It’s not that Anne and her mother had a bad relationship. Mother cooked warm and hearty meals for Anne. Mother braided Anne’s hair just right for school photos. Mother took Anne to the zoo in the third grade and to the gyno in the tenth, after she found out Anne was promiscuous.

But there was something Mother would never talk about, and it drove Anne wild with curiosity.

June 5th, 1956

Diary, today I overheard Mother talking to that beastly Constance Huffington from down the street. Mrs. Huffington asked Mother when she is going to settle down again with a nice man. Mother got all choked up and said she’s not ready, not since the accident.

What accident, I wonder. Did she poop in her pants?

It wasn’t that Anne and her mother didn’t talk. Mother told Anne about the sales she read about in the weekly circular. Anne told Mother about gawky Penny Pisshawker and how she got chewing gum all caught up in her head gear. Mother told Anne to clean her room.

But Mother would always change the subject when Anne asked about the accident.

April 18th, 1960

Diary, Mother and I were at the department store yesterday and I was looking at the swimming suits. Mother started crying when I asked if she was going to buy one too. She said she hasn’t worn one since the accident! The accident! What accident??

But oh Diary, the swimsuit I bought is pink and blue and has the most darling bow which lies plumb against my tailbone and camouflages my sway-back.

It wasn’t that Anne’s childhood was defined by not having a father around. Mother would call up her brother for situations that required a man’s finesse. Like teaching Anne how to throw a baseball. Like putting together the dollhouse Anne got for her birthday. Like blacking the eyes of the boy who groped Anne on the bus.

But Mother would never talk about Anne’s father, and Anne didn’t remember ever knowing him.

January 31st, 1995

Diary, Freddie proposed to me tonight! Oh, it was beautiful. We were watching Romeo+Juliet and I nearly choked on the ring because that slick son of a bitch had hidden it in a jar of macadamia nuts! I said to him, “Baby, why would you do that? You know I chug these fuckers like it’s a frosted mug of lactation and I’m a nursing baby.” Then we had sex and spilled a box of wine all over Mother’s white shag. After she was done screaming at me about that, I waited for her to take a Valium before asking about Father. We had a huge argument and she was crying and pulling at her hair. I said that it’s only natural for a father to walk a daughter down the aisle and she was sputtering all sorts of nonsense.

But I swear I heard her say she hasn’t heard from him since the accident. WHAT FUCKING ACCIDENT.

It wasn’t that Anne was glad to see her Mother marinating in her own piss at the nursing home. Anne didn’t like that her Mother’s once-tanned skin had turned into a translucent sheath, scaly tracing paper revealing the blue and purple tubes snaking through her body. Anne didn’t like that her Mother had to push a button for a nurse to come help her take a dump. Anne didn’t like the fact that when it came down to it, she was the one that would have to pull Mother’s plug.

But maybe, if she was to be honest for a second, learning the truth about the accident would make that easier.

“Mother, please,” Anne pleaded, her fingers intertwined with her Mother’s near-skinless phalanges. “Tell me about the accident. I’m a grown woman now and you can trust me.”

Mother expelled a wad of mashed potatoes from her throat with one forceful cough. The unswallowed morsels splatted against the lampshade and hung there like maggots on shit. “You,” she wheezed, hacking up a tawny membrane of gooey phlegm for dessert. “You were the accident.”

[originally written 4-4-09. Happy Flashback Friday.]

They all stared in aw, as Penelope smiled and hopped around. “Wait we shouldn’t be happy, we should be mad at Penelope,” Amethyst remembered.

“Well actually Penelope was trying to help us,” Garnet implied.

“Uh huh. Sure,” Amethyst snapped.

They all stared down at Penelope, they then picked her up and walked away. They walked back to the trail to keep their adventure going. “So we’re about 10 minutes away from your house right, Amethyst?” Pearl asked.

“Well actually 10 minutes and 26 seconds.” Amethyst mimicked Garnet.

“Hey! Well actually we’re 10 minutes 23 seconds away now, so ha!” Garnet came-back.

“How bout’ you shut up!” Amethyst screamed.

“How bout’… NO!” Garnet squawked.

“Girls. Girls. Calm do-”

Garnet jumped Amethyst before Pearl could finish her sentence. Garnet started to punch Amethyst right in the cheek bone. It took about-

“7 minutes and 26 seconds before we finished fighting,” Garnet interrupted.

Shut up Garnet, I’m speaking as you can see. So as I was saying it took about-

“7 minutes and 37 seconds before we finished fighting,” Amethyst also interrupted.

Okay now shut up both of you.  It took about 7 HOURS, 2 minutes, and 45 seconds before they finished fighting. When they finished beating up each other, they kept walking, Penelope disappointed, Amethyst wounded, Garnet angry, Pearl proud. They walked past the Fairy Clubhouse. It was theirs but since half of them are angry at each other, they would burn it down.

“Okay, should we burn this down?” Pearl insisted.

“Well, why not.” Amethyst grinned.

Pearl had the lighter and looked at Scarlet.

“Hey Scarlet want to burn it down?” Pearl asked.

Scarlet shrugged and went up to grab the lighter. She lit it up, then started to cry. She walked away from the club house and threw the lighter and hit Garnet in the head. Garnet was asleep, then she woke up.

“Scarlet you’ve been awfully quite today what happened?” Pearl whispered to Scarlet.

“Well… I… am… SICK!” Scarlet cried.

“Oh-oh, sick by what?” Amethyst peeped.

… a moment of silence broke through, as the girls walked and stared at Scarlet. They had wide puppy eyes, like a 5 yr old would have on his face when he wants something.

“Well, I have leukemia. I will live,” Scarlet sighed.

“No you won’t! We need to get you a doctor!” Pearl cried.

“I’ll be fine, just.. calm down,” Scarlet insisted.

“No you won’t,” a familiar voice came in.

To Be Continued…

Pee Wee’s Big Adventure is one of my favorite movies of all time, and one of probably only three that I ever quote from. (The amount of times I’ve referenced the Alamo on this blog alone is really pathetic.) I had so much fun painting this and kind of don’t want to part with it.

One of my most vivid childhood memories is sitting in the family room of my house in South Park, watching this on HBO with my bff Christy who lived down the street, and asking her what “scenery” meant because Mickey tells Pee Wee to just enjoy the scenery. She explained it perfectly well but my kindergarten brain couldn’t comprehend it. It seemed like such a complicated concept.

Scenery.

I was a dumb kid.

Anyway, I just really love painting birds on wires, so this just felt very natural to me. Methodical and cathartic, especially while the Penguins were getting slaughtered last night by the Bruins. :(

I have some more custom paintings on tap (I keep saying I’m going to take a break and then a request comes in and I can’t say no!) but then I’m going to start one called The Pittsburgh Zoo, a painting of various famous Pittsburghers with animal bodies (like the Buscemi and John Water ones).

Probably Mr. Rogers, Mario Lemieux, Sophie Maslof, Andy Warhol, and God only knows who else.

NO STEELERS THOUGH.

In other news, I’m drinking blueberry cobbler coffee and it feels like warm arms enveloping my broken soul.

This has been a quick update posted from my phone.

My friend Alisha recently brought up the time she and I sang some Spice Girls song during Blogathon one year, because someone (my friend Alyson, I believe) donated extra to have this happen. 

Blogathon was this incredibly annoying but super fun and rewarding event where people stayed up blogging for 24 hours, in an effort to raise money for the charity of their choice. Participants had to post twice an hour and even though I always said “NEVER AGAIN!” after hitting publish for the 48th time in 24 hours, I’d always sign up again the next year. 

But then whoever was charge of the organization gave it up and no one took over, so no more Blogathon. 

