat down to have what might have been an uncomfortable conversation… for him. Mostly because near the closing he said, “We should have lunch sometime and talk about your mom.”



(I’m going to use that line on some hottie one day. Actually, I just wanted to say hottie. Actually, I just wanted to mention Andrew Keegan and this is the only place he’ll fit in my story. Damn you, Keegan! What are you doing in here?!!!)



Well, here comes the uncomfortable part. After that I was too busy thinking, “What, what did you just say? You want to talk about my mom over a cobb salad?” and my mouth just went right along without my consent and shouted, “Yeah, we’ll shoot the poop.” His hair flopped over like a loose shingle when he laughed and as I was thinking, “What? What did I just say? I’m a frat boy in a polka dot skirt?” my mouth just went right along without my consent and I shouted,



“Hey, don’t smoke that!” in reference to the bag of suspicious looking Italian spices.



What the? Needless to say, I don’t think your friend and I will be having lunch.



Your financially responsible daughter,



April

just when you think your brain couldn’t get any worse in the middle of attempting (and succeeding!) to remember a good movie line from mrs. Doubtfire you actually have the following thought:

“i wonder if my uncle’s getting free gas now that he’s planning to marry the clerk’s friend from india for $5,000.”

how is this even possible? How is this excerpt from my biological mother’s e-mail even possible?

“mark came home today and told us it was official (he has been talking to this lady for months) that he has agreed to marry this lady's sister who lives in india to make her a legal american citizen. He is getting paid $5000 to do it. Can you believe that shit? Hell I would marry her for that!!! I told him to ask her if she had a brother that needed to come over. She gave him $200 today and told him to come back in a few days and she would give him more. She works at the fina station where he goes to get smokes all the time. They don't have to live together or anything, they just have to be married a year or something like that.”

the closest I ever got to a gas station clerk was the time the owner of the friendly mart gave me some fantastic smelling incense for my old apartment.
I can’t imagine him expecting me to marry his brother in return.

Is this idiom time? Is this time to shout, “different strokes for different folks?”
because my chair here has wheels on the bottom i’m never thinking about how to get to one side of my office to the next. I’m simply left to think about these things far too long and hard. Now i’m left to think about how that last sentence, if taken literally, would be a problem in itself.

“different strokes for different folks.” (mainly american): something that you say which means that different people like or need different things.

I’d like to add “–and that makes it okay” to the end of that. That’s when we use it the most, right? I guess it’s okay for my uncle to marry the gas station clerk’s friend because that is a different thing and he does need it. He really does.

If you’re thinking about bringing this saying back into your every day verbal exchange i’d advice against it when:

1. You’re visiting a family member in the cerebrovascular care unit at your local hospital.
2. Your neighbor pops his erupting, cystic, buttne on a rose bush outside your window and waxes/relaxes the hood of your car using ever so delicate strokes in the moonlight.

And i’m obviously always speaking from personal experience, so stay with me here.

I hope you’re still here because the thing i’m going to share with you next is the real clincher. I call it a clincher because the moment I read it I had to walky talky maintenance for work order #187927: probe april’s throat with the handle of a mop. It is clinched so tight she can hardly breathe. This is urgent. Actually, you should bring her a bag of smoothie skittles, too. Hey, and maybe an indian husband? Mom? Me? You? Related? Blood?

“maybe you could find a way to do something like that to help you get a car. I am serious. There has got to be people looking for someone to do this. I just don't know if it's legal for them to place an ad anywhere. You should check the www. I may do it myself.”

it’s almost like she’s writing this entry for me.
Thanks, mom.

It will include the following unfortunate facts:

1. You cannot eat a salad with two hands. This, of course, does not apply to people eating a carb smart version of a sub sandwich wrapped in lettuce instead of bread.

Just kidding, asshole, it DOES apply to you. Why the hell aren't you eating bread?

2. Croutons? More like BOOtons. The only "right" way to snatch up a crouton on your fork is by spooning it. You can't stab it. It will break. You can't spoon with a fork, either.

The guy eating his salad with a spoon is probably sitting next to the guy eating a sandwich with no bread.

3. No matter what you've heard/seen (ahemannegeddes) there is no such thing as a lettuce patch kid.

4. I'm positive that dates are great on salads, but more positive that salad is not great on dates.

There's one, single, solitary thought that goes through all of our heads when someone is trying to cram a large piece of food/oddly shaped piece of food into their mouth.








