Oh Honestly, Erin

Sometimes I consider saying “again” like I’m British.

Like Robert Smith in “The Forest.” Again and again and again and again and….? Again! You got it, good for you.

Anyway, Janna arrived a little while ago and immediately became Alisha’s little sycophant and I’m like, “Um bitch, are you for realz?

You should be catering to the girl chained to the computer right now, not MEAN ALISHA!!” Like, Alisha will say something totally contrary, as she’s wont to do, and Janna will be all, “OMG I THOUGHT THE SAME THING. I TOTALLY THOUGHT ERIN SAID ‘summer’ NOT ‘supper’!!! HERE PLZ TAKE ONE OF MY KIDNEYS I LOVE YOU LET’S DRINK EACH OTHERS BLOOD!”

And then they were making me jealous, watching Degrassi without me, when suddenly (SUDDENLY!) Alisha’s new landlord, whom I crushed on briefly until I realized he was gay-to-the-gay,  called to tell her that her keys are ready, so Janna offered to be her jitney and away they went, two whole miles away to Beechview. In their absence, I seriously considered making my own Lake Sammamish in my backyard, which will be the location of Janna’s future murder. And then I will secretly call sandwiches “sammamishes” and giggle psychotically every time I bite into my cheese on whole wheat. And only you guys will know. And it will be our little esoteric sandwich club. And if anyone goes to the media, they’ll be the next vacationers to Erin’s Lake Sammamish.

Word.

With them gone, it is very quiet here. I mean, aside from the fact that Oceana is roaring from my speakers.

If there was a way to embrace silence, I would have succeeded by now. I’d have taken that hug and gone all the way with silence. I’d be pregnant with little ear plugs right now, that’s how hard and unprotected I’d have banged silence.

While they were gone, I fed Alisha’s dog french fries, which made my cat Don act like he was jealous and I was all, “Hello Don, the last time you ate people food was never.

” And then I shoved the coffee table out of the way and jump-roped.

My jump rope’s name is Jonny. I named him after Jonny Craig from Emarosa, which I’m sure would delight him if he knew.

And these are some of the things I do when I’m alone: plot murders and jump rope. Sometimes simultaneously.

I was just sitting on the porch and some old dude drove past me in a black Smart Car. And when I say “old,” I mean that he looks like he escaped from a nursing home. I mean that he is the precise image I get in my head when I try to picture Death.

The only thing missing was the hood.

And as he drove past, I began to wonder, “Is this what Death drives while en route to claim the next person on his You Is Now Deceased list?

Is his scyth in the trunk? Does a scyth even fit in a Smart Car?

I shuddered a little. Perhaps because it’s about to rain.

But now I kind of want to find a Smart Car and try to jam a scyth in the trunk.

While Henry is bound and gagged in a tight ball like Jeffrey Dahmer’s sex toy.

And now I’m imagining Death skipping Henry – still bound and gagged – like a stone and playing hopscotch.

And now I’m imagining that this is only post #17. OH WAIT, THAT’S REAL. FUCK ME.

Where is my fucking food? Lucky Charms and sweet potato chips are not enough to keep my fingers tapping.

Alisha is spending all of Blogathon with me, which means she brought her pug, Bonzi, over for the festivities.

I have four cats. My only male cat, Don, is actually semi-near Bonzi. He doesn’t look scared, he’s just kind of checking him out.

But Marcy. Oh, Marcy. Do you know Marcy? She is the Queen of Darkness. She once did this to my good friend Shawn:

Marcy is not pleased that there is Canine in her domain. And by not pleased, I mean that she is walking around with an arched back and a fur-hawk, hissing and looking generally murderous.

I’m really worried that those hands will be Bonzi’s face. I’m hoping it doesn’t come to that, and instead, she will realize that Bonzi is here to be her dog-slave, at which point she will mount him and they will gallop off into a dreamscape of bowls of Friskies and decapitated Christian heads hanging from strings like glorious Chinese lanterns. I just hope that one of those heads is not  mine.

