Urgent. Will die without reading.

• 16:07 removed my phone from under my ass, noticed I was on hold w/ my friend Lisa & connected w/Janna. Ass-dialing, I’m a gold medalist. #
• 09:58 I need a spitoon for when I play poker. And then I need to learn how to play poker. #

• 15:28 HENRY JUST TURNED DOWN MY MUSIC. THIS is why he’s on my Asshole Parade t-shirt. #
• 15:48 Detective Henry is questioning the neighbors about the syringe I found outside. If he was on Days of Our Lives, he’d be in the ISA. #
• 16:21 Henry to me, with disgust: “calm down. Blake gets in the car and you lose 10 yrs.” #
• 17:02 Blake and I just unsuccessfully tried to find henry something fashionable to wear to a wedding. Henrys motto is DO NOT LIKE! #
• 17:07 twitpic.com/9her – YOU SUCK #
• 19:02 There’s a scene kid in my car! #
• 00:34 Sleepover at my house, holla. #
• 01:20 Watching MTV Hits with Christina while Blake is trying to sleep on the chair. Not as exciting as my riotous laughter makes it sound. #
• 11:26 Christina just admitted to being the equivalent of a 15-year-old boy. #
• 12:11 @GraveDirt Henry loves Sheetz restrooms! #

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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.

Urgent. Will die without reading.

• 09:38 Turns out the task force was doing a sweep for narcotics and prostitution yesterday. TOO CLOSE FOR COMFORT. #
• 10:23 Well good morning to you, syringe, laying on the side of my house. What a pleasant sight. #13:57 I’m going to put an ad on Craigslist: Pawn for hire. Then I’m going to put on my new sugar skull apron and bake poppyseed cake. #
• 17:46 This apron would look so much better if I had a torpedo bra. #
• 18:02 twitpic.com/98p3 – Evil in heels. #
• 18:32 The monster I birthed is sitting next to me and roaring DIE!! DIIIIIEEEE!! over and over. I’m effectively chilled. #
• 18:34 Tried to assure henry that I didn’t teach Chooch that; he made the Yeah Right face. #
• 10:35 Keep having dreams that I’m Lil Wayne’s shawty. #
• 11:58 Henry scoffed at me bc I’m wearing my apron. He asked when I’m going to start baking. I’m baking Valentine cards, is that not enuf? #

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“When are we going? Hello? When are we going? The carnival, when can it expect us?” For three days, I hounded Henry about some wimpy-assed fucking church carnival after we saw a sign for it.

“You know this is going to be a small thing, right? Probably not very many rides, if any,” Henry kept reminding me, probably hoping to change my mind. But my mind is unchangeable without something of equal or greater awesomeness to replace the void. And no one came knocking on my door, inviting me out to play with moon boots, so I remained fixated on the Saint Sylvester church carnival.

We got there around 6:30 and I immediately became aware that what this was, right here, this carnival, was really goddamn lame, a real sad affair. The rides weren’t running yet, so we cautiously followed the signs that promised us CRAFTS and FLEA MARKET, and led us into the church basement.

The CRAFTS were sparsely strewn amongst tables forming a small horse shoe on one side of the room. Taking over the rest of the room was a fucking holy picnic of some sort, with people straddling tables and shoveling haluski and other church food into there religious maws. We awkwardly circled around the crafts, not even pretending to admire, me saying something obnoxious, before returning to the Little Church Carnival That (Possibly) Could (If Father Would Go ‘Head and Order Those Belly-Dancing Pygmies).

After two seconds of taking in my surroundings, I realized that this wasn’t a carnival so much as an asshole parade. All the moms strutted around, haughtily greeting each other, their mauve eye shadow caked on in thirteen layers and pooling in their crow’s feet. I of course did not fit in. Especially when you consider the fact that I am not a parishioner of this or any church, other than the church whose bell tolls in my head.

There were three of them that I especially hated:

• a tall corn-fed hoe with tightly-wound brassy curls that were clumped and heavy-hanging with Dippity Do, probably semen.  She really looked out of place without the plow she should have been pushing on the farm, that dumb bitch. I bet she was a Majorette in high school.
• some haggard broad in an ugly pink shirt (not the awesome hue of pink that MY shirt was) who was friends with Olga the Plow Pusher. She had the worst eye makeup of them all and stood right in front of me with her saggy-assed chinos and pleather fucking fanny pack and the two of them dove right into a nauseating display of waving. It’s a sport for those people, you know. Church people? They wave for entrance to Heaven. And it’s phony, too. Their “hellos” are so nasal, like they’re playing Operator with their toy phones, and they stand there with their fists on the waistbands of their flood jeans, fluttering their costume-ringed fingers in their pretentious little waves and you know what? Go home and bake me some pumpkin bread, you assholes.
• rounding out the iron arc of pretentiousness was some bitch that was younger than those two, and it was clear, so so so clear to me that she only fraternized with them because they made her feel like the token spunky young mom with the poorly executed tattoos and too-skinny husband who I think I might have went to school with. I was glaring at her about the time Janna arrived and I didn’t even say hi, just pounced right into a hateful tirade that started with, “There’s a bunch of cunts here that I want to kill, Janna.”

And the rides! Oh, my brothers and sisters, please don’t get me started on the rides. There were only four of them: a rickety ferris wheel whose too-fast revolutions made me clutch my heart while watching from the ground, stupid ass helicopters, a tiny carousel that appeared to be fashioned from orphaned horses, and some dumb little kid spinny thing.

EACH RIDE WAS TWO FUCKING DOLLARS. Two dollars that would be better off tucked into a g-string. But Chooch seemed to enjoy the helicopters, and Henry reminded me several times that that was really all that mattered. I guess.

We stopped and bought three fried Oreos. They were pathetic. I ate half of one and begged Henry to take the rest. He was angry that I was complaining and reminded me that they only cost a dollar so what did I expect.

I DON’T KNOW. Perhaps for them to be drizzled with a nice ganache? Some kind of delicate rum sauce? LACED WITH COCAINE?

We walked over to the petting zoo, figuring Chooch could at least meet his animal manhandling quota for the month, but there was an extra fee for that.

“WHAT A RIP!” I yelled, purposely, hoping to be heard. “THIS CARNIVAL BLOWS.” Just then, the priest walked past me and Henry grabbed my arm, grabbed it the way a father does to an out-of-line child, the way my step-dad used to when I would spit YOU ARENT MY REAL DAD in his scruffy face.  So Henry grabbed my arm and squeezed, hissing, “This is a CHURCH CARNIVAL. It’s to raise money FOR THE CHURCH.”

WELL. For someone who was so against Chooch being baptized, Henry sure seemed intent on defending the carnival. The holy fucking ghost must have anally entered him when I was busy looking for scene kids.  Probably why he was walking like he had chronic jock itch. Meanwhile, we were going to sit at table but some undulating diseased genitalia stole it right from underneath us, an entire table just for her and her fucking hot dog.

  I was tirading all over this side of Pittsburgh by this point, pushing Henry to tersely say, “OK, that’s it. We’re leaving.”

I had sinful desires to jack this truck. I have a lot of things I could use it for. And I’m not just talking about carting crates of chickens around town.

On the way home,  Henry lectured me about being hateful and that no one there gave me a reason to be so angry. IT IS HOW I AM WIRED. CANNOT, WILL NOT, CHANGE. it’s how my mama made me. And sometimes I don’t mind people. Like today, on my walk to the post office, I said hello to ONE ENTIRE PERSON and even exchanged weather-related pleasantries with a  crossing guard. Granted, I considered changing my route home so I wouldn’t have to talk  to her again, but I didn’t scowl at a single soul. And I walked, like, eight blocks or something! (Actually, I don’t really know how to count blocks when they’re not obvious.)

Janna didn’t seem to mind the carnival. I bet she went home and wrote about it in her diary.

Dear Diary,

Jeepers, I went to a carnival up at Saint Sylvester’s tonight and it sure was swell. They even had fried ice cream! Can you imagine, Diary? It was so dreamy, like really tremendous! Fried ice cream outside of a Mexican restaurant!