"How in the world is she going to fit my dick in there?"

temping may/may not be the worst job for a rightfully emotional woman in her (almost!) mid twenties. I am not a perm. I've never even had a perm. I wanted a body wave when we moved here but I could never bring myself to say "body wave" out loud. It sounds like something i'd need dep products to maintain. It sounds like I dropped a cigarette in my yellow geo storm and screamed when it melted through my clear jelly sandals.

(other things that are just begging for you to never purchase them: big sexy hair shampoo and moons over my hammy.)

anyway, I bust a lot of a at this job. That is why it is hard for me to understand why they're going to interview people for the position this week. That is why it's hard for me to stand up out of my chair without fainting when I think about not working here.

I've built a relationship with everyone from the security guard to the stuffed snowman staring out the window of my office right now. That last one's a long story, but it involved said snowman, cecilia, a hard hat, 2 hours of sleep, a sub sandwich, a rabbit costume, and a movie we made on her phone with it the day after thanksgiving.

Okay, so I might have made that movie in my office. Okay, I did make that movie in my office. However, there was no one and nothing for me to do that day. They told me to watch tv. So becoming the tv isn't too much of a stretch.

Being a temp is like being a drifter. Need I say angelina jolie in foxfire? I think not. Only I am a little less attractive nude! Really, that's it! I just want to be someone's working dog.

Sit!

Okay, got it.

Stay!


I thought you'd never ask!

I guess there's still a tiny bit of hope (that the stranger 3 stalls down didn't hear me whisper to myself, "i look like a mushroom." a couple hours ago before I realized I wasn't alone). It's just that my skirt was hiked and puffed up... Oh never mind.

On another note, opening presents in front of people feels like the first time you took your shirt off in front of the other girls in the locker room.


I think it stems from the time my mormon aunt gave me a giant homemade puff paint sweatshirt that read: joe cool with a grocery store brand snoopy wearing sunglasses melting beneath the words.

I think I might have wasted all of my gift face that day.

No one in the Swartz family is particularly known for saying the right thing at the right time. Sometimes I don't know whether or not I seriously inherited the trait or if I'm subconsciously mocking them. It doesn't necessarily make a difference either way because if I haven't learned my lesson at almost 23 I doubt I'll ever learn it at all.

This is why I have and will continue to say things like, "my dad was the only guy who ever gave me flowers," in front of a group of people I don't know so well. I know you're reading this, so I want you to know no matter how hard these people look at me like I just shouted, "my dad and I used to play nude hands free ping pong together!" I'll still give you credit for that. Only now you're just the first person to give me flowers. Whoa, I know. I have a feeling you might have just gasped at me with the force of the lawnmower pulling little nick out of the grass in honey, I shrunk the kids ("french class!!!").

I shouldn't be surprised when 5 minutes into our first conversation in months my dad begins with breastfeeding do's and do not's (not to be confused with breast feeding donuts, that's another topic for another day). This was also another moment where I realized I had been living a lie. I don't know why I just assumed i'd been breast fed, but I was a formula baby. Maybe because boobs have always/will always be a big part of my life. Pun intended, of course. Apparently I was too hard on my mom. I guess you could say I was a pretty sucky baby. Anyway, it turns out that after all this time my dad realized what she had been doing wrong.

I'm pulling this from our conversation word for word.

"You have to push the boob into their mouth further. That way the nipple is closer to the back of the mouth where the suckling won't hurt as much!"

On one hand I wanted to exclaim, "how interesting!!! I'll have to remember that!!!" and on the other hand it hit me that my dad had just said the words "nipple" and "suckle" to me in the same sentence. I informed him immediately that I would be showcasing his... Uhh... Tips (oh, it's just not right!) for the internet to see. My ear was on fire. I needed to cover this acid with a base, so my next logical change of topic was to ask, "how are the mormons doing?"

Ahhh, I had poured a little milk on top of the vinegar. Things were feeling better until he replied with, "well, your cousin brittany is going to be mickey mouse." Oddly enough a few other members of my family have also been mickey mouse. I won't go into detail, but a massive amount of hallucinogenics were involved. This time one of us was actually going to be the real deal disney. Does this mean I can say I'm related not only to a little rascal and monster movie star, but also to mickey mouse himself? April Lynn Swartz-mouse? Could it be?