Oh wait, I’m not Christian.

Marcy won Dark Hottie of the Month one time over at the goth chatroom I used to frequent back in the day (when I was young, but I’m still a kid). She used to write on LiveJournal, too.  I love that bitch.

I raise the roof. A lot. It’s kind of my thing. Or my THANG, if we’re keepin’ it real.

Just a moment ago, I raised the roof to my own celebratory humming and then I followed it immediately with another roof-raise, brownie-ball-on-a-stick edition.

So I decided to have a contest to see who can come close to guessing the exact amount of times I’ll raise the roof by the time Blogathon ends. Alisha is keeping tally on a piece of cardboard. I tried to give her paper, but she insisted on desecrating a good, clean, pure slat of cardboard. Poor guy.

(Alisha’s midsection not included, sorry.)

Oh goodie, look what you can win! The perfect complement to that collection of weird-toothed monsters you’ve been adorning your home crematory with since you were 12! It’s 5.5″ x 5.5″.

OK, go. I’ll link back to this periodically to give everyone an opportunity to guess.

OMG ALISHA SHUT UP!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Some people asked me questions duringthe week, to give me fodder for today. The first one I will answer is from my Twitter friend, Darren, who asks, “Why don’t you write for a newspaper or a magazine? You are like, the best writer with whom God ever graced this humble Earth and your writing could probably cure cancer and AIDS and the clap.” (That last part was added by me. See what I did there? I was being a WRITER, ya’ll.)

Dear Darren,

I do write for any sort of publication for one reason: I do not wish to be a writer by profession. I’m afraid that it will take the joy out of it for me, and this something that I realized when I was at Pitt (for English writing) and seriously feeling suicidal every time I had a paper to write in my creative non-fiction class. Once I started writing it, I was fine and I did very well in the class (I got As on everything but wasn’t really proud of a single thing I turned in). However, the pressure got to me so bad that there was an occasion where I bought a pack of cigarettes and sat in a dark parking lot, chain-smoking and silently begging to be kidnapped/killed during a car-jacking.

If I wrote for a paper, and knowing myself better than anyone, I don’t imagine that insane pressure would ever wane with time. And I feel I would be censored to a degree, and I don’t want to write in any style other than the one I write in now. You know: vulgar and immature.

So, I stick to writing in a blog and creating little stories to pair up with my paintings. And I’m still considering putting together a compilation book of sorts, because that’s something that would be on my own terms.

Aside from that, my dream career is to run my own record label. And when that doesn’t work out, fun house operator.

And that, Darren, is my answer! Hooray.

Oh my god this post is devoted to JAY HOGART from DEGRASSI: THE NEXT GENERATION OMG, wait let me stop and fan myself and by fan myself I DO MEAN FAN MYSELF.

I’m screaming, can you hear me?? I’m all “OMFG JAY HOGART! You can get me shot by a psycho bullied student anyday! Put your gonorrhea’d dickie in my mouth and infect my throat, I’ll only beg for more, Jay Hogart!”

Holy shit look at him, in all of his blue-collared glory. AND LOOK AT THE MOUNTY! OH, CANADA! You know, when I met Henry, he used to wear blue coveralls just like that. ONLY HE DIDN’T LOOK AS HOT.

Fuuuuuck,  my loins. They burn.

I wonder how hard it would be to meet him. Oh my God I just looked at imdb.com and I am only FIVE YEARS older than him. This is even more realistic than I ever imagined. I’m coming for you, Jay Hogart. Take me to the ravine.

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A child whose first word will hopefully be ABOOT.

Who’s your Degrassi crush? OK fine, who’s your celebrity crush IN GENERAL? And don’t give me that Edward Cullen shit.

Someone find me a desktop theme for this fine slice of Canadian ass. ARRRRG I just found his MySpace, it’s on.