All of my entries are fixed now, for those of you who were trying to go back and read the older stuff.

The html got all jacked up when Henry imported everything to WordPress, but I cleaned it up and all the pictures are back in the Super Gay Stories posts now.

Yesterday, I used my Holga for the first time, but now I can’t find anywhere local to develop the film and it’s driving me crazy. I want my pictures! I took a picture of some bikers outside of a bar and I want it.

Does anyone know where I can get a roll of 120 developed?

I found a place where I can send it out, but they wanted me to buy a minimum of 5 pre-paid mailers. Why do I feel like I’m going to need a side job to support my lame hobbies?

Henry lost some of my entries when he moved my stupid blog over to a different thing and now I really feel like bashing his ugly fucking face in. He won’t apologize either. I have to go back and fix the html on every entry now. Fucking douchepie.

“We can still be friends.”

I should have known then, when he took my hand as we walked down E. Carson Street, that it wasn’t going to end well. I should have known.

Oh wait. I did know.

Today, I toured the WQED studio with my Creative Non-Fiction class. We were incognito as Communications majors. Perhaps if I truly was a Communications major, it would have been more interesting. But, as an "Erin," it was horrifically boring and counted as the first time since the Great Kidney Infection of 2007 that I had to stand. Kind of a lot. On my feet. Without the aid of Henry’s arm as a crutch. But at least I got to see some Mister Roger’s props. And we got "treat bags" full of guitar picks and stickers from some synth company, which we learned were leftovers from a Battle of the Bands that the studio hosted two weeks ago. I’m so excited that I’m going to score my picks right now.

Now I’m supposed to write about this for Wednesday. Christ. It’s going to suck.

I be lovin’ my new beret.

I will wear it when I bake next, yes? Crepes and French bread, mon ami? Frog leg casserole, ole? Bravo.

There I was, scouring the kitchen for the perfect receptable to hold the large amount of orange juice and DiSaronno I was about to pour, when Henry disbanded the party.

"Uh, are you sure you should be drinking? You do have a kidney infection."

"Oh shit, you’re probably right." My shoulders caved a little as I replaced the amaretto on the shelf.

"And did you take your antibiotic today?"

"Oh shit…"

I sent Henry off to the market with his little wicker basket to fetch the ingredients I need for my SECRET pie.

He just called and yelled, "I’d like to thank you for sending me to Giant Eagle so I could have some jackass back into me!"

I was really panicked about it, wanting to know the degree of damage, but first I had to sit through Henry’s painful (because he’s a crappy storyteller) account of the accident. "….and I was just sitting there, at a complete stop, waiting for someone to pull out of the space ahead of me, when this dick comes backing out real fast into me and then he has the nerve to get out and yell at me! ‘Don’t you see people backing out?!’ Yeah, and I’m at a standstill!"

"And is there a lot of damage?" I cut in.

"….he just gets back in his car and leaves. Dumb bastard."

"Damage?" I ask again.

"I mean, if he hadn’t pulled out so fast…."

"Damage?" I ask with a mouthful of fingernails.

"….didn’t do any damage to the van…."

"Oh, you’re in the company van? Then I don’t care. Good bye."

I like this picture because it shows off my awesome Pacman arm warmers. And my kid! And my kid.

Look, I lost an eye in the Great Kidney Battle of ’07. You win some, you lose some, I guess.

Today was a day for thanksgiving indeed: Henry had the doctor call me in an alternate prescription because I apparently am allergic to Cipro. Or my pain threshold just does not have the braun to withstand the brain-swelling sensation that the side-effect head aches were giving me.

(Oh, don’t worry! I’ll be back later with a thorough recap of each and every kidney twinge I endured this past week!

)

Anyway, today was the first day since Sunday that I actually: looked un-sick, dressed in clothes made of fabrics other than cotton, and applied makeup to my face. We went to my Grandma’s and my mom cried over the phone about having a “headache,” her stand-by excuse for every little situation she wishes to escape (I jumped at my chance here to smugly remind my grandmother that I had just been to the hospital but I still made it and she solemnly concurred, probably feeling even more disappointed with her daughter thanks to my interjection), I got to eat my first actual meal of substance in days, and there were onions in my un-meated stuffing. However, I was happy. My belly was happy. My head was happy, thanks to the large pain killer the doctor also prescribed.

Happy Thanksgiving, yee-all.

[Edit: It is sad when I’m so out of it that HENRY catches my typos.]

I’m currently battling the worst kidney infection of my life. This is the first time since Saturday that I’ve even been able to sit at the computer long enough to write this.

BBL!
(Hopefully.)