I have also learned that is strictly forbidden for members of our family to go to disneyworld and yell, "hey brittany!" when she's in the costume. When she's out of character and dressed in her human clothes she's not allowed to talk to anyone, either. I would take a trip to disneyworld just to see if I could get her to break the "rules", but then I definitely wouldn't be getting my own planet when I die. And that's just a little too risky for my tastes.

A lie I tell that everyone believes initially:
"I rode a donkey down the grand canyon!"
"whoa, did you really?"
"no."
"oh..."

a truth I tell that no one believes initially:
"I swallowed the tiny light bulb that went to our vacuum cleaner when I was little."
"no you did not!"

back me up here, dad. Haven't I always said I would dig it out of my own poop, put it in a locket, and wear it around my neck when it comes out?
I'm. Still. Waiting.

I've had access to the internet for as long as I can remember. Being the daughter of a computer programmer had its perks, of course. Number one being I had already established a real, romantic, long lasting, meaningful relationship with a boy by the age of 12. I remember the moment I typed "13/f/tx" and sat staring at the text field before I came up with a new name for myself. Alexus Warner. That wasn't a typo earlier. I was actually 12 years old and there was no such thing as twelveteen.

Parents and family reading this, you had no idea that I was arranging to meet strangers from the internet in front of a carousel at the age of 12. You can catch your breath because it was the first and last time I attempted to make the internet to real life relationship transformation. Now I'll explain why. This was before we all knew how to upload pictures of ourselves. This was a time when the only people you knew with scanners also had limited edition $20 pog slammers with a matching tie dyed case their father bought for them in Hawaii.

(If that reference hits home to you your name is probably Jennifer Butler and I know you lied about the Pog case because I saw the same one high up on a shelf along with other $5 dollar cases at MJ Designs).

It's a good thing I'm writing this down instead of saying it out loud because now I would have absolutely no clue what point I was attempting to get across. This may or may not be the equivalent of caterpillar traveling habits (bug experts correct me if I'm wrong). They all follow each other in a straight line until one of the caterpillar fucks up and the rest pile up and crawl in opposite directions defeating the purpose of traveling altogether. None of them know where they came from and none of them know where they're going.

If you haven't already noticed I'm doing it again.

I was a shallow 12 year old. If you've seen a picture from what we'll politely dub my "unfortunate years" you won't understand how that could be possible, but I'm admitting it right now to you, the internet. I took one look at that hot summer sweaty Texas day Adrian dressed in an ill fitting Reebok muscle tank top and ran mongoose speed in the opposite direction. I don't remember Adrian's last name, but I wish I did just in case he tries to Google himself one of these days and finds the girl who was supposed to meet him at Six Flags Over Texas and never showed. Alexus Warner? I have no room to criticize my 4 year old cousin for naming my stuffed shark "Shark Eater" because I have not once but twice named things after luxury sedans in my life.

1. Alexus
2. Bentley, my cat.

Flash forward to work life. The only websites I have unrestricted access to are sites for reading and learning. Now I'm never going to remember anyone's birthday because that part of my brain is soaked in Pitchfork reviews and the number of times I've seen Kirsten Dunst's saggy boobs on Superficial.com. I'm trying my best to have equal parts internet learning vs. internet entertainment, but I can't get my face out of Ehealthforum's Men's Sexual Health section long enough to learn how wasps build their homes.

Keeping a public journal has been almost strangely therapeutic to me because I feel a load taken off my back every time I let every thought (no matter how tiny and insignificant) out. It's like thought throw-up. I'm an internet bulimic! I can't handle all of these thoughts by myself, people. The next logical step is to scribble them down on post its and throw them away.

You'll never know how horrible it felt to be able to tell absolutely no one that I:

-took my measurements with dental floss at my desk the other day.

-almost cry tears of joy every time my favorite security guard, rose, comes up to chat about boobs because I'm so happy to have human interaction.

I give her candy and call her my chocolate friend.
And that is in no way a racial slur.

I'M GOING HUNGRRRRRRY

I lost internet for a long time.

Now it's back and all I can think of to say is...

Last weekend I got on stage for karaoke for the first time and wet my pants during "Roxanne".

JUDAS PRIEST, IS THIS FOR TRUE?

