Andrea said bullet-points make her pay attention, so this one’s for her.

• I am pained that this walking challenge does not allot me as much free time as I need to write in here properly. Two more weeks, guys! Two more weeks. (And from under my desk, my ankles whimper woefully, “Two more weeks…”
• Lately, I’ve been eating all sorts of wasabi-coated snacks, but when a co-worker asked me if I was on a wasabi kick, I said, “No..?”
• Henry’s job is all fucked up again, and I have barely seen him all week. I mean, yes, it sucks that I have to take the trolley to work and make my own sandwiches (which then get smashed on the trolley), but the worst part is that I miss him. Our only interaction lately is phone calls and texts—I have only gotten to playfully punch him in the balls once all week!!
• But at least he hasn’t really had to deal with my manic-walking, so I should thank his job for keeping our relationship intact.
• We were debating on going to the a zombie crawl this weekend, but that was pre-walking challenge. Now I’m not so sure I want to go and lose valuable pedometer steps, but I suppose I could be one of the zombies from 28 Days Later and shamble at a rapid pace. We’ll see.
• (Totally choking on wasabi powder right now.)
• There is a new person at work who brought me something to scan, complete with explicit orders on how to do my job written a Post-It note which ended with, “Pls don’t scan this Post-It note.” OH OK, New Person; thanks for assuming I’m a dumbass because I don’t have a law degree.
• Sometimes I consider dumping this blog and going back to LiveJournal, but apparently no one reads LiveJournal anymore either.
• Wednesday night, I couldn’t stop walking. My only goal was to reach 20,000 (if I end the day with anything under that, flames will engulf me while Nickelback blares in my face). But before I knew it, I had 24,000 (I was watching So You Think You Can Dance, that’s why) so I thought, “Well, no way can I go to bed without reaching 25,000” so I kept walking around my house, and it became a race against the clock — and the clock won. Midnight hit, resetting my pedometer when I was at 24,864 and did I fall to my knees and scream, “Nooooo!” with my fists shaking to the heavens? Absolutely. I KNEW I shouldn’t have stopped walking to eat!!
• Jonny Craig called himself the Ginger Jesus on Twitter last week and I almost died.
• If I had a band, I’d pull all of my blog titles from my blog’s spam comments. Track 4: “We All Nod, Every Kitten Has a Name.” (4 is my favorite number so of course I’d start with that.)
• It’s my favorite number because that was my last year as an only child and it was such a good, spoiled age.
• IT’S ALMOST WACKY WORM TIME! Big Butler Fair, I can’t wait to be inside you.
• Speaking of the Wacky Worm, this just happened: Glenn came over and was taunting me because he only has 1,000 less steps than me. I said, “Yeah, but the difference is that I’ll keep walking until 11:59 tonight.” Glenn Henry-smirked at me and said, “You don’t think maybe you have a problem?”
• How annoying would it be if every blog post was just a list of everything that happened to me that day. “And then Henry called me a fucking retard!” “I just stared adoringly at a picture of Jonny Craig!”
• I think it’s adorable when the new kids on the blog-block try to tell other bloggers how to write in their blog. How ’bout putting  in your time first, young blood. (2001 represent! Although I guess I shouldn’t brag about that because in 11 years I’ve only amassed about 100 readers, and that’s on a good day.)
• It’s been more than two years since I’ve been working at the Law Firm, and I still have not brought in my own coffee cup. The one I use was “borrowed” from a closet where abandoned kitchenware go to die; it’s plain and lime green, which does not suit me, since I am not plain nor am I lime green. Please, help me find a really special coffee cup to purchase for office use.
• If you read this thing, say hello sometime. Pretend I’m your neighbor who you feel sorry for but don’t want your other neighbors see you talking to, because how embarrassing.
• I only posted this so I could use the word “fait accompli” and impress no one. (I only know this from the Curve song, not because I’m so cultured.)

Congratulations. You now know what it’s like to talk to me on the phone. I put all of my faith in non sequitors.

