You guys you guys you guys we did it! You helped me raise $475.00 for To Write Love On Her Arms.

$475.00. $500.00!!

That’s a huge ass deal and I’m very proud. Thank you to everyone who supported me, whether it was by pledging, keeping me motivated with prompts and fodder, reposting my info, or popping in to leave a comment or five. That really helped me make it through. You guys are awesome!

I guess thank you to Alisha who was here for most of the twenty four hours (hello, she didn’t arrive at my house until AFTER NOON so don’t go thinking she’s some shit ass saint). And thanks to Janna for coming over as usual, and Evonne for bringing treats and and and…and Blake too for watching TV, using up all of my oxygen (that canned shit that Alisha wasted her money on), and being mesmerized by one of Chooch’s blocks for thirty minutes. No I’m kidding, thanks for being here Blake!

Even though you fell asleep for like five hours.

Hey, remember when we were going to rap “Fuck tha Police”? That went well.

I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror a few minutes ago and honest to Christ I didn’t even recognize myself. And not because being charitable gave me the warm glow of an angel, but because I look like I was raped and left for dead in a dumpster.

Pledging is open for the next 48 hours until Friday, according to Blogathon’s website. If you’ve already pledged, you will receive an email from Blogathon in the next few days telling you what to do next. I know in the past, Blogathon has had problems with getting picked up as spam, so maybe watch for that shit. And if you pledged whatever amounts scored you a painting and/or mix CD, email me your mailing info: butgavincantdance [at] gmail [dot] com.

Hey, I feel like I maybe didn’t swear too much during Blogathon!

Also, my sincerest apologies for all those songs I sang sodomized. Andy Gibb was my personal favorite.

And thank you, The N, for playing Degrassi for nearly Blogathon’s entirety. It helped to hear all those “sorey”s and “aboot”s in the background.

Oh and also, I raised the roof 16 times. It was a slow ass night.

CIAO FOR NOW.

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I went through a lot of trouble to get this done for you, Kara and Chris. Using a video camera was the only way I could get a decent audio recording but there was no way I was allowing Alisha to actually film me. Not with the death-glaze coating  my face and my hair, slick with stress-grease.

It was exhausting. Alisha said, “Yeah, I imagine mumbling all those words was hard.” But she probably said it much more stupidly than that. I try to re-write her dialogue to make her look smart. I was really excited about the Toronto part (maybe you could tell) because that is where JAY HOGART is from.

OH CAN YOU STAND IT. ONE MORE HOUR.

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wannabe – Vote for my rendition!

This is really hard to do when you spent the last half of your life avoiding anything remotely to do with the Spice Girls. Fuck the Spice Girls.  Alisha, after I forced her to help me sing it, was like “which one of your asshole friends requested this?” and I couldn’t remember right then because I sick with idiocy and sleep-deprivation. But then I remembered later and said, “ALYSON!” kind of like when Pee Wee realizes Francis stole his bike. (SPOILER ALERT.)

I am about ready to puke, I’m not kidding. I might do just that once I post this.

I’m making Alisha watch the episode of Degrassi where Jimmy gets capped. It was on last week and I DVRd it just for her.

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Evonne thought it would be dandier than antidisestablishmentarianism to see Henry hang upside down while doing something nice for me.

I wanted him to do a  real headstand. I was willing to help him achieve this.

“Can’t you like do a tri-pod near a wall? And then I can pull your legs up and you’ll be upside down. Can you even do a tri-pod?”

“Yeah, when I was SEVEN.”

(Bitch, I can still do one now, no need to shout at me.)

So this was his lame effort at hanging upside down and doing something nice for me. Presenting me with a fake black rose that I kept as a souvenir from a haunted house.

Afterward, Henry stayed in that position for an alarmingly long amount of time. We was startin’ to get worried up in here.

Furthermore, I think antidisestablishmentarianism should be the new mother cuss word. Forget shitfuckcuntassholemotherfuckerhobag. That’s yesteryear’s slur.

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I was feeling pretty drowsy. And then Alisha made some banging noises so that kind of woke me up. And then she sashayed over here and asked me to open her bottle of Diet DrPepper.

I’m thinking, “What is she, some dummy-turkey? Asking the girl whose fingertips are raw and swollen from all the vigorous typing?” But I felt bad because sometimes Alisha is kind of weak and pathetic. So I stood up and twisted the cap off.

And then I became REAL woke when I was showered with a fountain of sticky sugar. Time stood still for a few seconds as we stood with our arms up and faces twisted, Ju-On style.

“I can’t  believe you did that!” she yelled at the same time I yelled, “Did you know that was going to happen??”

So it turns out that the crash I heard was her dropping the bottle onto the floor which landed on the plate that Henry’s fried egg was on (FORESHADOWING!). She thought I knew that had happened and was joking when she asked me to open it because she didn’t think I’d be that dumb.

She forgot that I am a re-re.

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From the time I was three, I was enrolled in a rigorous and world renown flamenco college. My specialty quickly became el baile flamenco. I’d perform it every year at the county fairs and people would come as far as ten miles away to see me clicking my castanets and twirling the red ruffles of my skirt. I had many suitors, some of them even had entire sets of teeth.

This horrible thing happened to me right when I was on the verge of making it big. My partner was jealous of me because I overshadowed him every time. It was mostly because he had a cleft palate and people just preferred to look at me instead of him so no one ever even noticed how hefty his junk was in his tight black flamenco pants.

One night, right before we were to dance in front of an audience of Alzheimer patients at a local nursing home, he bludgeoned my knee Nancy Kerrigan-style and I will never forget the thought that coursed through my mind as I landed in a decrepit clump on the floor next to a pile of bedpans:

I MIGHT NEVER GET TO DANCE THE FLAMENCO ON MY WEDDING NIGHT.

Also: I really wish I was watching Degrassi right now.

My dancing coach had heard of a very mysterious witch doctor in Toronto who specialized in these sorts of tragic accidents.

I visited him in his mud hut. He was a five year old deaf boy. His translator said, “Rub this guano upon your bum knee every fifteen minutes for a year. It has magical healing properties that will restore your cartilage and make you feel like natural woman. You must always finish by sniffing the residue from your fingertips.”

I did this every fifteen minutes for one hour. And then I was like, “Fuck it, I always wanted to be a singer anyway so I’ll just pursue that now instead.”

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This one is for my LJ pal NotBatman. When I told Henry who requested it, he said, “Yeah well I’m NotDoingIt.” He reminded me that he’s old and that it “might really hurt” him. I was like, “Yeah, that’s what I’m hoping for, Papa.”

Obviously he did it because I rule the roost.

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