CORALINE, THE MOVIE?!?!"

I got wind that They Might Be Giants are also putting a collection of songs together for the soundtrack.

TMBG + Dakota Fanning worries me a little, but as long as they use morbid tracks and keep Dakota from ruining my life I'll still be excited. I just wish they'd pick someone more like a younger Emily Browning.

(I probably should have kept all of this to myself.)



ps- If Dave Mckean is a part of this I'm going to swallow 9 hydrospan frogs made of urethane polymer and chase it with 9 gallons of DEER PARK!

Funny you should ask.
I was 12. I cried. My mom let me stay home from school.

Wait, that's not what I was going to talk about at all. I was searching for a good picture of Stallone circa First Blood and came across this instead:

Hey girls! Need the 411 on your period, breasts, puberty or other female health issues? Then check out this week's Locker Room!

I don't know about you guys (girls), but the locker room was the last place I wanted to talk about my period. The locker room was a place where you started rumors about your well endowed classmates getting their "cherries popped". The first time I heard that phrase I imagined an entire room filling up with blood. That imagery alone accompanied by the term "finger banging" made me slightly more than terrified to let things shift south.

If and when I have a child I'll make sure they describe these acts far more delicately.

popping a cherry will = harvesting cherries
finger banging will = the hokey pokey

Wait, that second one might get confusing at let's say... the roller skating rink.
Whoa, Whoa, yeah, that's a horrible idea. Excuse me for even suggesting it. Can you imagine?

"You put your left foot in and you shake it all about."

Not to mention the later "You put your whole self in." Owch.

Back to Stallone.
Things to love about our friend, Joey.

1. Obsession with Grim Reaper/First Blood/Hall & Oates.
2. Hippy hair.

You can't hang out with Joey longer than a half hour without hearing the line "NOTHING IS OVER!" from First Blood. If you're lucky he'll play a clip from the scene for you on his speaker phone. Actually, he'll play it for you even if you're not lucky.

These lines are playing an active part in my daily thoughts. Today is Halloween and I don't want it to be over. Nothing is over! I just can't stop hearing it in my head.

We all (actually it was only Emily/Bonnie, Graham/Avian Flu, and I/Mia Wallace overdose) got dressed up Saturday night and headed out to an acquaintance's c.d. release at the Visulite. It was too dark to see our costumes, but damn if we didn't all nail our respective parts. One large man dressed as a pimp recognized me and yelled "MIAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!" across the bar. I scurried into the ladies room and literally ran into several sexy angels.

A few beers (27) later I ended up in a backyard full of people I haven't seen in years. The greatest hits of the evening included bumping into:

1. My former gay porn marketing manager. I was fired from that job when a former date gone wrong/coworker had a taste for revenge and sent my journal link to the owner of the company. In the entry that ended it all I compared my coworkers to blood sucking cannibalistic demons, so I guess it rubbed them the wrong way or something.

2. Mirzah from Yugoslavia. Another date gone wrong. Normally taking out your front teeth to slurp vegetable soup on a first date with me could be charming, but a full back tattoo of a refrigerator with the door slightly ajar revealing one last beer tipped over spilling one last drop beside a Sick of It All tattoo is not charming.

In conclusion, the next time someone leans over and says, "Mmm, you smell great. What is that you're wearing?" please say, "Oh, that's my pussy."

Thanks and Happy Halloween.

Here I am on why toilet seat covers are kind of cool, but ultimately useless.

Lately I've been making use of the readily available, handy-dandy, toilet seat covers. Why the heck not? Now, I will say that this is usually because the buffer between warm butt and cold toilet seat is almost absolutely necessary on a blistery cold day.

(Hopefully that's the last time I ever have "warm butt" and "blistery" in the same sentence.)

Well, I'm going to give a big F-U to the toilet seat cover today.

I was going to say it reminds me of the seat belt that kills, but I'll be reasonable because going to the bathroom really isn't a matter of life or death unless you are:

1. Elvis Presley.
2. That guy in that commercial who fell and couldn't get up.

Today I could have been sitting on nine toilet seat covers and still contracted E. coli.

I turned around just now in the ladies room to flush the automatic toilet flushers that never work only to be given an unexpected facial. Queue the "Ew's". Queue the "GROSS!" because what I just said before sounded more like "Queue the ooze!" and we're all imagining that picture of the girl that's always floating around the internet.