• I like to keep the radio on in my room 24:7; there is something comforting to me about keeping it old school, gratingly unfunny DJs and all. Recently, I had to change the station to our local classic rock one, because it is literally the only station aside from sports radio and the urban station which I can’t pick up from the bedroom that doesn’t play that motherfucking Gotye song. I just want to cry “Uncle!” every time I hear it. The downside of having the classic rock station on is that apparently Nickelback is now considered classic rock. However, the odds of hearing any Nickelback song (but really, aren’t they all just the same song?) is still way less than hearing motherfucking Gotye. I wish I could go back in time and delete the master recording of that song, and then for good measure, go back farther and hit him in the face with one of J-Woww’s tits at the precise moment that song started to write itself in his head. Fuck you, Gotye.
• The Stanley Cup is about to be won any day now which means I’m going to grow a beard and mourn the end of yet another hockey season.
• A store in Wisconsin contacted me about selling my non compos cards, which is awesome. I’m sure Henry and I will find unlimited ways to fuck it up. (Having our printer break is a good start.)
• I didn’t mention Jonny Craig once on Henry’s birthday!
• Sometimes I want to kick this blog in its face. I bet if it had a face, it would totally look like Sloth, but a girl. And she would have the ultimate Annie-ginger hair.
• The other night, I dreamt that I was making out with [name withheld to keep my pride in tact] in my mom’s basement. When I told Henry, he scoffed, “All your dreams like that take place at your mom’s house, because that’s when you were the biggest whore” which isn’t even true, it was the first several years after I lived there that I was the biggest whore, so we had a mild argument about that, which wasn’t even the most ridiculous argument of the week; that award goes to the disagreement I had with Carey the other night at work regarding Farrah Fawcett versus Meredith Baxter.
• Maybe I’m just being paranoid, but I feel like [name withheld] knows about my dream, or maybe [name withheld] is just playing off the fact that I’ve been acting like a complete headlighted-deer.
• I still cry about my cat Don several times a day.
• Today is my brother Corey’s birthday! He’s 22 and still color-blind!
• I’m at work, eating an apple as I write this. I might also eat an orange too, since I sort of know how to peel those now.
• Some of us have been getting reprimanded for being too social at work and I am totally about to start passing notes just to feed into my new stereotype.
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• Doing makeup at a zombie party tomorrow night!
• I ate a bunch of peppermint patties just now (wherein bunch equals two) and I don’t even like peppermint patties.
• Been spending a lot of time with Henry’s mom lately thanks to his newly-fucked work schedule which leaves us needing a babysitter (and also leaves me taking the trolley to work). She unwittingly presented me with three gems on Monday alone:
• Somehow, the topic of Henry leaving for the SERVICE came up and she was waxing nostalgic about how it was the worst day of her life when he left, etc etc. And how, when she finally got to go down to Texas 8 weeks later to see him, she couldn’t believe how much of a man he had become. I was literally cannibalizing the inside of my cheeks to keep from laughing.
• Totally out of the blue (and unwarranted!) she looked at me and said, “My son is going to get back at you one day.” Something in the way she said it gave me quick flashes of meat hooks, Nickelback’s entire discography, and acid-dipped ball gags.
• “What do you call that, when they put the ice cream in a cone?” Oh I don’t know, Judy, but here’s a wild guess: an ice cream cone!?
• I’ve been craving Bonkers which is pretty weird because I don’t think I’ve eaten those since 1988.
• This post is in bullet-points because I am mentally crippled after this week.
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I will end this with a picture of a rainbow and Chooch eating cake from Wendy’s daughter’s graduation party last weekend. That was a good day, and not just because Henry got schooled on cake-cutting.

The morning of the fair, I panicked a little about what to eat for breakfast. I knew that I wanted to ride everything, all the day, all the time, possibly two rides at once if Alisha was bringing her cauldron and spell book. But I didn’t want to wind up puking like Blake did that one time. In the end, I eschewed the hemlock-laced trucker’s breakfast Henry was plating inside a tire, and wound up forcing down a small bowl of cereal instead.