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Almost better than a malt in a frothy glass with a spiral straw! And pony rides! I ought to have straddled one of those ponies, Diary, if only I had the courage. Gosh, it was the craziest scene! Real life ponies! And people sporting their fanny packs, no shame whatsoever! I totally ought to have worn mine! And my best cuffed plow-pushers! My only regret is not bringing enough money to buy a macrame tissue box holder from the craft table. But overall, what a night! I mean, it was really the limit!

I guess the Westmoreland County Fair spoiled me after all.

SUNDAY

• 12:53 Henry is engrossed in “Tremors.” It’s like the “Citizen Kane” for people of Henry’s cinematic IQ. #
• 14:45 Water polo looks exhausting. I want to try it, could go for a good water-logging. #
• 14:52 You know what’s full of jock-sniffers and pants-shitters? Hungary. That’s what. #
• 15:19 Apparently my water polo man-cheering has given Henry a headache. He just thanked me. #
• 15:54 twitpic.com/8wuf – Would cook him pancakes. Water polo <3. #
• 19:17 twitpic.com/8xr7 – Loud mouth in the grocery store #
• 21:37 Electricity’s out. Lost will to survive. Laying on floor staring at ceiling. just had a tricycle crash into my head. #
• 22:16 There’s little that sounds more angelic than a two year old saying “hey douche” #
• 22:27 Chooch’s first prayer: Yo Jesus, turn our lights back on. You douche. #

MONDAY

• 14:35 I don’t know how much longer I can do this unemployment bizznass. Too much face time w/ Henry makes me see homicide on the horizon. #
• 16:27 Anthropologie srsly makes me consider selling blow jobs for dresses. #
• 18:02 Supposedly I’m imbibing an amaretto sours right now at the Apple Inn. It is surely unlike any amaretto sour I’ve ever had. #
• 18:45 Was telling my friend stacey that I went to philly to see the cure and just then THE CURE came on the jukebox. #
• 19:57 Completely talked  Stacey into participating in a photoshoot. But first she asked “how weird are you making it?” #

TUESDAY

• 10:01 Chooch is playing on his toy piano and said, “Mommy look – Chiodos!” and I WILL NOT LIE I AM SWOONING. #
• 11:16 It just doesn’t feel like a good, normal Tuesday until a Pgh detective pounds on ur door and questions u about ur neighbors. #
• 12:32 I promise to not blog anymore today. #
• 18:19 I’m leaving Henry for the guy at Burger King with the Whitesnake ring tone. #
• 19:08 Currently at lamest church carnival. I want to yell SATAN in the faces of the elderly. #
• 19:14 Just bitched about how everyone here is a dumb cunt who hug and kiss each other and henry yelled “its called FRIENDLY” #
• 19:29 Said “this place fucking blows” just as the priest walked past. #
• 19:38 This priest is walking around looking so damn smug. Your carnival is not THAT jumpin’, Pops. #
• 19:42 I don’t think I could play a game that’s named after diarrhea. #
• 23:46 Diddy and I could never work together. Not without some contusions and hatchet-swinging. #

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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.

So I was interviewed for today’s spot over at Etsy Spotlight On. Go check it out!

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.

Urgent. Will die without reading.

