I was really hoping to do Blogathon again last summer but it was called off,  and I was bummed because I had an organization all picked out and I was ready to annoy the Internet with twenty-four hours of non-stop nonsensical drivel. I was thinking about that organization again recently and felt kind of helpless and frustrated that I’m currently unable to do as much for them as I’d like, but then I realized that there are things I can do, so I’m donating 10% of my entire sales (both Somnambulant & Appledale) for March to a great cause that hits close to the heart and that I have supported for some time now, To Write Love On Her Arms. I’m generally bitter and spiteful, but there actually are a few things I care about, can you believe it?

Please spread the word. It’s a good cause!

It is the end of Day Three: Henry’s Working Two Jobs Now.

I won’t try and be all courageous on your shit, saying that it’s all been fucking swell. It hasn’t. It has been really fucking stressful.

I know that there are people out there who do this shit every goddamn day of their lives and I feel like starting up a charity foundation in their honor because Jesus Fucking Shit-Packing Christ, these are some hard ass, arduous days. Right now I’m a little tanked on wine, I won’t kid.

Chooch is just —I mean, he’s my fucking kid, I love him, but good goddamn, one of us isn’t going to survive this. And I’m pretty sure that someone is me. I am laughing sardonically at myself for spending all this time fretting about the fact that I might have to actually boil a pot of water, when meanwhile, it’s the child-rearing that has me digging a grave.

This kid is going to kill me. He thinks he’s going to walk all over me, but he forgets that I bore him. He and I? We share the same stubborn gene. And we go round and round, we do.

Tonight, I decided to conpile a list of synonyms for “crazy.” I only made it as far as “loco” before being distracted by a ruddy-cheeked hooligan charging through the room growling “chicken blood asshole,” a not so cute and whimsical departure from the semi-adorable “cookie cake asshole.”

THE WEEK IS HALF OVER NOW GIVE ME SOME TEQUILA AND A STRIPPER.Oh, and a job-thing.

I do this every year, because let’s face it, I enjoy pretending like it’s third grade and I’m opening my little handmade Elmer’s-soggy mailbox while scraping the icing off a cupcake and simulatneously deep-throating a heart-shaped sucker, and then rifling through all the chicken-scratched, store-bought Valentines until I find the ones that come wrapped with candy.

You know, back when Valentine’s Day meant something.

Get your own valentinr

If you have one, link me to it! I like writing Valentine wishes. Because inside, I’m just a vat of churned marshmallow fluff.

Forget what you heard.

I must be getting old. It used to be there was nothing more fun to me than attempting to cram my house near capacity with friends, bounty hunters, and random strangers from the street and Internet, fill them up with Jello shots and proceed to piss off most of the block. Sometimes I’d cap off the night by pulling on my roller skates and having guests whirl a frisbee at me as I coasted up and down the street.

But now I just want to hunker down with some family-friendly board games, maybe wrap myself in a shawl, perhaps  nibble on some Melba toast.

OK fine, maybe I still like to drink a little and get sort of kind of a lot too loud. But now I almost can’t imagine having a party without games. Games bring people together, ya’ll. Or, in the case of Henry and me, push people apart.

The guest list for Game Night #1 of ’09:

• Corey & his not-girlfriend-but-should-be-girlfriend KC
• Blake
• Niffer and Weird Paul, who brought Pretzels and only the most fascinating board game of all time
• Collin and a lovely bottle of wine for me for me for me
• Rhonda & her wonderful Jill, who brought a cute hippo for Chooch and delicious baked goods for me
• Brenna

It was unusual not having Janna there, but I guess it’s my fault for not keeping better tabs on her, otherwise I’d have known not to schedule game night on the same weekend she was out of town.  She’s the only person besides Henry who I feel I can physically assault when a round of Scattergories gets particularly tense and heated. Her absence also meant no homemade guacamole or platter of fancy cookies, which is really the only reason I invite her anyway. Surely it has nothing to do with her game-playing braun.

Rhonda filled Kara's position of Game Night Rule Nazi

In my Evite, I swore that, unlike Game Nights past, we would not be fixating solely on Catchphrase. I was dying to play Last Word, which was veto’d at the last game night, so I plopped it down in Jill’s lap and said, “Here, you do it.” She looked like someone who might enjoy reading and relaying directions, I don’t know. She quickly deemed it confusing, as did Rhonda, so Last Word was kicked away like a pissing puppy.

Instead, we played the Pop-Up Video game that came with Rhonda and Jill, but it was kind of obscure and Collin kept whimperingabout not wanting to sing (meanwhile KC was begging to sing – I will never again be able to hear Tracy Chapman singing “Fast Car” – even if it wasn’t her turn, and then she’d catch herself and slap her hand over her mouth. That girl would be my bff if I wasn’t an old lady!) so we switched to Catchphrase, which erupted into a near-lethal debate over button-pushing right from the start. If Kara had been there, she’d probably have started shanking people. She is very serious about her Catchphrase.

My favorite moment of Catchphrase was one of Blake’s turns. He kept shouting out clues like: “What I would say when I’m really excited to go somewhere! I’m in the car and can’t wait to get there!” So his team is shouting things like, “Are we there yet? Shotgun?” and Blake, he’s getting real frustrated now, and has taken to accentuating his clues with a series of wild gesticulations, pumping his arms and pulling faces. “I’m so excited to be going somewhere and this is what I say!” he shouted one last time before the buzzer went off. No one could guess it, and he exasperatedly said, “Away we go!”

“I’d like to see a video of you saying that in the car,” Collin said, sulking because his gay team lost a point, boo-hoo. And then I couldn’t stop picturing Blake – with his plethora of piercings, tattoos, and gauges large enough to stuff with bratwurst – skipping to the car, swinging his arms, and cheering, “Away we go!” Corey and KC left during Catchphrase. It was simply too fast-paced for them.

Niffer, bracing herself for some wild Uncle Wiggily gameage

Paul brought with him an old board game called Uncle Wiggily. I found myself gawking at it, ogling it even, from across the room. I’d find reasons to go to the dining room so I could slowly walk past it, dropping hints here and there about how, gee whiz, that game sure looked swell. I’m going to go out on a limb here and say that it intrigued me nearly as much as the time in ninth grade when I walked in on Jameelah and her brother smoking pot from a crushed can of Cherokee Red.

This game demands to be played harder than a hooker with a whipped-creamed checker board on her tits.

Paul regales us with details of Uncle Wiggily's journey.

The Uncle Wiggily game referenced odd-sounding herbs (Niffer, who is wiser than the rest of us, had to educate) and name-dropped characters who had names stranger than the ones I make up. Collin goes at one point, “What the fuck, was this shit written in the ’20s?” Apparently the books it’s based on was. Jill laughingly said, “Whoever made this game was high,” to which Blake retorted with, “Yeah, high on vocabulary.” Do not underestimate the power of a sixteen year old’s comedic timing.

Brenna readz0rz for the win.

Team Brenna&Collin won. It’s true, they were more skillful at card-drawing than the rest of us thought. I thought Brenna was going to get up on the table and do the Big Shoe Dance, she was so pumped up. Collin funneled his enthusiasm onto a pink balloon.

Those two got so cozy, I wouldn't have been surprised if one of them birthed baby pink condoms at the end of the night.

I decided to suggest one last time. Paul and Niffer hadn’t yet arrived the first time I begged to play it, and Paul made the mistake of admitting that he had played that game before. I pawned it off on him and he proceeded to freshen up on the instructions.

Jill's just as confused when OTHER people have the instructions. I will say that she got further than I did, which was the third line.

Up until this point, I feel that I was pretty well-behaved. I hadn’t been punching Henry or engaging in loudly slurred conversation, even though I had been quietly sipping vodka. But when a game is centered around having the last word? I don’t know, I could have been imbibing Shirley Temples laced with the essence of Sunday School all day long and I still would have been an out of control, must win at all costs, token person you want to coldcock at the party. Besides, games with timers have a certain urgency that make me shout my words to compensate for the rising panic.

Henry sucks so bad, he's the caboose of Last Word

When I sat back down, Brenna goes, “Calm down” and patted my thigh or some shit, as I recall, but that’s what game night is all about! Getting the blood pressure up! Being the best! BEING A WINNER. Besides, I was having all the fun.

Speaking of winning, I won that game even when Henry vetoed my last word of “fang” for the “Things That Are Metal” category, even though I stamped my feet and screeched what would he know, he’s never been to Dracula’s Ball? And then he said, “But then the letter would have had to have been ‘m’ for ‘metal fang'” and I was all, “Are you a fucking retard?”

Blake considers enrolling in Camp Cool Like Erin so he can be a WINNER.

Everyone was exhausted after having their minds obliterated by my genius, so game night came to a satisfying close.

Two concluding thoughts:

• I should have these more often
• I am not proofreading this
• I would like to hang out with Rhonda more than just once a year

(Pretend 3 is the new 2.)

The 51st comment was left by Michelle. Congratulations! Your monster will be delicately wrapped in a paper blanket and sent out asap.

Thanks for playing, everyone!

The holiday spirit hit me late last night. It was probably one of the several glasses of Merlot talking, but let’s not argue about it. It’s  not often that I get all inclined to do something good, something for nothing, but I really want to give away one of my monster mini’s as a holiday thing. A gift, I guess you would call it; or an apology even, for coming here and reading this shit.

The details:

• The contest is open until a week from today, 12:00pm EST December 28, 2008.
• Comment on this entry, and this entry only. If you read this from a LiveJournal feed and comment on that, it won’t count.
• Make sure you use a valid email address so you can be contacted if winner.
• Winner will be chosen at random, using random.org.
• I like having contests. They make me feel presidential.
• The painting will also be chosen at random, but it will be one of the 5x7s, not 4x6s.
• You can only enter once, else your soul will be mine to play drunken frisbee with.

Entire collection of miniatures can be found here.

Hurry, before I change my mind!

Hello. It took me TWO HOURS to copy and paste that last fucking post.

Apparently, I’m not allowed to edit it, but I should just be thankful that WordPress allowed  me to publish it AT ALL considering it completely devoured my last attempt, which was actually formatted correctly, and left no evidence that it was ever posted.

So I apologize for the pisspoor, hard to read formatting, and I apologize to my subscribers for basically getting spammed by me today.

I’m really fucking over this whole blog thing, motherfuck.

I need to go jab myself with something sharp.

L8r.

EDIT: I love u Henry. Marry me.

It’s a Friday night in 1999 and my boyfriend Jeff and I are lounging around, paying vague attention to some non-MTV music video show.

  Suddenly, a pulsing beat (not unlike one of those horrible MIDI files web-dorks have been embedding into their angelfire homepages) kicks in and the cutest/sluttiest school girl in pigtails is baring her midriff and gyrating her pelvis in a gymnasium. I’m mesmerized. SPELLBOUND, you might even say.

“Who IS THIS?” I whispered.

“Oh hell no, don’t even tell me you like this shit,” the boyfriend says nervously, trying to wrench the remote from my hands before the world of homogenized pop devours my soul and caulks my heart’s cockles with coconut taffy and Love’s Baby Soft.

“This is the gateway! You give in to THIS and next you’ll be wearing taffeta bows in your hair and going to concerts at the mall. Now tell me you don’t like this.”

“I think I do, dude. It’s undeniably catchy. And she’s kind of hot. I mean—what? NO. Ew, I don’t like this.” A minute later, while I’m laughing nervously, I learn that it’s some strumpet called Britney Spears. Under a cloak of darkness (i.e. online), I buy her album.

For awhile, I try to hide it. I kick it under the couch when people come over. When friends are in the car with me, I make sure not to ever, not ever in one hundred million thousand fifteen years, pop in the mixtape that spins  “Crazy” and “…

Baby One More Time.”  It’s the street cred kiss of death; there would be no way to talk myself out of that one.

But then one day, I’m like, “You know, I want to rock out to some fucking Spears and I don’t give a shit who knows.” So maybe I just got done breaking plates over my head to Bring Me the Horizon, or maybe I just cut myself to the plunky suicide notes of Xiu Xiu, but if I want to smack on some fucking bubblegum bubbles while jumping on the couch to a little tune called “Womanizer,” then dammit, I don’t care who knows it.

I LOVE BRITNEY SPEARS.

I penned death threats in my diary to K-Fed. I wept openly while watching her documentary.

I LOVE BRITNEY SPEARS. And now my son does too.

Now, what’s your guilty pleasure?

Urgent. Will die without reading.

• 17:57 I think I just got asked out and I’m lol’ing internally. #
• 21:12 I’m just going to let Chooch name all of my paintings from now on. #
• 23:15 If u ever wanted to know what I was like as a young lass (& still) watch Jon&Kate+8. Mady is me. I am Mady. #
• 23:46 Speaking of peeing, I wish I had some almonds. #
• 11:28 God you hear one song and it just ruins the whole day. #
• 17:51 One of the guys at work told me I look like Alice in Wonderland. I blushed because my mind goes right to the porn version. Of course. #
• 22:03 I’d be drafting my suicide note right now if I was an Islander. #
• 10:37 My surly son allowed 10 sec of cuddling b4 realizing what was going on & shouted, “No, go!” Now he’s off yonder calling cats assholes. #

Automatically shipped by LoudTwitter Now you can rest easy, knowing my inner most thoughts and movements.

Urgent. Will die without reading.

• 18:42 Santa told blake to pull up his pants. #
• 19:22 The patrons of Denny’s let out a collective sigh as we exited. #
• 19:48 Henry has apparently been reading literature on how to raise teenagers. #

• ---

• 08:28 Henry cleaned the bedroom so it no longer looks like a dormroom. Would have tipped him but he no leave chocolates on the pillows. #
• 12:41 I’m bringing puffy paint back. #
• 15:41 Supposedly I melted the handle to henrys pot when I made Chooch mac n cheese. I wondered what that noxious odor was. #
• 16:47 If I ever lose my mind and start shooting, it will be in a craft store. #
• 20:32 I’m taking my quest for a new bestie to public access. Do it up Paris-style. First requirement: someone who actually picks up the phone. #
• 20:41 Or maybe my show will be “I Want to Be the Hump on Erin’s Back.” #
• 09:25 There’s a good possibility I was just called a pee-cow. #
• 09:39 My son just mastered the main players of the color wheel not too long ago, &here I am throwing ‘ecru’ at him. “That’s not brown, dummy!” #
• 12:22 Henry child-proofed our bedroom door knob but now I can’t get in, either. #

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It’s that time of year for the obligatory, oft-painful portrait with a wrinkled, disgruntled retiree whose wife makes him don a red velvet suit to pay for a HoverRound. I had been priming Chooch for this for the past few days, and he was fully prepared to march in there and demand Hotwheels and train tracks, maybe a nice bottle of merlot for mommy and some copies of Butt Love for daddy. We picked Blake up on the way because, well, a scene kid on the lap of Santa might be pretty funny.

We got there and Chooch was pissed because there was a family of three kids in front of us and God forbid, Chooch had to wait. How dare anyone hold Chooch back. I was annoyed because all three kids wore clad in matching Steelers jerseys. In case you didn’t know, I hate the Steelers. Seeing this was more of a monstrosity to me than those corny crocheted sweaters adorned with festive pins that blink and play tinny renditions of Jingle Bells. The kind of sweaters home ec teachers wear, you know the ones.

When it was Chooch’s turn, he balked. Henry had to push him up the plank to his sudden death.

Briefly, Chooch’s face gets all contorted, his cheeks flush with horror, and he lets out a helpless wail. Henry and Blake calmed him down (I was busy being a deadbeat mother and stood off to the side, laughing inside my hands.

Blake was all ready to join Chooch, but then Santa told him to pull his pants up. Blake obliged, but it pissed him off so he came back and stood by me. I had to turn around because I was cracking up so bad. Later, Henry admitted that he agreed with Santa, going on to add, “He’s my son, I don’t want to see his junk hanging out.” But only because he’s his son. So if it was another sixteen year old boy, it would be OK? Perhaps Henry should consider a seasonal gig as Santa for next year. The extra money would be nice; mama needs some supplies for the meth lab.

In the end, Chooch acquiesced and perched on Santa’s sleigh (I’ll use that in my Santa slash at a later date). I think he started to understand the concept, that this was one of those circus acts performed mainly to make mommies happy, one of those occasions where kids get to make a small payment to the Mommy Carried Me For Nine Months loan. Yes Chooch, this is about Mommy, not you, so suck it up and smile for the fucking camera.

I like how Chooch and Santa both have the same posture, kind of like the holiday variation of the gangsta lean.

(As I’m writing this, Henry is walking around in his boxers, conducting business on his cell phone. I keep waiting for a Risky Business-slide, but I think he knows he could very well break a hip.)

My grandma has been in a nursing home for the past few weeks. They say it’s temporary, that she’ll get to come home once she gains back use of her legs (I attribute her muscle deterioration to my aunt Sharon, who kept her holed up at home like a prisoner and would often forbid me from visiting). I hope these things are true, and that if she does get to return home, Sharon will clean up the mess that she and her dog have made, so I hear from a little birdie. (I’m talking mounds of dog shit left to amalgamate with white shag carpet, THAT kind of awesome mess. Oh, Grey Gardens indeed.)

I visited my grandma in the home on two occasions, but she seemed tight-lipped, paranoid, anxious for me to leave. But yesterday, I met my brother Corey there and was relieved to see that Sharon wasn’t around to monitor things.

Corey and I walked down hallways which smelt like we had stumbled inside a walk-in medicine cabinet. Every so often, I caught a whiff of Desperation and Lost Memory, too. It scared me.

Reaching my grandma’s room, we found her asleep. Not wanting to wake her, I turned to a nurse who was across the hall, watching us curiously (Corey and I are kind like Durrr and Duhhh when we’re together, donning deer-in-headlight visages and stumbling with suspicion) and said, “That’s our grandma in there. She’s sleeping. What do we do?”

The nurse exclaimed, “Jeannie? That’s my GIRL! She so FUNNY. You know she funny right?” I agreed and when she turned her back, shot Corey a “wtf, grandma’s FUNNY??” look. He just shrugged.

The nurse woke up our grandma, and I braced myself, I clenched my asshole, I waited for it. But she seemed pleasantly surprised to us. And then she spent the next hour regaling us with the goings-on of the nursing home residents. She seemed coherent, happy, genuinely pleasant. I can’t remember the last time I saw her like that, smiling and being so chatty. Especially following my grandfather’s death, she has a tendency to be quite snippy and anxious to throw jabs. She loves to remind me that I’m a disappointment of colossal proportions.

But on this day, she seemed entertained by my life updates. She asked about Chooch and her eyes held real honest-to-God pride when she looked at pictures of him on my phone.

There was one hairy moment when she brought up my mother and our current stand-off. “She gets tears in her eyes when she talks about you,” my grandma lectured. Oh I bet. Tears from having one less person to borrow money from.

The subject was quickly changed to Anna, the resident Sophia Perillo. “Oh, you have to meet her, she’s so funny! We all sit around waiting to see what she’ll do next,” my grandma said, laughing at the thought.

I recalled some wheelchair-bound lady parked at the nurse’s station when Corey and I had arrived. I got the sense she was a real spit-fire, so I said to Corey, “Maybe that was Anna asking for juice when we walked by.” Then to my grandma, I asked, “Does she have white hair?”

My grandma looked at me dumbly and Corey mumbled, “I think they ALL have white hair, Erin. It’s kind of the trend.”

Then her ninety-something roommate started coughing up something so tragic-sounding, I can only guess it was her ghost. And that was our cue to leave.

Since my mom is being a sack of rotting assholes, I decided to take Thanksgiving into my own hands. And then promptly handed it off to Henry.

I have never hosted a holiday meal at my small house before, and I know that Henry is just shitting his pants with delightful anticipation. In fact, he just came fromw ork and mumbled about needing a nap because he has “so much to do tonight.”  See? DELIGHT. Shitting his pants with it. He has asked me at least twenty seven times if I’ve noticed how small our kitchen is. I always shrug and ask, “What does that have to do with anything?” which causes his face to darken and tremble, like his brain is about to blow.

My contribution? Scouring the Internet for like, AN HOUR, looking for delicious side dishes that do not require meat and do not ask to have crunchy onions hidden within their folds. Then I found some lady’s cupcake blog and wasted at least twenty five minutes gagging on my saliva like an epileptic so retarded she can’t even choke on her tongue right. Eventually, I had a proper menu put together.

It was going great until Henry realized one of the recipes required a cheese that costs approximately $15 a pound. “That’s more than the turkey!!” he yelled in front of the cheese display at Giant Eagle. He promised to find a poor people substitute but that was two nights ago and curiously, I haven’t heard another word about it. I’m sure he’s devising a way to use a log of Velveeta. In any case, whatever he comes up will probably be right at home on the paper plates it’ll be plopped on. We doin’ this bitch up RIGHT.

I asked Henry yesterday if there’s anything I can make. “Yourself scarce,” he answered.

Fine, I’ll go sit in a bar until dinner’s ready HENRY. At which point, I may or may not be home, depending on what my new-lover-from-the-bar’s got cookin’ at home.

Happy (day before) Thanksgiving, have some music.

My New Underage Homies

Somewhere in between salivating over the extensive candy spread that was being sold as skater’s fuel and Christina trying to fillet herself with a saw, we braved the cold in order to have a cigarette. This is where, beneath rain that was trying desperately to be ice, we met Jordan. Boasting an I <3 Haters t-shirt and braces, Jordan proceeded to give an argument that he was, in fact, 18 and oh brother could we please spare a smoke? Apparently, his argument was convincing enough for Christina to flick him a Camel with no hesitation. I guess he felt obligated to give us some chatty as payment, as he hung around and told wild tales of being the only black kid in his school who likes hard music. “Well, except for one other black kid. But he’s gay.” He then went on  to say that being gay is like the new goth, and Christina and I agreed fervishly, as we had just made fun of a faux-lesbo couple inside the show. They were literally dragging each other around, holding hands with feigned passion, and then quickly scanning everyone around them to see if anyone was noticing. It was the lamest thing I think I’ve ever seen. Kind of like when Christina wears bandanas as headbands.

Then some other youngin’ with a nearly-Canadian accent ambled over, skateboard in tow, and weasled his own cigarette from Christina, the human tobacco dispenser. She’s like an anti-Truth billboard. He wove yarns about chain-smoking Camel Crushes and coughing up blood. “They were recalled, you know,” he said in earnest. Christina looked horrified because evidently she’s been smoking them too. I waited for her to fall asleep that night in the hotel room before chanting, in a soft, monotone whisper, “Smoke more Crushes. Have another Crush. You think Crushes are better than pot. Smoke them all day long. No more food, just Crushes.”

I think that kid’s name was Kyle. He looks like a Kyle, in any case. Kurt. Kam. Kleatus. He was going to give Christina a cigarette as soon as his friends came back in the car where he left his pack. But that’s like basically saying, “What, baby? I put on a condom, I promise.” She told him not to worry about it, which is a good thing considering THAT CAR DOESN’T EXIST.

The Bathroom Condition

I don’t generally make use of the facilities when I’m at shows because club bathrooms make me feel like I’m walking into an STD incubator. But I had been drinking a torpedo-sized can of Monster and kind of really sort of had to go.

The stalls weren’t too bad. I was able to enter one without the need for a hockey stick to slap away sullied tampons or soggy wads of toilet water. Soggy from the commode water or emo tears of angst, who knows? I was able to pee without worrying some rare bacterial eel from Asia was going to swim up from the pipes and enter my vagina. I was even able to wash my hands with a lovely aromatic hand soap and not that orange shit that reeks of hospitals and  high school science labs. A very surprising jaunt into a public restroom, to be sure.

But I did not attempt to return to the bathroom later on and here is why: Two girls  were hogging the sink area, posing sexily with each other, lips all smooched out and dripping with glittery lip gloss, taking their photos into the mirror. The one girl’s hip was jutted out so far that it kept grazing my thigh as I tried desperately to suds up while fixating on my hands and not at the creepy sexual circus that was opening its big top right next to me. The worst part was that they looked like they had ended up there accidentally after leaving a Hollister sale and decided, “Oh what the fuck, while we’re here let’s update our Facebook pics because OMGWE’REATAROCKSHOW!” They looked to be in their early twenties, making this display completely unacceptable. I wanted to toss some Maroon5 tickets at them to get them to go away.

Maybe I should have just looked for a nice photo booth to piss in.

The Worst Moment of My Life

Sometime after my accidental immersion in restroom eroticism, Jonny from Emarosa was back behind the merch table, not being noticed. Christina wanted to go talk to him, but I kept saying I didn’t want to. I knew what was going to happen: I was going to get up there, he was going to look at me expectantly, and I was going to blubber all over his pants. It happens all the time when I meet people in bands that genuinely affect me. So Christina is all, “Well, I want to meet him” and somewhere inside the pit of my soul, the thirteen-year-old in me reared her unreasonably jealous head and whined, “THAT’S NOT FAIR I LIKED THEM FIRST AND I LIKE THEM MOST.” Still not wanting to do this, but also not wanting her to meet him on her own, I reluctantly trailed behind her with my head down.

Here is where I am going to be honest: this was a really painful moment for me. It hurt me so deeply that I haven’t wanted to write about this trip at all and I have barely talked about it even with my friends. But here is what happened in a nut shell – Jonny essentially didn’t notice me at all because as usual, boring old Erin was eclipsed by Christina’s showy charm and no matter how many times I tried to talk, he would always go back to her. So of course, she gets this brilliant idea to try to make me look like the super fan, which backfired and made me look like a fucking loser. Oh look, it’s the new Suicide Smoothie from Jamba Juice, and it’s seeping from my pores. We probably only had a minute of face time with him, but it dragged out in excruciating intervals and I could hear my own stammering voice, laced with fear and doubt, as though I was screaming to be heard outside of the fishbowl on my head. After I told him he was awesome for the FOURTH time (wtf ugh), I thought the game warden had finally arrived with the shotgun but NO. NO NO NO that fucking tampon Christina had to go and be a fucking backstabber by asking if she could take a picture with him. So then it was all, “Here Erin take this photo of us” and then I don’t know which of them had the brilliant afterthought to include ME, the one who actually LIKES HIS MUSIC AND OWNS EMAROSA’S ALBUM, but the next thing I knew, I was in the asshole picture too and let me tell you that picture is like keeping the jizz of the trucker who raped you in the rest stop THAT IS HOW SICKENING this momento is to me. Horrible. Awful. Painful.

I vaguely remember almost tripping over someone’s bike as I retreated. I almost wish I would have. That would have been the richest ending to this story. AND THEN ERIN WAS IMPALED BY THE SPOKES OF SOME THIRTEEN YEAR OLD’S BIKE AND BLED OUT ALL OVER THE FLOOR BUT THE SHOW STILL WENT ON THE END.

Later that night, Christina had the audacity to say that the most traumatic moment of the night for her was that goddamn Benny Hill Show scene with the fucking Mountain Dew can. Oh, well la de da. I was just psychologically mauled back there by the merch booth, but hold the phones, Christina didn’t know where to set down a can of fucking Mountain Dew. That bitch is lucky I didn’t haul off and wizard kick her fucking cartoon face right then and there.  God, get fucked.

Anyway, it’s always nice when you take solace in someone’s music and then when you try to tell them that, they act like they would rather by q-tipping their dickhole than sharing the same air as you. But to quote Christina, after we walked away, “OMG JONNY WAS SO NICE SQUUUUEEEE” and you know I’m pissed off when I write the word “squee.”

Trying not to let it ruin my night, I consoled myself by going back to scene kid adoration and trying my best to enjoy Breathe Carolina’s set while blocking out the horror show that had just transpired, knowing I’d have the rest of my life to replay it over and over and over in my head like that fucking 1-800-MY-LEMON commercial that I hate so much.

I wish I had been there with Purple Hood. I bet she would have acted like half of a faux-lesbian couple with me, holding my hand tenderly while not forcing me to talk to Jonny. Maybe she would have won me a cute pink stuffed sea barnacle from a Claw machine after the show, braided my hair and told me I was pretty while playing me a mix tape full of Seaweed and Sunny Day. Then the next day we’d go to the mall so she could get her cartilage pierced and then she’d buy me a bracelet at Hot Topic and maybe we might stop for a Slushie at 7-11 and talk about how rad Jennifer Aniston is (Team Aniston FO’ LYFE). Shit, now I want to date that girl.

And then later I hugged a Teletubby. People in costume always prod my desire to dole out hugs. I don’t know what it is, but at haunted houses especially, I’m always wanting to dry hump every last Joe in a Kmart mask.

And then I made Judas tip him.

At some point, Pierce the Veil came on and I was able to go back to that sensation of inner peace for awhile. I was a little sad though that Henry wasn’t with me, because he likes them too and their songs always make me think of him. I was partially aware that Christina wasn’t even really watching the show, which annoyed me but whatever. She broke up a chick fight at one point because she always has to meddle. Me? I’d have liked to have seen how that would have panned out, but whatever. I will say, however, that by the  time Christina stepped in, the back of the one girl’s head looked like what’s beneath Tyra’s weave. It was all nest-y and knotted and I can only imagine how badly her scalp must have ached. I wanted to know what started the fight, and for whatever reason, I dwelled on that for days following.

This dude was standing near the front with us and it was kind of like having Henry there. Old? Check. Earplugs? Check. Glasses and 1980’s THE SERVICE ‘stache? Check. Except this guy was shaking his jock all over the place. He was INTO IT and it was incredible. He was also recording a lot of the show, and I was worried because there were two young girls in front of him who were dancing with each other. It started out innocently, but before I knew it, they were essentially simulating sex. The one girl kept throwing her head back and a few times it hit my arm. I was afraid they were going to get me pregnant so I stepped to the side. So yes, I was worried that the Bizzaro Henry was clandestinely filming them for some sick, underground clothed porn ring, but then I think the one girl was his daughter. Which, depending on how you tend to view sex in the 21st century, is still alarmingly awkward.

Also next to me was a young kid with gaudy fake eyelashes who I assumed was a chick until he leaned over me to shout in a husky tone, “Is Monica here?” There was definitely a bobbing Adam’s apple. The youngest trannie I’ve ever seen in person (and the first scene trannie), as I happily jotted in my diary later that night.

I really like Pierce the Veil because a lot of their lyrics are about soul-crushing love and suicide and just being fucking miserable. Among my favorites are:

“Please understand me when
I’d rather see you dead
Than live without me, so thirsty for more
Beyond the sea blue light I met the love of my life
She’d rather see me dead than face me
I like your starry eyes, they yell surprise! Surprise!
I’m in love…but not for long”

***

“Another boy without a sharper knife
The moment, that’s where I
Kill the conversation
Wrap this up
With a knife that loves to feel
How do you know how deep to go before it’s real “

***

Plus, there’s some screaming too which stirs the anger I always got brewing in my veins. I love you, Pierce the Veil.

I am done with this fucking saga.

Part I Part II

Technically, Blake’s sixteenth birthday was last Monday, but we didn’t get to do it up right with a cake until today. Janna and Henry’s mom joined in so that the obligatory Happy Birthday serenade had more of a full-choral feel and less of that chirping cricket sensation. However, they also made sarcastic remarks during a viewing of Jon and Kate Plus Eight which made me get all defensive. I HAVE YOUR BACKS, GOSSELIN FAMILY.

Since Blake’s mom just had a party for him on Friday, we left tradition bleeding out like road kill on a highway shoulder, eschewing the standard birthday cake in favor of two halves of speciality fare: pumpkin prailine and chocolate mousse. Broaden the kid’s cake horizons, you know?  Chooch made known his desire to blow out Blake’s candles (and really, if he hadn’t, I’d have to suspect that he was some sort of alien baby from a planet where children 10-and-under aren’t entranced by dancing flames) and Blake very graciously allowed for this to happen. I was impressed; I was always resentful when my younger brothers stole my candle snuffing spotlight on my own jacked up birthday. I guess that’s what true sibling love looks like right there. Thank you, Blake and Chooch, for illustrating for me what could have been if I wasn’t so busy being cannibalized by jealousy and fury.

After we ate cake, Henry’s mom made funny faces at my artwork and Blake’s piercings simultaneously while Chooch lazily watch Max and Ruby from the quiet sanctity of his sugar coma. There were so many things I wanted to get Blake but just couldn’t afford (for example, his own piercing parlour), but he seemed to like his gifts we settled on so I guess it wasn’t too much of a bust. It was what a normal American family might consider a “good afternoon.”