“Let’s pace ourselves,” I said as we entered the gates to the fair that day. Ride all day passes were $20 (ours were $15 because Alisha bought them online before July 1, she’s such a savvy coupon clipper) and I wanted to be sure we woke up the next morning with safety-bar grooves indented into our flesh and a gaping anal wound, a good sign of us getting our money’s worth. But that wouldn’t happen if one or both of us wound up disgorging our breakfast and life matter after three rides.

We had our favorites, that’s for sure.

• Mind Blaster: This was more Alisha’s jam, but I think what she really liked were the exaggerated faces of horror I flashed toward her during the ride. I have two things fighting for ‘least favorite’ position: a) it’s too short of a ride, and b) all three times we rode it, I wound up sitting next to an empty seat and getting pelted by the unbuckled seat belt. So instead of bracing myself against the collarbone-cracking oscillations, I was too busy shielding my kneecaps from whipping belts.

• Freak Out: Oh, this ride is a hobofucker! For our inaugural trip, Alisha and I were the only ones riding it.
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  It wasn’t so bad at first! Kind of like riding on a giant backyard swing set. But then I realized it was only swinging back and forth lethargically at first because it was gaining MOMENTUM and suddenly we were shot up into the sky. I guess I didn’t pay much attention when we were spectating from the ground earlier, because I failed to notice the point where it pendulates you up so high that your back is parallel to the Heavens and your face is staring point blank at all these things that seemed so harmless when you were on the ground but now they are nothing more than death instruments and now suddenly you’re wishing there were more concession stands over by the Freak Out to better your odds of landing on a trampoline of Kool-smoking muffin tops.  You better believe I was screaming like I had Bieber Fever while playing keep away from Ben Roethlisberger’s  protruding dick in the bathroom of some shitty Georgia night club. In fact, my screams  were of such Tobe Hooper audition tape  quality that the ride began to slow down. “I think I made it stop!” I laughed to Alisha, who had kept an empty seat between us in case one of us began to bleed out. “What?” she yelled over pulsating club beats of Usher. “I think I made them stopppppppp—-” and then that motherfucker sped up again in a DIFFERENT DIRECTION and let me tell you, the first round was basically when your brave boyfriend is feeling out your asshole with the tip of his cock. There’s pain, but then you’re like, “Well, this isn’t too bad I guess” and then he plunges right the fuck in with the whole goddamn shaft, giving an entirely new meaning to the experience. There was one point, as I was flung backward, where I saw my bowels exit my body and suspend in a frozen Karate move in front of me. I had a cold sweat when the ride was over. BUT IT WAS FUCKING GREAT, YOU GUYS! Just like anal.

The Zipper  is too awesome for bullet points.

Alisha had never been on the Zipper before and I was so excited to corrupt her. I got Henry to go on it once. He wasn’t really paying much attention I guess when we stood in line because he believed me when I swore, “Oh, this doesn’t go upside down.”

Alisha and I hate our lives so much that we rode it three times that day. The first time, I spent the entire ride fucking with the camera, trying to figure out how to get it to record. This meant that I wasn’t holding on. There are two ways I know this:

1. Alisha kept screaming I CAN’T BELIEVE YOU’RE NOT HOLDING ON.
2. I slammed my head off the metal grating of the cage enough times to do some damage, which I think is why I tried to eat my porridge out of the commode the next morning.

And then something absolutely horrific happened. We’re suspended something like A LOT of feet in the air, smashed into a cage that’s spinning faster than Sybil on sugar cubes, when something FELL.

All I knew was that it was orange and it was a vital piece to the safety latch of the cage, thusly, we were frozen Looney Toon-style, mid-air, waiting for Satan to snap his fingers.

I’m screaming, “WE’RE GOING TO DIE, WE’RE GOING TO FUCKING DIE, THIS IS IT!

