I haven’t been in the mood to do much with my blog this week. Work has been busy, so I haven’t had much downtime to write while I’m there, and I’ve spent most of my mornings loudly listening to music and generally upsetting the cats’ nap schedule.

However, I did meet two old high school friends for breakfast on Thursday. I’ve seen Stacey since school, but this was the first time I’ve hung out with Mindy since senior year and that was a bit surreal (in a good way). They each brought their small baby-aged daughters, who behaved remarkably well. (I’m used to my kid, who was not always the best baby to take to restaurants; in fact, I never took him unless Henry was with me too. #spoiled) It’s not really a secret that I am horrible around kids, especially babies, so when Stacey said to her daughter, “Stay here with Miss Erin while I go get us food at the buffet,” my heart sort of seized up on me. And then when Mindy left her baby with me too, I squealed, “BOTH of them?!”

SPOILER ALERT: We all survived! None of us cried, even! Though we did all sit there, staring at each other in horror. But Mindy and Stacey eventually came back (I will be honest and say that I considered the fact that this could have been some sick, elaborate Runaway Mom plan) and all was right with the world again.

Until they fixated all of their attention on trivial matters, like feeding their babies, while I was left to sit alone with my coffee. Finally, I whined, “Guys, talk to me too!” And they laughed, but I was totally serious.

Stacey said she was going to go home and sit in fear, waiting for some mean and scathing blog post about our meet-up, but I promised her it wouldn’t be bad. Then after I thought about it for a second, I added, “You know, I think that’s why some people just won’t ever hang out with me, because they don’t want to be on my blog.”

But not because I’m annoying, obnoxious, socially awkward, pathetic and extremely attention-starved.

When we were paying, Stacey suggested that I buy something to take home for Henry. (Because she, along with 90% of my Facebook friends, feels sorry for him.) So I did, because I thought it would be fun to watch his face become awash with suspicion.

“What do you think he’ll say?” Mindy asked.

“Either, ‘What did you do to it’ or ‘What garbage can did you pull this out of?'” I said. But instead, you know what he said? “Ew, a bear claw? Seriously? Are you trying to make me fat?”

JESUS, I JUST CAN’T WIN.

In other news, I got to have breakfast with Barb and Wendy today! It was so good seeing Barb. (And Wendy too, but god, I see her every day!) I don’t know when Barb is going to be back to work, but it sucks there without her. Someone asked me for a post-it the other day, and of course I have like zero office supplies in my desk because why would a secretary-type person like myself actually have office supplies in her desk?

“Sorry, I’m no Barb Riley,” I answered, and Lee thought this was the best answer ever and wants me to tape that underneath my name on my desk now.

It’s true though!

Barb said she’s proud of how far I’ve come in her absence. I mean, sure, I still have to ask for the occasional assistance in opening my Crystal Light packets, and I just learned that the extra faucet in the office kitchen is for filtered water! (Whoever would have thought!?) But I haven’t completely withered away and I’m (kind of) dealing with things like an adult, but only because I’ve had no choice. Who else there will coddle me!? No one, that’s who.

Chooch has another ear infection so we didn’t go skating today. My only plans are to go to Hot Topic to but the new Hands Like Houses CD, sit and watch Henry make some of my non compos cards to sell at the National Haunt Convention in Philly this May, look at pictures of my Ginger King Jonny Craig and continue to block out the bagpipes that are playing at a funeral across the street.

Also, the Warped Tour line-up so far is so fucking sick, I could die. I might try to go twice this summer. (I already requested off work for the Pittsburgh date—IN DECEMBER.) But seriously, Pierce the Veil, The Used, Taking Back Sunday, Sleeping With Sirens, AND Of Mice and Men? Goddamn, this is a 16-year-old’s wet dream. I keep trying to get Henry to say he’s stoked, but he doesn’t reply to any of my texts anymore. Too many Jonny Craig shout-outs, I guess.

Sorry this has been all over the place, but well, so is my brain.

[I have not decided on the theme for this year’s Easter pictures yet, but here are last year’s again.]

We stopped at Goodwill beforehand to snag a plain white buttondown and some dress slacks (which turned out to be a womens pair) for Blake. I found some paisley piece of shit thing that we attempted to use as an ascot.

Too bad none of us knew how to tie an ascot.

Immediately after walking into Goodwill, Henry was accosted by some older man (older even than Henry, if you can fathom). Apparently, they knew each other. Their discourse was not interesting enough to massage my eavesdropping gene, so I very huffily scoured the racks on my own.

“Who is that man Daddy’s talking to?” I asked Chooch, who was bouncing back and forth between me and the conversating rejects.

“I don’t know, Outrageous, I think.”

Turns out it was Regis, whoever the fuck that is.

I decided we should take some “safe” pictures at the cemetery before introducing the blood and bones into the mix, just so I’d have something to show one of the boss-types at work, who has no idea what actually goes on around here.

We then went to my grandma’s for the action shots, because, well, it’s gloomy as shit back there now. I had major anxiety being there, though, since my Aunt Sharon is crazy-weird about people stopping by. We parked the car in the upper driveway and prayed for the best, trying to stay as far away from the actual house as possible.

“Try not to get any on my undershirt,” Blake said as we stood near a large tree stump, opening packets of Ketchup procured from McDonald’s. “It’s a vintage Penguins shirt.”

I expressed my approval at his hockey-geared fashion sense.

“It’s from 1991,” he stressed.

BITCH THAT’S NOT VINTAGE. Shit, I can’t remember the last time I felt so old. Perhaps when I was called MA’AM at a Chiodos show. That’ll do it.

“It’s vintage to him,” Henry argued. “It’s from the year before he was born.”

DOUBLY OLD FEELING.

Just another normal day at Grandma’s house.

Blake in any type of animal mask scares the shit out of me. I need to buy more animal masks.

Chooch was getting sincerely irritated by this point.

He’s good for the first few minutes, but then the novelty of being bossed around and forcibly positioned in ridiculous and absurd stances kind of starts to piss him off a bit. These are probably the moments he wishes he had a normal mom who just take him to the fucking mall and pay for a regular Easter portrait with a blood-free Easter bunny like all the kids in his class get to do.

I was on the phone today, and mistakenly let it slip to Chooch that it was Sharon on the other end. Raising his voice approximately eighty-seven octaves and acquiring an obnoxious lilt, he yelled, “TELL HER WHAT WE DID YESTERDAY AT HER HOUSE! TELL HER!” and I’m trying, one-handed, to use on him the things I learned last night at Zombie Defense Class, but his little-big mouth just kept flapping.

Fucking turncoat. Like he didn’t know what he was doing.

Henry couldn’t take me to work yesterday. You know me, of course I got myself all worked up into a sweaty frenzy by the time I made it to the trolley stop, but at least I got to ride the T with these two sweethearts, who would NEVER hit an uncircumcised penis, FOR YOUR INFORMATION.

And by hit, I believe they mean “swaddle with their vaginas.”

The fact that I couldn’t actually see the pink-haired broad’s nips leads me to believe that she didn’t have any, but then someone at work pointed out that her jugs were so big, they could have been ROLLED UNDER. Oh the sting of bile against my esophagus.

She sat down and immediately started taking blatant tit-pics, which she was texting to some perv who obviously has a host of sick sexual kinks. He apparently was texting cock-shots back, which spawned the aforementioned circumcision convo with her friend who has burn marks all over her arms and is pregnant, of course.

Also, Pinkie talks about: chicken and biscuits; being A BIG GIRL (she declared this 9 times with a puffed-out chest; yes, put your imagination on a hamster wheel for that one); the Eat n Park breakfast buffet with such relish &  drool that you’d think it was the east coast sister restaurant of Dan Tana’s; Pinkie is also very forthcoming (& loud) about her private piercings (“Well, when I got my PUSSY PIERCED…”), causing every male head on the T to snap to attention. (But not in a “That’s hot” way.)

I guess what I’m trying to say is, I know I can be crass and vulgar at times, but these bitches and their raunchfest were making me feel like a motherfucking nun. I can’t even imagine being that filterless in such an enclosed public space. I don’t even like talking on my phone in public!

And at least I wear clothes that fit me.

The highlight for me, even moreso than when she flashed her whale tail at the last stop, was when Pinkie stood up and started singing SWV’s whiny mid-90’s R&B hit “I Get Weak,” grinding against invisible club goers, who hopefully had enough decency to puke their invisible vomit in her breast basin.

God, I felt like a WASP compared to them. Nothing beats being in a 10-foot vicinity of ghetto white trash to put things into perspective for me. BY GOLLY MY LIFE AIN’T SO BAD YA’LL.

I have been watching Desperate Housewives since the beginning—I know you’re shocked that I watch something that’s not on MTV, or that I watch something age-appropriate at all.

One of the characters was killed off last week and the funeral/flashback episode was last night. This particular character has always kind of reminded me of Henry because he’s always fixing shit for everyone on the street, not to mention he’s the voice of reason for his flighty wife. He’s basically just the kind of guy everyone should have in their life. So watching these flashbacks and the eulogy, it made me super-depressed to the point where my stomach was upset from all the sobbing, because all I could think about was Henry dying.

And how fucked I’m gonna be.

“Do you have life insurance?” I asked him last night. He said yes (NEWS TO ME), and then I panicked and decided that we need to make our Wills immediately. (We were supposed to do this when I was pregnant, but then I became too caught up in belt-sanding my palate with assorted gummy candy, crying in defeat over stretch marks and the unnerving sensation of being wish-boned, and daydreaming of all the creative ways to castrate Henry for causing me such duress.)

“How will Chooch and I survive?!” I wailed. “We’re going to be eating gas station jerky and wearing soiled burlap sacks as clothes.” And then after a beat, I blurted out, “Your mom will have to come live with us.” Best solution ever.

“It’s nice to know you have me dying before my mother,” Henry mumbled, not thrilled at all that instead of me “repaying” him for that day’s amazing flea market purchase, we were sitting on the couch, me drenched in tears and burrowing into his side, talking about death.

“You should get a work-from-home job,” I said desperately. “I don’t want you going out there anymore!” I waved my arms toward the front door.

I was still rambling on about this as we got ready for bed.

“I mean, I feel like you would protect me from the elements—”

“The elements?” Henry laughed.

“—from life, and you know, myself. But I don’t feel like you’d fight for me.

” (Clearly I was still comparing him to dead Mike Delfino.)

“Really?” he asked, a little surprised.

“Yeah, because you’re not a fighter.”

“Well, no, I’m not going to go out and look for fights—-”

I started cracking up.

“What?” he asked with trepidation.

“Nothing, I’m just picturing you in a red leather jacket, on a dock at night, looking for fights.”

[Laughing Interlude.]

“What if you came home and someone was raping me?” I suggested, always up for a good scenario or two. “Would you fight them?”

Henry sounded slightly offended when he answered, “Um, yeah, I think if I found someone raping you, I’d fight them.”

“WHAT IF THEY STABBED YOU?!”

“I don’t know! Do you want me to shoot them? I’ll shoot them. But then I’d have to go in the basement, get the shotgun, go to the store and get shells, come home, put the gun together—-”

“Wait, you have a gun?!”

MORE NEWS TO ME.

Henry’s going to have to start teaching me things about life, like how to do laundry (I forget, OK?!) and cook things that aren’t from the freezer section, maybe I could stand to learn how to iron clothes….Oh my god, I don’t want Henry to die. I’m going to curl up with Marcy and cry about it some more.

Thanks a lot, Desperate Housewives.

Who else is gonna make sure I don’t drink bleach?! No one, that’s who. :(

Way too nice outside to sit around blogging today, so I’m closing out the weekend with some posts from my makeup-lovin’ friends! I’ll be back tomorrow to show you the coolest thing ever I got at the flea market today, OMG you’ll just die. (Except that you won’t, unless you REALLY like religious shit.)

****

Claire is starting a new project at Claire’s Beauty and wants your help!

RSVP to Bekka’s Birthday Party Giveaway at glostix! Open internationally!

Just in time for St. Patrick’s Day, Stephanie’s been playing with green and orange yarn at From Star Stuff.

Karoliina’s having a giveaway to celebrate a hundred followers! Go toBones and Lilies and leave a comment for a chance to win!

I’m kind of a dick and barely ever mention Marcy’s daughter (and Don’s sister) Willie. She’s always been kind of the wild card out of the bunch: skittish, spent most of her life hiding from people, a loose cannon as far as temperament goes. Henry hates her because she attacked him out of the blue years ago and he apparently holds grudges.

A few weeks ago, I noticed she hadn’t come out after Chooch went to school (they all come out after Chooch goes to school). I saw her once, just a brief flash of her, that day and then before I went to bed that night I found her laying on the bathroom floor, panting.

The next day, she let Chooch pet her which was the biggest sign ever that something was wrong, bigger even than the fact she wasn’t eating.

Henry and I took her to the vet, who gave us the defeatist version and basically had us thinking the next step was euthanasia.

“We’ll load her up on fluids, give her some vitamin and antibiotic shots, along with some more antibiotics for you to give her at home, and if there is no improvement, well…..”

So of course I’m standing in the exam room, sobbing, and telling her, “I just lost a cat in December!!!” like that is going to matter or change anything.

I wasn’t very optimistic after that, and even two days later when Willie seemed to be more mobile and shedding her death bed demeanor, I was afraid to get my hopes up; the vet said all the fluid they gave her would perk her up for a day or two, so it didn’t necessarily mean she was better. But Henry and I diligently administered the medicine to her everyday (a daunting task, she is way meaner than Marcy and almost feral-like in her temperament) and now, two weeks later, she appears to be normal again! Her appetite is back and Marcy isn’t hissing at her anymore.

They’ve even resumed taking naps together.

I feel that Willie and I bonded a little during this time (even though she bit me THROUGH MY THUMB the first day I tried to give her medicine), therefore I owe her some facetime on here. Sorry for neglecting you, Willie!

I just love her so much.

But she only loves Henry so much. :(

The Mattress Factory is a contemporary art museum in Pittsburgh that I try to visit at least once a year because it’s cheap (used to be free with my Pitt ID), fun, bizarre, and at times — perplexing. My brother Corey has never been there so I was stoked to accompany him for his first visit. I taunted Henry before we left, trying to m ake him jealous, but the expression he gave me shouted, “Yeah, just what I want to; go watch you and your brother be obnoxious art dicks.”

There is usually at least one installation that makes me angry because I don’t get it and I REALLY WANT TO GET IT because that will aid my cause for pretentiousness.

This time it was some exhibit with two videos of shutters being opened and closed, and large plastic bags randomly inflating.

There was a couple in the room with us and the boy was all, “Oh, I totally get this” and as he was explaining it to his girlfriend, I was like, “Awesome, I will just learn from him and pretend that I got it all along” except that everything he said was steeped in concepts that my brain refuses to let in because it is too full of ginger douchebag obsession, Jersey Shore anecdotes and lame office prank ideas.

I quickly realized that me and that guy could never, ever hang out. I could probably fake intellect and a love for Sufjan Stevens for about 9 minutes before he saw right through me to my screamo collection and trashy MTV reality show-filled DVR.

Breathing Bags*

*not the actual name of the exhibit. I am too tired to Google.

I really enjoyed the room full of plaster hands holding bread. This one I really did understand! It’s called “My Offering.” Here’s an excerpt from the artist’s statement, because suddenly I feel inspired to be a factual blogger:

I have not escaped the memories of the victims’ hands asking food and help in the aftermath of the Nagis cyclone that hit Burma’s delta in 2008. When my wife and I were doing relief work with other friends, I saw the many hands of people who were hungry for food, for safety, for kindness and for others. We continue to see countless hands like these all over the world today.

A bland room with a very clinical white-tiled floor held several clumps of found objects called “Roadkill.” I did not really understand this one too, but I almost accidentally stepped on a collection of tiny candle stubs because I wasn’t paying attention. This was one of the many installations that made me feel secure in my decision to say “NO! N-O spells NO!” when my 5-year-old Godzilla-footed son asked if he could come, too. Another experiment in child endangerment was the large wormhole that cut through the 4th floor and extended into a chute that went outside. Perfect size for a kid’s slide. SEE YA ON THE OTHER SIDE, SON!

I have no idea, but I will look at it and nod. 

I posted this on Facebook, and someone asked, “Your living room?” I wish!

This is my favorite installation, hands down. It’s called “It’s All About ME, Not You.” The artist, Greer Lankton, died in 1996 after the exhibit’s opening, and her family recently gave it to the Mattress Factory to be permanently displayed.

Imagine John Waters puked inside my head and then a transvestite artist drank from it. It is equal parts white trash, retro fabulous, creepy-queer and Valley of the Dolls. I want to live inside of it.

I wish I had known Greer Lankton because this small relic of her heart, brains and guts really moves me in a way that art rarely does.

 Honestly, I wish this was the last thing I saw every night before closing my eyes and the first thing every morning when I awoke. I am so smitten.

I LOVE THIS ROOM! IT MAKES ME SO HAPPY!!!

Corey was like, “Haha, there are so many of us!”

“It’s Henry’s worst nightmare!” I exclaimed, and then Corey and I erupted in our signature brand of gang-laughter.

When we emerged from the mirrored dot room and put our shoes back on, I sneered, “Nice penny loafers,” to Corey.

“Actually, they’re boat shoes,” Corey replied, matching my sneer and raising it one notch of indignation.

There is one permanent exhibit called Pleiades, which basically requires one to sit in absolute darkness. I have never had the patience to see what the outcome might be, but here is what the Mattress Factory says about it:

Pleiades, 1983
Permanent Installation
Drywall, paint, incandescent light
500 Sampsonia Way, 2nd floor

You approach the gallery through an inclined corridor so dark that you are virtually without sight. At the top of the ramp, you sit in a chair and face blackness. After your eyes adjust, an amorphous sphere of grey-white, or perhaps red, begins to appear, more a presence than an object. As you look harder, the form becomes smaller. You turn away for a moment and back again. It grows and glimmers. But the source of light itself is constant and still.

Art Critic and his girlfriend were already in this particular exhibition, probably practicing their dissertation on art and blindness, so Corey and I were told by a gallery employee standing next to a vintage British Airways bag that we would have to wait for them to finish being art douches.

Since we didn’t have any art to frown upon, fawn over, or openly mock, I decided to tell Corey about the night before, when I discovered that the only reason Chooch won’t eggs is because he can’t cut them. Henry’s reaction to this was, “I am NOT cutting eggs for him because then he is going to be 25 and still needing his food cut by someone, JUST LIKE YOU AND YOUR BROTHER!”

Corey laughed but then defensively said, “Hey, I was like, 14 when Henry had to cut my pork chops!” as if it’s perfectly masculine and acceptable for a 14-year-old male to need his protein cut for him. But then after a thoughtful pause, he admitted, “Although…I had to get  my girlfriend’s dad to cut my food recently.” The absurdity of how absolutely related we are made me crack up, and then he laughed loudly too, which echoed and ricocheted up the dark corridor and into the Pleiades room, totally disrupting the thoughtful banter between the art smarties that I am clearly making fun of only because I’m jelis that they have such a greater appreciation while I am left to stumble in their intellectual wake with undulating question marks floating above my head.

Finally, it was our turn, but we barely had a chance to feel around for our seats before two other people came tromping blindly up the corridor, thanks to British Airways not doing her job. So then we had the awkward task of trying to skirt past them in the dark without groping them. I felt the one guy’s breath on my neck, it was so intimate. I hope he was hot. His breath sure was.

Yay for overpriced shoddily crafted art in a cigarette machine! Corey actually wanted a body part key chain but then was all, “Well, I’m not paying $5 if I don’t know what kind of limb I’m getting.” Andrea can probably make him a better one, anyway.

At first I said, “Who would want a fruit cozie?” but then I realized I totally would, just to be a dick.