You know how
People will write about
How they got
their heart
broken by some prat in
         the 8th grade
whose eyes were
too CLOSE together
and maybe he had athlete’s foot a lot
and then

they might
     Say something about how
their dad used to rape
  their mother
every Friday night
and they could hear it
from the other side of the
bed posts      and
that
they secretly kind of
liked hearing it
and

       sometimes

it would RAIN really hard
on days when the sky was
blue and
what, was God playing games?
Like when he took away
the family dog

           Oswald?
and then
just because they
basically have written
a paragraph
detailing the saga
they call L.i.f.e
and s p l i t up the sentences
into artful little stanzas,
they call it a
Poem?

I
don’t
get
it.

Enter Henry, returning home from a day of doing little at his job. Spies something awry near the computer.

Henry: What has happened to the keyboard?
Keyboard is half-dead, whimpering, with its space bar dangling from its socket. Those plastic-proppy things are snapped clean off the back and lay in a dilapidated fashion on the computer desk. A mysterious prong-y apparatus also sits in discarded discord.&

Erin, nervously: I don’t know. It’s been like that all day. Fiddles with cuticles.

Henry, inspecting it closely: Strange, it wasn’t like that last night.

Erin, self-righteously: I DID NOT DO THAT. I SWEAR TO GOD. IT WASN’T ME.

Henry, in a goading tone: Erin.

Erin, screaming hysterically and obviously: IT WASN’T ME I SWEAR TO GOD!

Henry: This is an Erin-move. It has your name written all over it. So, what pissed you off and made you smash it?

Erin: OKFINEITWASMEITWASN’TWORKINGANDIGOTANGRY!

Henry provokes Erin some more, laughing at her state of frantic imbalance. Walks over to shuffle through the mail.

Henry, holding up a flyer from Full Sail, a recording arts school, reads it out loud: “Create a career in music.”

Erin, still ruffled about the appropos inquisition: I don’t want a career in music! I want a career underground, in a casket.

Henry, still perusing the flyer: Let me help you with that.

Today, a motorcycle-straddled cop set up a speed trap in front of my house. I was very bothered by this for two reasons:

1. I hate (most) cops
2. I hate cops on motorcycles

I’ve hated cops most of my adult life, and the motorcycle clause was a fast addendum. Six years ago, I had just pulled up to the curb in front of my house after a long day at work. Unaware of the cop who had been trailing me the whole way down Brookline Boulevard, I casually opened my car door, which in turn slammed into the side of his motorcycle, which he had idled on the sidewalk.

So before chastising me for me speeding, this old white-haired popo screamed at me for “nicking” his crappy cop cycle.

I dished out my usual cop hate-tinged sass (seriously, it’s a wonder I haven’t been night-sticked by now) and then pushed my way past him. ”

And to top it all off, you parked your car facing the wrong way!”

Oh fucking well, dickham.

Henry watched the whole thing from the sidelines, having returned home from work right behind me, and it’s still brought up occasionally.

I wanted to pelt expired foodstuffs at the cop today, but Henry was very serious about protecting the cop-douche, like he’s the one-man secret service of the police department; protection for our supposed protectors.

“And to make it even worse, he has a MUSTACHE,” I said with disgust and a crinkled nose as I sulked near the front door.

“So now you hate people with mustaches too?” Henry asked, annoyed.

“No, just cops with mustaches.” I really have to spell it all out for him.

(Although sometimes I hate mustachioed convenience store clerks.)

“See,” Henry continued from the kitchen, “this is why people think you’re a serial killer. You have a serial killer mindset.

” Why, because my hate is based on very specific criteria? I’m just very organized with my discrimination, is all.

Today I left for work with the sounds of zooming toy cars reverberating through my house and I can’t really explain why, but it made me feel very happy. Maybe it reminded me of growing up with two younger brothers. Ryan and I used to play with his Hotwheels and Micro Machines; I loved playing with cars more than My Little Ponys. (But it my toy car passion was probably tied with my obsession for Sweet Secrets, those things were bomb. Toys AND jewelry in one?!)

We used to build a tiered parking garage out of waffle blocks and lose ourselves in valet heaven for hours. Sometimes Egon and Slimer and Donatello and Splinter would join us.

I guess this is what I’ve been waiting for: My son is finally not a baby anymore and he plays with toys independently and says “whee whee” as he pushes a dump truck into Don’s hind legs and it’s just going to keep getting better (until he starts shop lifting and impregnating girls and joining whatever version of the Trenchcoat Mafia will be infecting society in the next decade).

In a surprising twist of fate, I got a new Secret Santa recipient. My boss — who kicks my chair to get my attention in lieu of, oh I don’t know, saying my name — took Gum Girl off my hands in exchange for Young Lindsay, whose wish list was making my boss all a’fluster.

“I don’t know any of this stuff!” she moaned last night. It turns out Lindsay and I have more in common than I imagined and I’m taking this as my signal to mold and sculpt her into the best Mini Erin she can be.

Shopping for her will be way more fun than picking up a Tyler Perry DVD.

Hello,

My boss just asked me if I’m a serial killer.

I laughed.

She echoed my laugh, nervously.

Day has officially been made.

Good bye.