I'll change the subject.

Most of the time I'll stop anything and spit anything I'm eating/drinking/sucking out to say "Bless You!" after someone sneezes. But I feel like a jerk every time because I'm only doing it to win some sort of mental race with myself. Let's be honest.

Truejournal.com vs. Liejournal.com, okay. No one really means "Bless you." It's just an excuse to shout and feel good about yourself at the same time. That's why monster truck rallies are so great. You could be shouting anything. Ex: "Shoelaces!" "R.I.P. Layne Staley!"

"I thought that security guard was winking at me but he could have been blinking because he had an eye patch!"

IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII

IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII DON'T WANNA SAY IT
I don't wanna find another waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaay

Make it through the daaaaaaaay withooooooooooout yoooooooooooooou

IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII
IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII can't resist

Trying to find exaaaaaaaactly whaaaaaaaaaaaaaaat I miiiiiiiiiss
It's just another daaaaaaaaaaay withooooooooout yooooooooooooooooou

WHY CAN'T YOU STAY FOREVER

JUST GIVE ME A REASON
GIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIVE ME A REEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEASON

For some reason I believe I've somehow been granted the gift of "a life full of things that shouldn't happen". I look at it as a gift rather than a curse because it's more often than not the news that I'll be dressing up as a bunny here at work this Halloween rather than a phone call from my mother letting me know my 50 year old uncle's dating an 18 year old and my aunt's smoking crack again.

( You heard it here first. )

It's Monday and I just accidentally had a Donald Duck orange juice burp aloud in the office. This might be okay if I wasn't wearing (who the hell is ann taylor?) Ann Taylor suit set.

Adjustments prove to be more difficult when you just spent your weekend having only the best times possible. I wish it was possible to nix the stupid things I remember and replace them with things I always forget like

1. When is my mom's birthday?
or
2. What does he say right before "Dancin' In September"? And why is Philip Bailey taunting me? "Do you REMEMBA?"

No, Philip, I don't. Thanks for asking!

I'd replace the movie lines I remember from Bio-Dome and replace them with things I want to remember forever like the dance Cecilia did last night to Midnight Cruiser. And I really want to replace the memory of Joseph Gordon-Levitt being man raped in the bath tub in Mysterious Skin with GOOSE TONGUES!

Let's see if this works.

+

-

I obviously should have chosen another JGL picture because now I'll just see him looking inquisitive in the man rape scene instead of hurt, ashamed, and scared/scarred.

After a long night of sleepy conga lines around the coffee table Saturday night I/we woke up to an undeniable CRAVING for disgusting drive-thru breakfast. Jack In the Box, here we come. I got a Boo Bucket covered in (what is the plural form of cyclops?) cyclops, flaming pumpkin heads, and CRAZY skeletons with tongues (mistake! mistake!) A wonderful new addition to our posse, Joey Fat Balls, accompanied Chip, Kate, and I to Freedom Park so we could eat our tiny cheeseburgers with extra cheese in front of people exercising.

I believe it's called Freedom Park for a good reason. I don't believe exercising is Freedom. I don't believe drinking blazing hot coffee on a hot day is Freedom, either. How in the world do you walk your dog wearing a muzzle in Freedom Park? I'll tell you what, it's a good thing dogs don't speak English.

Halfway through my burg I got all-fried-out and dumped the rest into my bucket. We trucked on through the goose poop toward the water where I discovered the most hilarious thing on a Sunday morning: Goose Tongue. They took the fries right out of my hands and I felt weak in the knees with laughter every time I caught a glimpse of the GT. If you've ever seen the water at Freedom Park I'm sure you'll agree that it very well could be the worst place in the world to become weak in the knees.

Afterward we still didn't have enough of the outdoors, so we piled onto a Spiderman blanket in the forest behind our apartments and took many many naps. Is a nap in the grass in a dress smart?

At midnight I was holding/stroking a dead moth in my hands and listening to Pretty Hate Machine over cheap wine in a tumbler in a pool hall. Who am I?

Answer: Someone who just mentioned music too much in her livejournal. boo.

The single most scary scene in a movie (in my opinion) is the part in When A Stranger Calls Back where Carol Kane is searching the house with a gun listening to the voice of the murderer she can't see. If you haven't seen it I'm about to spoil it for you. She can't see him because he's painted himself to blend in with the brick wall. Even the thought of that scene gives my arms and legs full ranges of chill bump mountains as far as the eye can see.