Another room that confused us, and was also extremely dangerous for equilibrium-challenged people like ourselves. It was essentially a small-scale construction site with lots of dangling steel beams and random ditches in the ground. Another terrific room for Chooch to roam free.

I love that Pee Wee was in the basement.

The Corey Installation

We decided that we should go more often. Maybe one day we can be real life art smarties!

Hello. I hope you’re having a non-murderous Sunday morning.

My contribution to the Internet today is a collection of links from my friends who like makeup way more than I do, but accept me anyway. I’d be using Sharpies on my face if not for them, so I guess you can basically say that they saved my life.

I left my own link in there in case you missed the orange post.

Anyway, if you’re like me and generally spend your Sundays locked in your bedroom pouting, now you have something to read in between scribbling death notes with your boyfriend’s blood!

Lizzy shares a few items that stole her heart in February at The Nature of Beauty

Luna wants to know what your favorite eye shadow primer is at TOXiD-LOTUS.NET

Jen put together a colorful collection of Meow Cosmetics swatches at The Everyday Opinionista

Karoliina wants to show off a lilac look done with Darling Girl Cosmetics at
Bones and Lilies

Orange things piss off Erin at Oh Honestly, Erin

Sharon swatched sparkly goodness from her Fyrinnae stash at Hello There, Blondie!

Stephanie kicks off the second round of Nerd Wars with tiny knitted hexagons of doom.

Claire uses some Brazen colors at Claire’s Beauty.

I know, I know – what’s up with all the old shit these days, right? Just feeling a tinge of nostalgia. I keep coming here to blog for real and then I get all distracted with old photos and Jonny Craig news. (The cats are being treated to his solo ep on repeat and LOUD today; aren’t you envious of them and their pulled-back ears?)

Anyway, this photo was taken in McKees Rocks, near Henry’s work. I remember when I originally posted the whole set in 2008, I got in all kinds of shit from townies who found my post and didn’t take too kindly to the fact that I was basically like, “LOOK I WAS IN THE GHETTO YOU GUYS!” because you know how fantastic I am at making snap judgments and being a wizard with stereotyping. I believe I was told by one McKees Rocks resident to “go back to Happy Valley and stay the FUCK out of our town!” and I was like, “OK THANKS I WILL GO BACK TO MY DUPLEX THAT ONCE HAD A CASUALLY-STREWN ROGUE NEEDLE BY THE DRIVEWAY!

”

(OMG maybe it was Jonny Craig’s!!!)

Then there was the time I posted about some guy who was arrested for shooting people at a bar right by where I took these photos and I called the guy a motherfucker, which really angered his ex-gf who found my blog and chewed me out about how “HE IS NOT A MOTHERFUCKER HE JUST GOT MIXED UP IN SOME SHIT OK REALLY!!!!” and back then I laughed really hard but now that I think about it, I’m fairly certain that’s how I come off when I defend Jonny Craig.

Man, I have had 2008 (and 2005) on the brain lately.

I think I need a vacation from my head.

For my regulars, I was just wondering what means you use to read my blog. Do you use a rss feed, subscribe through Networked Blogs, click through from Twitter, subscribe to the LiveJournal feed, read it covertly from your phone while you’re hiding from your wife in the bathroom, etc, etc.? Maybe you only read it after I hound you, bribe you, make sad puppy faces, or whine, “WHY DON’T YOU READ MY BLOG??” And that is fine, too.

I was just curious, because Google Friend Connect is about to be taken away from non-Blogger sites, which means if you follow me through that, I guess I will no longer count as a blogger in the eyes of Google as of March 1.

So here are some ways to keep up with me, if you want:

1. BlogLovin’

2. LiveJournal feed

3. Networked Blogs

4. RSS feed

5. Twitter (Be warned – this is mostly me talking to myself, being emo, and shouting things like YAY PENS! I LOVE HOCKEY!)

(I don’t do the email subscriptions anymore because HENRY kept breaking it.)

I’m on Google+ too but I never use it and am not smart enough to figure out how to use it for my blog.