Anyway, Alisha posting that Spice Girls video made me super nostalgic and this picture immediately came to mind: 

  This was from one of the Blogathons (2009 maybe?) where people donated a certain amount in order to command Henry to do things, such as pose with a fried egg on his head, and suck on a lollipop while wearing his hair in pigtails. This one was just him being served beer by Alisha in a tutu which was excruciating for her because ALISHA BOWS TO NO MAN.  

My favorite part of Blogathon is that my friends were always on call to cheer me on: Alisha, Kara, Evonne, Blake, Corey—we had some good fucking times churning out words and poor, REALLY POOR, karaoke. 

Now I’m depressed. 

Alisha, next time you’re back in Pittsburgh, we’re pulling an all-nighter for absolutely no reason. 

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I was sitting cross-legged on my bed, talking on the phone to my on-and-off again boyfriend Justin when my mom burst into my room and shrieked the words that would forever rattle in my brain with all the other loose screws. I spent the rest of the night filling my Composition book with orange-inked screams, denouncing God and making promises to the devil.  

Teenaged angst mixed with true tragedy is one volatile recipe, guys. Look out. 

  
That one moment in time completely changed the course of my life. I didn’t understand how my Pappap could suddenly be dead when I was just at his house earlier that evening, and he seemed fine. He was sitting on his Reserved For John spot on the couch, talking to someone on the phone about business as usual. 

  
He was alive, and then he wasn’t. 

 In his element: manning the grill during the copious cookouts and pool parties we had every summer. 

I credit my friends and teachers for helping me get through the aftermath. My friends Lisa and Christy, especially. And I don’t think it’s random that while so many other friends have come and gone, they’re still here. They walked with me through the deepest trauma of my life and made sure I didn’t sink. This day is making me think of so many things and I am so glad that I wasn’t alone then. 

  
Not a day goes by that I don’t think of him, how he was taken from us abruptly, on a fluke, and I certainly don’t miss him any less than I did in 1996. But I think what I miss most about him, is his uncanny, effortless knack to hold our family together, like sane, stable mortar between our crazy, cracked bricks.   He was the greatest father figure to me. He was my goddamn hero.   

Finally, they made a video for my favorite song on their album. Ouch, my black fucking heart of coal. 

:(

My plan today was to come home from work, boss Henry around, and then at some point blog about various weekend things that didn’t involve me puking or buying holy light fixtures. But then I watched last night’s mid season premier of The Walking Dead and now I’m dead. All the ghost of  me feels like doing is posting pictures of cats, so that’s what is going to happen. Maybe the church lamp will resurrect me sometime during the night and Alive Erin will waste your time with other, non-cat-related things. 

Mostly just pictures of crackhead Drew this round. 

 She spent a good hour tearing around the house yesterday with a fortune cookie wrapper stuffed in her mouth like some sort of take-out dinner dessert mouse. She ran around growling, like anyone of us cared enough to take her treasure from her. This is exactly the kind of behavior that Marcy frowned upon. 

   
 Right after Henry told her she’s not allowed beer. 

Oh wow, shocking, even in my supernatural state, I can’t stop spewing bullshit. So in other before-I-died news, Chooch is angry because Henry bought me cherry pie yesterday since I was sick and apparently when Chooch is sick, Henry never buys him pie. 

“You never ask for pie…?” Henry answered tentatively, because like with me, you never know what you’re going to get when verbally sparring with Chooch. Earlier this evening Choochaccused me of saying “either” when I clearly said “neither”! AND YES, IT WAS THE PROPER USAGE. Oh, it was a fucking war up in here. 

Ok fine. I want to talk about lamp one more time because I’m obsessed with it and also terrorified of it. Henry actually hung it in our bedroom yesterday instead of leaving it in the middle of the floor to be tripped over for 7 months. I guess the power of Christ compelled him. 

  
We were talking about it at work today and of course Glenn had all of these boring technical questions about how Henry hung it (or how Henry’s hung LOLOLOL) and I was like, “Dude I don’t know? He took down our other light thing and then put this one in the ceiling?” And then Glenn used some man-word and I was like, “yeah sure, that’s what he did.” Glenn seemed impressed that Henry can do electrical things so now I’m picturing Glenn cutting down trees for the cabin that he and Henry are going to build together, and then Henry can make it light up with his electrician skills. 

As I’m typing this, the cats just collided with each other in mid-air and both dropped straight down to the floor, like a fucking cartoon. As long as they quit breaking my stuff, I don’t care what they do. BUT LEAVE MY FUCKING SUCCULENTS ALONE. 

You know how some people can be together for a decade+ and still want to swathe themselves in sequins and put on matching UNDERGARMENTS for Valentines Day? Henry and I are not that couple. In fact, I can’t remember the last time Henry wore sequins. :( So I don’t even stress over February 14th anymore. Especially after I baked him a cake one year and painted him an adorable ode to our polarizing feelings on music festivals, and he never does anything for me. NOT BITTER. Not even a little bit.

This year, my Valentine is Chooch, and we’re spending it with Never Shout Never at Mr. Small’s.

But then yesterday, Chooch ended up having his own pre-Valentines play date, so Henry was like, “Well, do you want to go to dinner or something?” SUCH ROMANCE!!

I decided that since this was the best he was going to do in the Valentine department, that we should go to Zenith since it’s my favorite and he never wants to go because he has it in his head that it’s a breeding ground for “pale, peaked* vegan hipsters.”

*(Pee-kid, not peeked—don’t get it twisted!)

His exact words. I have rarely encountered this human subset at Zenith, but full disclosure — I’ve never been there for their Sunday brunch so for all I know, that’s when all the vampire-complected Bon Iver fans come out to play, half-decapitated on their infinity scarves.

It’s almost as though I majored in Stereotyping.

We got there sometime after 5 because we’re nearly at earl-bird status, and I was smug to point out that there were only three other tables of patrons there, and none of them were boasting any offensive air of pretension about them.

One Man, Four Cups.

I’m not a big tea-drinker, but one of the things I always have to do at Zenith is order from their extensive tea menu. It’s part of the process! Kara will tell you. She knows. If I had spent half the time studying textbooks as I do that fucking tea menu…well, I’d still be in the same position I’m in now. Never mind. I forgot that I didn’t get far in life because of a different kind of stupidity. Hahahaha. Oh god.

I was torn between the Earl Grey Lavender and Maple Vanilla, so I asked the waitress for her opinion. She got all stressed out and called over to the proprietor, Elaine, for help.

“I don’t do anything lavender,” Elaine brusquely called over, scrunching up her nose. “So yeah, Maple Vanilla.” Elaine is my homegirl so I went with her choice, and it was a smart one because I’m currently chugging my Sunday morning coffee and crying that there’s no maple.

Elaine brought the pot over to our table. “Now, don’t pour this right away,” she said. “I mean it! I tell people all the time that it’s not ready, and then I go back in the kitchen and I can SEE them pouring it! I’m like, it’s gonna taste like crap!” God, I fucking love her.

OMG it’s a salad. You’ve never seen a salad before. Henry had to finish mine because I’m really picky with salads.

“Look at those lamps back there,” Henry casually pointed out, and I gave myself whiplash in my attempt to beat all of the invisible people around us in a race to see it first. Up in the corner, there were two majestic holy lamps dangling like carrots, begging me to buy them.

“YOU HAVE TO ASK HOW MUCH THEY ARE!” I cried, to which Henry responded with his patented “get real” smirk. I mean, why else would he point these out to me if he didn’t secretly desire to furnish our home with them!?

“I bet they’re $100 a piece,” he quietly guessed, before stabbing the rest of my salad with his fork.

“Well, you could be wrong!” I frantically said. “I thought that our wheelchair was going to be $500 and it was only $40!”

“Why would you think that wheelchair was FIVE HUNDRED DOLLARS?” Henry asked in disbelief. Because I’m an idiot, OK? Is that what you want to hear?! The value of the dollar confuses me.

Meanwhile, on Facebook, Kara was 100% encouraging this purchase. It’s a wonder that Henry hasn’t tried to get me to stop being friends with Kara yet. (Jokes: No man controls my life.)

Our waitress reported back that the lamps were $80 for one, $150 for the pair. Henry thanked her and kept shoveling food in his mouth without giving me a definitive answer and I was losing my mind.

I was annoyed that Henry ordered the Moroccan stew, because that’s what I ordered and I wanted him to get the seitan so we could share. He’s so fucking selfish. He apparently didn’t “feel like seitan and asparagus” on this night. At least he ordered a different kind of vegan cake though, so we could share the chocolate blueberry and strawberry almond. Seriously, there are times when I consider stopping by just for tea and cake. Their actual food is always good, but those cakes. Those goddamn cakes.

Maybe I should have my birthday party there this year.

Meanwhile, guess whose puppy-dog eyes won the war of the majestic holy lamps!? I think once I cried, “IT CAN BE THE FIRST FUCKING VALENTINES DAY PRESENT YOU’VE GIVEN ME IN 10 YEARS,” he was overcome with guilt and decided that $80 was a small price to pay for an evening free of me pouting, slamming doors, and breaking glass objects.

So this guy came out with his ladder and Henry was all upset  because he didn’t want the man to have to do this during dinner hours and kept saying, “I’ll just tell him we can come back for it” but I was like, “You shut your face, he looks very happy to be shoving tables out of the way and untangling wires.”

(He kind of didn’t.)

But I needed to leave with that lamp that night. I had already imprinted with it.

“Where the fuck are we even going to put this?” Henry asked, the regret of pointing the lamps out in the first place rising up in his eyes like mercury in a thermometer.

“In our bedroom, duh.” It’ll be the perfect complement to the crucifix collection I’m starting on the wall behind our bed. Sometimes he just doesn’t think.

Here’s Henry acting like a Big Help by doing nothing more than standing with arms akimbo.

“Now you screwed us all up!” Elaine joked, standing by the kitchen door as Henry walked back to the table with one of the lamps. Now they had to find another lamp for that corner. But that’s what happens when everything in your restaurant is for sale, I guess! Anyway, they said it’s from Woolslayer in Bloomfield, whatever that means.

My favorite part of Zenith has always been the post-meal store perusing. This was way less fun with Henry. He wouldn’t try any of the vintage dresses on for me like Kara does. :(

On again, off again.

I don’t think there has ever been a time I visited Zenith and left without taking a picture in this bathroom.

There were other things that I wanted to buy but Henry had that steely look of DON’T EVEN etched all along his weathered face, so I just figured that I’ll wait for the next time I’m there with Kara.

“You should have bought them both,” I said on the way home, knowing as soon as the words came out of my mouth that it was going to stir the pot in a big way.

“You’re never happy!” Henry cried. “You get one, you want two. If you got two, you’d want three!”

He’s not wrong.

****

I started writing this post last night, but then I was interrupted by an evening of violent vomiting. Henry thinks it was food poisoning since I woke up feeling fine; not food poisoning from Zenith though, because we both ate the same things. “It’s probably whatever you had for lunch,” he suggested with a tinge of accusation in his tone. This is a strong possibility, considering I made my own lunch and god only knows what goes on when I step into a kitchen.

However, what I think actually happened is that I brought something home with that lamp, some type of holy spirit, and it literally was exorcising me last night. Thank you, lamp. I feel less demonic than usual today.

After exploring La Hütte Royal last Saturday, Corey, Kara and I ended our cultural afternoon with PB&Js at Peanut Butter Jelly Time in Bloomfield. 
  

Mean muggin’ apple juice chuggin’

This spot is relatively new and we all felt #soblessed to be there, especially after Corey was almost vehicularly manslaughtered in the parking lot by a man who had even less ability than me to park his damn car. 

Peanut Butter Jelly Time is very tiny (I think there were only six tables?) but the people behind the counter were genuinely friendly and didn’t make me feel like a poser like I oft feel in Bloomfield/Lawrenceville— Pittsburgh’s Little Portland. We took menus back to a table and stressed over what to order for a good fifteen minutes. Corey ended up going with a classic Elvis: PB, bananas and bacon, which came with a story about how one morning before preschool, he was at our grandma’s watching Nick Jr and “Face” was eating a PB&banana sandwich so our grandma made one for Corey, and that was his first foray into the dreamscape of peanut butter sexin’ with the ‘nanas. Cool story, bro.

(No seriously, I really did enjoy it!)

Corey also got a carton of apple juice which was endlessly funny to Kara and me because it JUST WAS OK. It was such a small, child-sized carton and Corey is like a giant. How he made that last for more than 2 sips is beyond me. 

Kara ordered a PB&J calzone which wasn’t even a real calzone, but made on flatbread with a variety of fruit and honey shoved up in there. 

And I ordered something with Princess in the name, because it came with SPRINKLES. Also it was on Cinnabon bread, which was delightful. But dammit, our sandwiches weren’t oversized slabs of Americana like I anticipated, but just standard Wonder Bread-girth. 

Which was fine, but with a side of 10 animal crackers & a bottle of water, my lunch was close to $10. 

And I was still really hungry afterward!

So was Kara!

Corey seemed fine because he’s not forever fat like me or training for the full marathon like Kara. WHATEVER. 

How have I never thought to garnish my sandwiches with sprinkles before? I did go through a phase about three years ago where I sprinkled mini-Cheezits on my peanut butter sandwiches. DONT KNOCK IT. 

But honestly, the best part was just hanging out and catching up, especially because Kara and I rarely get that opportunity! 

Cute concept, friendly PB&J artisans, and it tasted good but this honestly wasn’t anything I couldn’t just walk into my kitchen and make myself. 

“Oh please, like you would ever ‘walk into the kitchen’ and make one yourself,” Glenn grumbled the following Monday when I was reviewing my lunch for all of my SUPER ENRAPT co-workers. 

I mean…true. But if I did, it would have tasted the same because none of their ingredients were like, churned in the basement. Tasted just like Jif and Smuckers to me! AND I HAVE THOSE IN MY KITCHEN RIGHT NOW. 

AND MARSHMALLOW FLUFF. 

I’m going to recreate this tomorrow. Bitch, watch me. (And in that episode, the role of Erin will be played by Henry J.)

  
It might be 18 degrees right now, but the semi-mild weather on Sunday filled me with hope that I’ll be riding roller coasters and having ice cream drip down my chin in no time. 

IN NO TIME. 

I’ve been combatting the blustery blahs by basically ensuring that I have no down time. Last night I stayed up until 1am making work Valentines and cracking up like a lunatic — and it helped!  

I made 19 others because I have no life. 

The Penguins losing this game against the Rangers right now does NOT help.   

Watching these two act like fools? That helps. 

Henry buying me Artifex Pereo’s “Time In Place” on vinyl? Also helps.

The other night, I put on a new jack swing Spotify playlist and lip-synched dramatically in Henry’s face because that’s just who I am, and then I started rearranging the bedroom (again) while laying in bed. I came up with a solution to the lack of storage.

“Here’s something to consider and by that I mean this is what’s going to happen: you’re going to move all of your clothes into the attic. You can share The Man In the Attic’s closet!” 

Henry’s shit is still in my room and it’s been like 3 days since my proposal. (LOL not that kind.)

Yesterday at work, Amber2 brought up conjoined twins and we mused over what it would be like if I was a conjoined twin. “I wonder what my other one would be like?”