I CAN’T BELIEVE THIS IS HOW I’M GOING OUT, I HAVEN’T EVEN EATEN SUSHI OFF A NAKED BITCH YET” and then as I paused to swallow a gulp of Butler County air, I caught the tail end of Alisha yelling, “—my fucking phone! That was  my brand new fucking phone!”

Oh how I embraced life at that very moment. I laughed like Alisha’s phone was a fucking double rainbow and then sobbed a little and then laughed harder.

IT WAS JUST HER STUPID PHONE! Not the world’s orangest bolt. Unfortunately, Alisha didn’t share my same relief because she had just literally got that phone the day before. I was able to clamp it down under my foot to ensure it didn’t get ejected from a carnival ride that makes the Iron Maiden look like a foot massager. So then my trip on the Zipper became REALLY fun and purposeful.

My foot actually cramped from the urgency of which I was pinning down her phone.

Alisha said the second time we rode that other asshole ride, Freak Out, the guy next to her was texting the entire time. I don’t think I would have been able to save his phone too.

I like this photo because you can see Alisha holding on for dear life in the reflection of my sunglasses; meanwhile I’m like, “Just another afternoon on the yacht with Brody Jenner and Kristen Cavalleri, ya’ll.” I hate this photo because it was taken with the SHITTY CAMERA, you guys. I promise, I have a nose.  That Leno chin is real, though.

The second time we rode it, I recorded the entire trip. It’s over three minutes of me swearing, screaming, and saying “Oh my God” in a way that was meant to be filled with crisis but came off sounding like I’m orgasming. This particular go-around felt much more violent than the first one! There was one point where our cage somersaulted a good 10-12 times with no relenting.

“That’s what sex must sound like on a crashing plane,” I muttered to Alisha as we stumbled out of the cage and crossed ourselves post-haste.

Alisha, on the swings with her precious phone that I basically died for.

We rode one last time before we left, because KIRK was at the helms and I kept promising we’d be back to bunch up our lives in his hands like cum-covered panties.

Oh my god, this was me after riding the Zipper at the same fair in 1998! And I keep coming back for more torture. There’s a term for that. I think it’s called “Katy Perry fan.”

Hi! Apparently this is a Blog Bash!

I’m not very social in the blogosphere so I’ve never done anything like this before, but I’ve been trying to be more active in the blog scene, if you will, so I am now going to attempt to play with others.

I’ve been instructed to talk about myself, so here are the pertinents you might want to know if you are new here:

• My birthday is July 30, 1979 (OMG that’s coming up you guys!). That means I’m a Leo, which means I roar a lot. Which means I have an awesome singing voice.
• My boyfriend Henry and I have been together since 2001. We did a REALLY SICK THING which produced a boy named Riley, but everyone calls him Chooch. You can too. He’s 4 now. 4 is the age where kids get the  manual on how to be dicks, in case you didn’t know. And if you have a 4-year-old and are disagreeing with this, then I hate you.

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• I live in Pittsburgh! I hate it here!
• I hate water towers, power plants/abandoned factories, the ocean, outer space, glaciers, Alaska, Miley Cyrus and Katy Perry, the Steelers, liars.
• I like hockey!
• My past time is stalking people and playing with animal masks. (Yes, in tandem.)
• I like the Cure and most any music that features incessant screaming.
• Annoying people with reckless abandon is sort of my thang.
• I can turn any situation into a study of awkwardness.
• I am a girl!

5.) Let’s hear the story behind your blog title!

My grandma and I have a very illustrious history, full of afternoons reading Dickens together beneath a parasol and light-hearted flour fights during impromptu snickerdoodle bake-offs.

That’s a lie. I don’t know why I typed that just now.

The truth is that I was always the black sheep, that a lot of my actions or ideas shamed my grandma. Even as a small child, when I would fuck up, she would sigh exasperatedly (sometimes even disgustedly while running a red pen across my name on her Will) and say, “Oh honestly, Erin.”

And not a day goes by where I don’t have some extent of an “Oh honestly” moment.

I leave you with obligatory photos of my obnoxious mug: