My new shirt, boasting my favorite assholes: Spencer Pratt, Dubya, and of course Henry. I love this shirt so much that I was considering wearing it to Kara’s wedding tomorrow, but I paid a lot of money for my dress so I guess I should just wear that.

It all started quietly, this particular Tuesday. Chooch and I were sprawled across the floor, me watching the US Open, Chooch flipping through OK!

Magazine.

And then the urgent pounding happened on my front door.

Great, I thought, figuring it was the maintenance man arriving unannounced as usual, but hoping it wasn’t the dreaded gas man. I was just happy I had on a bra as I pulled open the door and found myself nose-to-badge.

No cordiality, no good mornings, just a very gruff and blunt, “Do you live here alone?” I looked past the tall bear of a Pittsburgh detective and did a rough count of at least nine others, milling around my front yard and driveway in navy blue t-shirts and ball caps.

The first thought that clouded my mind was, “Oh shit, wtf did I do now?” If it’s true what they say about your past catching up to you, then those peanut shell magnets I stole from Lechter’s when I was six now have me in a full-nelson. Not to mention the hobo I shot point blank back in ’02 and rolled into a tar pit.

(KIDDING. God.) I could feel my sweat glands pumping out pools of anxiety and guilt. I gathered my composure and told him that my boyfriend also lives here. Oh shit, wtf did HENRY do, I thought.

“But you don’t have roommates? A male and female?” he asked, and I could feel his glare searching my eyeballs for the truth, a flicker of hesitance, a shadow of doubt. His eyes kept darting over my shouder and into my toy-strewn living room. Chooch leaned against the door frame and kept pointing at me, as if he was trying desperately to alert the popo that the perp was standing right in front of them, in the bright pink shirt. I was kind of hoping that perhaps Chooch would choose that moment to shout his new favorite salutation — HEY DOUCHE! — and maybe offer a round of Freezepops.

When I told him no, he began asking me about my neighbors, if I knew of anyone – a male and female – who had moved in to one of the apartments on my block, within the last month. I laughed inwardly and considered explaining to him that I’m nearly a recluse and try with all of my might not to have any association with the people here.

“Obviously, we’re looking for someone,” he explained, thank God because my blond hair prevents me from gathering clues and forming conclusions without the aid of big tough men.

Eventually, I was dismissed and retreated back to my living room, feeling guilty and suspicious like I always do when questioned. The same way I feel when I go to the  bank, like the teller naturally assumes I’m withdrawing money to purchase supplies for my meth lab.

Now I want to know who my neighbors are and if there’s a body count.

I met up with my friend Stacey last night for some drinks. It had been about a year and a half since we hung out, so it was kind of a dorky mini-reunion type thing which was totally spoiled and tossed out for the maggots by the bartender of the Apple Inn.

When I chose to meet her there, my rationale was, “My boycott of the Apple Inn has been going on for nine years now. I think that’s a long enough run.” It’s right down the street from my house, so it could have made for a very convenient place to get shit-faced, and then get mistaken for a hooker on my walk home.

However, after I graduated bartending school, I tried to get a job there, and that sort of threw a wrench in any chance of making the Apple Inn my own personal Cheers. The owner, Rob, held me prisoner in a booth for nearly an hour, drilling me, slashing my flesh with his rapist eyes, only to tell me at the end of the interview that he wasn’t hiring girls. I distinctly remember him squeezing my shoulders on my way out and how my sex drive fossilized right then and there.

Rob is also the bartender and for the hour Stacey and I sat at the bar, he did little more than growl at us. Then he acted all aghast when Stacey shouted her beer order to him so he would hear over top of his personal phone call (on which he explained, “Sorry I’m trying to serve these two girls” in an irritated tone). His presence alone made me hunker in my stool, shoulders scrunched.

At one point, Stacey said “sex” at least thirty times in one sentence, which probably set off some kind of bell at the Playboy Mansion, and I was silently begging her to talk about chastity and menstruation and yeast infections so Rob and the two older men at the bar would put their dicks down.

That guy is lecherous. I bet he has a date rape scrapbook.

I was burning to bounce.

Plus, my amaretto sours were some of the worst I’ve ever had.Clearly, nine years is not long enough.

We closed our tab after an hour and walked up to Tom’s DIner for food. I asked the waitress what kind of desserts were on the current, and in a bored tone she pointed over her shoulder and said, “They’re all up there in the dessert case.” So I had to WALK ALL THE WAY UP THERE (I know, right? And half-drunk in heels, too; oh the injustice) only to not know what anything was, so I just ordered cherry pie because it was the only thing I could identify and it was easier than ordering “that chocolate thing with the chocolate stuff”. Taking my pie order, she then asked me if I wanted chocolate syrup on it. No, not today.But thanks.

The waitress never came back on her own accord to offer refills, so Stacey had to keep calling her over. “I feel like a bitch just for asking for a refill,” she laughed.

And when the waitress DID come over, she had no qualms about interrupting our convo, when I was trying to discuss very important matters of the heart, such as kick ball and my cat Marcy.

When I was a waitress for a day, I NEVER did that.

On our way out, Stacey told her to have a nice night and I hissed, “Don’t tell her that! I don’t want her to have a good night.”

Then I came home and was treated like the proper princess I am by my favorite waiter, Henry.

Your friends – you love them like family. But sometimes they get unruly, start making eyes at your human property, kill your goldfish, stretch out your fave shirt, leave you stranded in the drunk tank.

Sometimes they need a friendly reminder to keep their douche-osity in check before it spills out of the bag and needs a larger vessel, like a canoe. Send them this “Don’t be a douche canoe” note card to get your point across before they REALLY get out of hand and jack your car.

4.75×4.75 note card, blank inside, comes with envelope.

For today’s day trip to Saltsburg (totally lame, btw)  I wore the Bela Karolyi (Yeah, he said it) t-shirt I made. We stopped for lunch at Dean’s Diner, a place where all the waitresses wore white scrubs and clung to their beloved crimped hair fad, and I delighted in the fact that some of the seated diners were eyeing up my shirt as I walked to our table.

Afterward, as a waitress rung us up, she squinted at my shirt and then asked, “I guess that’s someone I should know, but don’t?” So I had to explain it and she was like, “Oh OK. That’s cool. Exercising his freedom of speech, I guess, huh?

” but my special CIA-coveted ability to hear thoughts told me that she was wondering if I was on a psych ward field trip. Blake, who was standing beside the only person in the world lame enough to create a t-shirt in honor of some aging gymnastic coach, probably lost about 2738994 scene points just by association. Poor Blake — and he just started wearing girl jeans!

Later on, we stopped at Pat Catan’s to pick up supplies for that fucking card business that is slowly crushing my will to live.

As I was paying, a woman in another line turned around and sized up my shirt. Then she looked over at Henry before returning her hardened soccer mom gaze at my chest. I’m pretty sure she thought it was a photo of Henry splayed across my tits. Because I’m totally that kind of broad.

Chooch is obsessed with my shoes. He takes them all out of my closet, strews them around, admires them, then rearranges them. Sometimes the occasional pair call out to him and he feels obliged to try them on.

My brother Corey went through this phase.

He didn’t grow out of it until he was thirteen. (As far as I know – he might be hording an impressive moonlight stiletto collection.)

The sad thing is that I feel like he walks in these ones with more grace than I do. I know, I know, not much of a feat.

His legs are screaming for a garter.

I just found this today and I can’t stop laughing.

I totally need to recreate this outfit so I can achieve the ultimate jump roping experience.

A girl on Etsy asked me yesterday if I had any Virgin Mary birthday cards, having seen the Mary and Jesus Halloween cards I sell. I didn’t actually have any, but felt inspired so I hurried up and whipped one up. She actually bought it, too, which surprised me.

The inside says: “Though it won’t be awesome as my son’s.” The two other versions are: “Hopefully God doesn’t knock you up” and “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

I also added a Ted Bundy general “thinking of you” card.

The inside says, “…and how this piece of nylon would look wrapped around your neck.”

I love Ted Bundy. I love making cards.

COMMENT HERE TO RSVP.

This is my first day of non-work. I had planned on living it up — maybe drinking some Moonshine down by the river and playing some Dominos with the homeless. Instead, Henry got me sick so I spent most of the day sleeping, whining, sweating, shivering.

It’s OK. I’m sure I’ll have plenty of opportunities to play with the homeless once I’m homeless myself.

I have no idea what to do with myself. I’ve applied for some jobs, and Henry is trying to find ways to cash in on my brain. I foresee plenty of financial land mind dodging in the future.

But at least when I cough, it tastes like powdered Slim-Fast.

In other news, we went to visit Henry’s mom Saturday night.

After she succeeded in being accidentally racist in front of the Bosnian residents outside of the complex, we went into her apartment where she bestowed me with two boxes brimming with old photos of Henry. As much as it pains me to say it, he was actually a cute kid. WHAT HAPPENED. Then I came across a photo from his wedding and while it seemed to be very awkward for Henry, I couldn’t stop laughing. God, his ex-wife is trashier than a dumpster in Newark.

I bet that guy across the street was Marlin Jackson, that motherfucker.

Urgent. Will die without reading.

• 17:26 Would rather be home, playing with my new lens. #
• 18:38 when henry makes baked tofu for dinner, i get this uncontrollable urge to marry him. then he leaves his socks on the floor & i’m over it. #
• 08:35 My bagel bitch is here. #
• 09:30 My own brother, a goddamn shit-sucking vampire. #
• 09:47 My neighbors moved out while Gremlins was on so I associated it with the Gizmo theme. It confused me into feeling sad. #
• 12:30 Henry’s trying to sell me at the neighbor’s yard sale. He’s making a sign that says "cheap ho." #

• 15:46 I wonder if Robocop knows that Christina has his lighter. #
• 17:09 Henry was on a city-wide search for jicama today, but refused to go to the Mexican market by our house because he’s scared of the Spanish mob #
• 17:10 Usually I’m so diligent about counting characters. #
• 18:30 Risked getting jumped for the sake of pitchure-takin’, ya’ll. #
• 19:17 Can muscle be donated? I have too much of that shit and I’d like to help some assholes get calf implants. #
• 20:49 We just got invited to a scene kid party. I wanted to go but Christina had just puked so she said no. #
• 23:52 Fucking nurses & dr’s keep coming in to talk to Christina while I’m TRYING TO WATCH THE REAL WORLD, FUCKERS. #
• 23:55 Christina utilized her time in the bathroom to not just give a urine specimen, but fix her hair as well. #
• 00:46 Christina’s hooked up to plugs and clamps but I had no shame in asking her for money for snacks. I have this friendship thing down. #

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POST TWEET EDIT: Christina is fine. She apparently had bronchitis and didn’t know it or some such shit.

Bueno Mexicana in the house.

Yesterday we found out that they’re taking away the night shift. We were all offered positions on daylight, but Henry and I are scrambling now, trying to find a way for us to both work during the day. My mom said she’d babysit, but she also said she was opening the pool, though I’ve yet to smell the chlorine.

Needless to say, none of us felt like working much last night.

Joe and Eleanore are going to start the new shift on Monday, but Tina, Kim and I are sticking it out until the end of the month. Tina keeps taunting me about that, like she’s doing me some kind of perverted favor by staying on night shift until the end. This was supposed to be a really good week too, because Eleanore’s on vacation. It was supposed to be quiet and peaceful, but instead Tina and Kim made fun of me loudly, and I was trying to fend off the nervous breakdown that”s dying to happen. I wish I could be as optimistic as Henry. He’s all, "Oh, we’ll find a way to make it work! Don’t worry!" while I’m all, "My life is over, Jesus fuck, this sucks, I want to die."

Anyway, by August 1st, I might be out of a job unless we figure something out or I devise a way to smuggle Chooch to work with me. An oversized purse and some chloroform should do the trick.

RIP night shift. You were fun while you lasted.

Music to Suck a Dick to.