Last night I had my very own terrifying scene from a movie which I may/may not have brought upon myself. Some people might call it "tempting fate". Some bands might sing it

"Livin' On the Edge".


It is quite possibly outrageous and naive of me to think the following sleeping conditions are comfortable/safe.

1. Bedroom window mostly open on the first level.
2. Blinds pulled all the way up on the first level.
3. Bed pushed parallel to open window w/ open blinds on the first level.

I'm like an astronaut afraid of zero gravity because I check my closets for monsters every night before I go to sleep in Peepin' Tom's Paradise. I at least came to my senses and started sleeping with the window closed last week, and I don't want to think about what could have happened if I had left it open last night.

It was about 2:30am when my eyes shot open and I didn't even have time to focus or construct an emergency plan of attack. My shades were pulled all the way up and my face was turned toward the window. For what seemed like 3 hours I tried to moved my head full of bricks. I blinked out loud so hard that I swear my lids clapped. Usually it's your mind playing tricks on you, but I didn't know what to do with myself since when I opened my eyes again I saw a head duck, rise, and duck again.

So I did what any normal girl would do. Eject, throw blood curdling yell toward figure behind window, jump out of bed sending your stuffed shark flying into your cat's face like a furry torpedo, and leave a trail of foot skin skid marks behind as you run to your roommate's door and pound the crap out of it.

The best solution at this time was just to make sure the doors were locked and sleep in Kate's bed. I didn't call 911 because I honestly don't think they could have done anything about it after the fact. Now I'm sort of regretting that fact and thinking about what the hell I'm going to do tonight since I'll be all alone. I guess the smartest plan I have in store is to contact the autorities and see if I can con some fat Charlotte cop to patrol the area.

Please let me know if you have a more efficient suggestion!

So far the only advice I've received is:

"Buy a condo!!!"
-engineer in the building who ate his cereal with orange juice instead of milk this morning.

Does he mean buy a condo and live in it, or does he mean I should still live in my apartment and buy a condo so my peeper is totally intimidated by my success?

So the saying goes "Shit, or get off the pot." right?
Well, let's say you shit and REFUSE to get off the pot. What if there's a good reason to shit and stay on the pot? Well, I'll give you one. Maybe I'll give you two (as in number two).

Essentially my position here is to man the fort. Wait, maybe it's to fort the man? Oh, I forget. I'll break it down. We all have HOT friends, right? I made the word "hot" red so hopefully you'd know I'm talking about temperature. But then I realized that I'd have to explain myself anyway and left it red just because it gives this entry a little bam.

We all have cold friends, too. (I'm taking you on a journey, god damn it). Imagine a 30 story building littered with those people. I handle problems like these and assign the correct engineer by walky-talky. I do the same thing for problems like "The automatic soap dispenser isn't working!" which is hilar in it's own right because I just imagine them waving their hand around in front of the motion light bawling because they forgot how to wash their hands ye olde fashion way.

Well, the day before yesterday I got a "The automatic toilet flusher isn't working on Floor 25!" call. (Again, imagine them bawling. Totally hilar.) I make the call and start doing some other task when it hits me...

I have to poop. I march down to the restroom on MY floor (Floor 26) only to be denied access due to the large janitor's cleaning supply cart wedged in between the doors. I'm thinking to myself "CRAP! No, really... CRAP!" as I hop on the elevator and make the soon to be unfortunate mistake of deciding my new destination will be Floor 25.

While I'm "doing it" it hits me that I went to the wrong floor and the engineer will be in ANY moment to fix the broken shitter and it's my FIRST DAY AT WORK. You can't let someone know what your "doing it" smells like that early on! By this time I stop panicking and reach back to courtesy flush. Well, what-do-ya-know? No flusher! It's automatic!

Don't panic! Just stand up and it will flush itself!
So I stand up.

Silence. Not even a PEEP out of that monster. No movement.

With my tights around my ankles and my hands on my hips I realize...

I just used the broken toilet someone reported.

What are the odds? I bolted out of there so fast just in case my mistake tried to follow me back to my floor like one of the evil spirits in Ghost, only brown.

I filled up the tootsie roll jar and I'm pretty sure I got away with it.
This time.