I’m really bad at this side of blogging, so if there are any other ways to subscribe to this shit, I wouldn’t know. I’m too busy getting myself stoned at Chooch’s school and listening to Dance Gavin Dance.

Anyway, just let me know how you keep up with this thing. Or don’t let me know. Either way!

Since Kaitlin left the Law Firm last summer, I barely get to see her, so I was really excited when she planned a small get together at her house last night for me, Wendy and Mary. We were all bummed out that Barb isn’t well enough yet because anytime we talked about getting together, Barb was always supposed to be there, too. We miss you, Barb.

Henry was all, “Thank god, a Saturday night to myself!” but what he was really thinking was, “Goddammit, I’m going to be eating a can of tuna for dinner and god only knows what items from Valhalla’s menu Kaitlin is going to be feeding Erin’s fat face.”

Oh, just a gooey baked brie with delicious cookies, grilled cheese and the best tomato soup I’ve ever had in my life, some kind of warm parmesan dip stuff, mini crab cakes, and FRENCH SILK PIE WITH A PRETZEL CRUMB CRUST THAT LITERALLY MADE IT TASTE LIKE A CHOCOLATE COVERED PRETZEL PIE. What’s up, Henry?

I hope Kaitlin makes that a regular offering when she opens her bakery. (WHEN, not IF.)

Grilled Cheese army.

I think this was when Wendy was putting Chooch’s birthday party info into her phone so she doesn’t forget like she forgets everything else I invite her to!

OMG this pie, you guys. THIS PIE. I took a huge slice home and fed some to Chooch this morning, who literally closed his eyes and made the most mature “OMG THIS IS BANGIN'” face I have ever seen him make.

It was so awesome to get to spend time with Kaitlin, but then we were all sad again as soon as we walked down her front steps. Stuffed and sad. :(

Jenny Sodapop was up until 5am organizing her china pig collection when she began to wonder: I would like to know if Henry has any thoughts on comedian Sinbad.

Is he still around, didn’t really care for him when he was.

Jessi assumes that Henry is hip to young people games and wants him to answer: “Kill, Marry or Screw” for Betty White, Wilford Brimley, and Clay Aiken.

Kill Clay of course, Screw Wilford and Marry Betty.

Jessa needs to know for her upcoming young adult novel: If Henry had wings, what would they look like?

Elegant of course, Angel-like.

And what did he want to be when he was little?

I don’t remember. Maybe that’s the problem with me today, no direction.

What was his favorite subject in school?

Shop class of course.

If he could live anywhere in the world, where would he choose?

Somewhere warm that was only accessible by bus, Erin would never come visit me.

Chuck, imagining this is a sleepover, asks: What’s the whole story of when you were first De Flowered?

Very uneventful.

[I imagine sex with a Petroleum jelly-filled crackhead’s palm often is. You know he totally cried about it afterward.]

And finally there’s Kara, who was the only one brave enough to name-drop Jonny Craig in her question: Henry is on Chopped and his basket ingredients are asparagus, cheddar cheese, gummy worms, and Jonny Craig’s pubes. What does he make?

What ever it makes, when you’re done eating you’ll be addicted to heroin and a douche bag for life.

Wait! One last thing from me, your favorite girlfriend. I request an essay on your adventures at the Ted Nugent show. I want to know it all! What did you wear? Your bitchin’ Adidas shirt? WHO DID YOU GO WITH AND DID YOU BANG THEM AFTERWARD? Tell us all of it.

You have made way too much about this concert, absolutely nothing exciting happened. I believe it was before my drug experimenting days so I’m sure nothing happened.

[Ed.Note: Henry and I totally broke up over this.]

More later!

Here are some of my favorite photos, which you might be expecting if you read the title of this post. I’m not motivated to do much else today.

Not even roller skating!

I haven’t had time (or available suckers models) to take pictures lately. Hoping to change that tomorrow. I think I’m trying to do too much when I only have two arms.

I’m really whiny today. MY BACK HURTS AND I HAVE A HEADACHE!

THE PENGUINS ARE LOSING TO THE STUPID SABRES! I DISLIKE SUNDAYS! WAH.