“Normal,” Amber said with no hesitation whatsoever. 

“I was thinking the same thing,” Glenn said, like he was a part of the conversation suddenly. He even chuckled, kind of. Shut up Glenn. Then he said my other would probably be a carnivore and we spent way too much time thinking about that.  

  
All Drew and Penelope do is eat and destroy my stuff. 

I recently realized that the Emarosa show we’re going to in Lancaster is on Easter weekend and I’m so relieved because for once we won’t have to scramble for Easter plans this year. I have such a love/hate for holidays because of the whole “nowhere to go, nothing to do” conundrum. But this year we’ll be out of town, woo! And it suddenly occurs to me that we should make Emarosa AN EASTER BASKET. Dumb or amazing???

I’m too full of February to write anything else right now. 

  
I can’t tell you how good it is to see Chooch’s cat void filled with these two fur-brats. 

That means, here are pictures of cats to cleanse your palate from my recent OMG SO SICK posts.

Drew is a spaz and totally outgoing. Chooch found a Kitkat wrapper in his pocket and she has been running around the house with it clenched in her mouth like it’s the fucking Hope Diamond.

Penelope is still leery of the whole thing. She really only lets us pet her when she’s too tired to run away. I slept on the couch the other night when I was OMG SO SICK and she slept on my legs so that was something. She and Drew are so different.

Chooch has been calling her Penope and Leslie Knope.

SHE’S SO CUTE AND I WANT TO CARRY HER AROUND IN A BASKET OF DAISIES BUT SHE WON’T LET ME, WTF.  

Henry acts like he’s so annoyed that there are two destructive beasts in the house, but he totally loves it. Plus, they’re not nearly as destructive as me and Chooch. So there’s that at least.

Thank god Chooch can wear all of his cat shirts now without feeling like a poser. It was a rough 10 months for him.

I’m feeling better now, at least enough to where I’m mobile, but now HENRY is apparently sick?! So typical of him. I just went upstairs and asked him how much longer he’s going to be sick because I have things I need him to do, and his response was a stuffed-up, “OMG REALLY?!” 

God, Sick Henry is rude as fuck.

Ok I thought I was getting better but I WAS WRONG. Please make my face stop hurting. Today is so frustrating!

Chooch is giving me Shaytards updates and I’m like honestly not listening because that family is a bunch of Fucktards. Why do people like them get Internet famous? I do not understand. Let’s be real. (If you don’t know who they are, I’m proud of you. Now google that shit so you can hate them with me.)

I want to shove eucalyptus rods up my fucking nose. Where can I buy those. 

Now Chooch is singing the Shaytard’s Christmas song to me and I think one of my ears is bleeding. I’m sorry ear. Would you like to commiserate with my nostrils? They’re dripping, too. 

I’m watching NHL All Star coverage but nothing exciting is happening right now other than PK Subban talking about his ugly AF plaid suit. 

Only one good thing has happened today and that is my Basement record was delivered. Here is a picture of Henry reading the newsletter that came with it, like he suddenly cares about the scene. Fuck you, Henry. 

  
I want a smoothie bowl that has carrot juice in it but it has to be pure carrot juice and Henry supposedly couldn’t find any at whatever back woods store he went to and is “too sick” to go to Whole Foods, etc. Then we fought for a bit about who is more sick and I won. 

“Here, I found a recipe for making your own carrot juice out of carrots in 14 easy steps, with pictures,” I said, chucking my phone into Henry’s chest. 

He tried to get me to choose a different smoothie bowl recipe but I WANT THE CARROT ONE.

He threw my phone back at me and muttered, “I guess I’m going to the store to get fucking carrots, because that’s what my life has been reduced to.”

I’m so delirious that I can’t tell if I’m laughing or crying right now. #hellhouse

  
LOLOLOL Henry’s back with carrots and looking so stoked on life. 

Henry’s currently in the kitchen, blending the carrots that he went out to buy after I threw a Sick Fit, which would have been prevented had he just gone the extra mile(s) to buy the carrot juice in the first damn place!!

How do the Flyers even have anyone in this All Star game? That team is so gross. However, I will happily visit their city in March when we road trip for the Emarosa show*. I can’t wait to eat their ice cream & donuts. Thanks for having SOME nice things to offer, Philly. 

*(The show is in Lancaster but I cried until Henry said FINE WE CAN ALSO GO TO PHILLY.)

I slept for 15 minutes. 

Henry just came in and sat down?! I asked him what’s the word on my smoothie bowl and he claims that he has to “let the carrots steep” whatever that means. I HATE TODAY. 

These Flex Seal commercials taunt me. I dream of buying a bucket of that tar shit and making myself & everything around me water-proof.

Henry just felt my forehead and claims that I don’t have a fever. Well, his hand is wrong because yes I do. Whose fucking grandma does he think he is, anyway.   

I WIN. 

I’d love to tell you the verdict but I can’t taste anything. I’m sick, remember?

BUT NOW I’M FREEZING. Smoothie bowls are cold. 

Henry is jawing off about allllll of the thinnnnnnngs he did today even though he was soooooo sickkkkkkk, so I started singing my Henry the Martyr jingle, but I’m all stuffed up still so I started coughing and choking and it was ruined, just ruined. Although now that I think about it, it kind of sounded like Frosty the Snowman so I guess the world isn’t really missing out after all. 

Now we’re talking about biker gangs but I can’t remember why. 

Earlier today, like probably around FIVE AM, one of these idiot kittens knocked over a succulent and spilled dirt all over the coffee table. Henry just now walked past it on his way to bed (it’s not even 10pm but he’s all “I’m sick and going to get rest like normal people do when they’re sick”), pointed to the dirt on the tablecloth and asked, “What are you going to do about this?”

“Wait for you to clean it,” I answered matter-of-factly. 

I mean, duh. 

Now I’m down here alone watching an Eagles doc and feeling sorry for myself. Hotel California always makes me think of sneaking out of the house in the middle of the night to meet my boyfriend Psycho Mike. I had to walk down some really dark creepy streets and there was this one house that always gave me Alice In Wonderland vibes and then right after that was an abandoned house that sat up a bit on a hill and screamed BATES MOTEL and I CANT TELL YOU WHY* any of this made me think of Hotel California but I went through a heavy Eagles phase as a teenage so get off my fucking back why don’t you. 

*(GET IT?!)

Joe Walsh was my least favorite Eagle. 

I still haven’t made a Glenn Frey RIP Glenn. (“You Belong To the City” forever.)

My mom used to go to aerobics classes when I was really little and one of the routines was to Don Henley’s “Dirty Laundry.” They did a move called the Taffy Pull (OMG THAT SONG IS PLAYING RIGHT NOW ON PART 2 OF THIS DOC) so I have a natural inclination to bust that out every time I hear that song, which I did not do right now because I’m typing on my dumb phone. 

Don Henley seems like a cunt though, doesn’t he. 

Today is Phil Collins’ birthday, FYI. 

I’m taking NyQuil and passing out, at which point I will probably dream of carrots dancing to Hotel California. Can’t wait. 

I’d be happy numbing just my face right now. 

I feel much better than I did yesterday but my face still feels slightly like Pangea breaking. I’m glad I didn’t have any plans this weekend because I think that critically acclaimed “rest” that everyone speaks so highly of might be what I should strive for. I don’t get sick very often so when I do, LOOK OUT. 

If there is one thing I don’t do well, it’s sitting around doing nothing. And it looks like it’s going to be a nice day! I feel like Timothy from Secret of NIMH.   

Whyyyyyyyyy. 

Today’s big question, other than the above Whyyyyyyyyy, is “How many episodes of Soap will I half-watch before I finally change the channel?”