• 20:30 Sometimes Henry starts to look quasi-young to me, but then I piss him off and he looks grizzled again. #
• 23:54 Xmas card business? I just quit you. #
• 10:07 Sitting here with Cars fruit snacks adorning my arm, courtesy of Chooch. I guess I’m the Saturday art project. #
• 11:56 Today I’m wearing my newly made Bela Karolyi shirt and prepared for no one I encounter to get it. #
• 12:29 HENRYS TAKING ME TO A SHOOTING RANGE!!! Someday, he said. Not today. Of course. #
• 13:29 I have to pee. #
• 13:42 Blake and I tried to get Henry to take us to Adult World but Henry said he doesn’t want to look like a pervy parent. #
• 13:43 He doesn’t need a porn shop for that though. #
• 13:56 Walked into a diner and EVERYONE turned to gawk at my shirt. OK fine that’s a lie. But my boobs do look big in it. #
• 14:09 twitpic.com/8r8c – Asshole Alert #
• 14:13 Henry keeps piercing my soul with admonishing glances and clenching his fists. #
• 14:19 Blake just asked henry if he ever bought a hooker & henry totally lied & said no. I yelled TELL THE TRUTH & got eviscerated by a Look. #
• 16:09 twitpic.com/8rw1 – Henry So So Pretty #
• 19:37 Chooch just pissed on my cat. #
• 22:16 Omg I really think printing out the mugs of serial killers is going to be the demise of our relationship. #
• 22:31 I love you, australia. #
• 11:45 Chooch’s last poop was fucking neon green. All lit up like a Heineken sign, Jesus Christ. #

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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.

Urgent. Will die without reading.

• 19:19 We’re missing a can of garbanzo beans and Henry is about ready to put their picture on a milk carton. Let it go, Henry.
• 20:45 When I asked henry if I look like a mom, he said “no. And sometimes you don’t even act like one”
• 21:17 Fuck the church across from my house. Jesus promised me carnivals, Bingo and baked sales, none of which that asshole St Pius provides.
• 
  

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• 09:35 Omg I’m going to miss the Olympics. So much that I didn’t even get mad when there was a country song playing during the highlights.
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• 12:24 http://twitpic.com/8ljb – From Tuesday, post-hair appt. Oh, memories.
• 13:42 Someone please tell me the trick to swallowing a vitamin without a puke epilogue. Taking it with food doesn’t help. SOS, ya’ll.

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After spending all morning plucking rotten apples from the orchard, Eduardo, Ski and Pig were finally on their way to the beach. Mother had packed them a lunch and Father had given them a few bucks to spend at the concession stand on the boardwalk.

“Don’t spend all your money on bubblegum,” Father warned Pig, who had a compulsion for hoarding used wads of the chewy confection in the most inappropriate places. Eduardo, fumbling around in the backseat of the car, once mistook a discarded lump of bubblegum for a condom and now he and Tracy Snorklebutton have a two-year-old son out of wedlock.

At the beach, Eduardo and Ski spent their money wisely, stocking up on fizzy water and lottery tickets, while Pig naturally blew his cash on an edible mucilage mother lode.

He stowed his cavity-causing cluster inside the beach bag he shared with his brothers, and re-joined them in the surf.

After awhile, the beach bag became a makeshift oven beneath the blistering belts of the sun. The bubblegum began to boil and the fizzy water effervesced the caps right off the bottles. Together, the gum and water coagulated into a sweet, yet pissed off, volcano. The eruption was so great that no one was able to escape the taffy tendrils propelling through the air.
———————————————
Original painting on a thick 12×12 gallery wrapped canvas.

For my birthday last month, all I wanted was a glorious day at Kennywood – Pittsburgh’s amusement park.  I wanted ice cream and cheesy fries and to later choke on the ice cream and cheesy fries l when it rose violently up into my esophagus while on the spinny rides.  But then Blake bailed on us so my only riding partner was Janna, who will barely ride anything more daring than the scenic train.  And I hate riding with Henry because he never talks to me in the lines. Like he’s embarrassed or something.

This asshole totally lied and said it was SO SCARY and REALLY AWESOME. The only scary part was when Janna tried to kiss me!

Luckily, I got to have a birthday do-over yesterday at the Westmoreland County Fair. Sure, the rides there are more painful than fun, but both my brother Corey AND Blake AND Janna came with us, so it was like a party for me. And Hell for Henry.

YOYO

I knew we had arrived at the fair as soon as my ears were slammed with the cacophony of blaring Taylor Dane, the desperate carny-call of “EVERYONE’S A WINNER!” and the dinging bell of Henry’s blood pressure rocketing skyward.

My new favorite picture of Blake. I love how those kids are like, “Hello, Dateline? Predator alert. Weird lady taking our pictures for the Internet.”

Westmoreland County must not be too bad because the only people I found to be fun-making worthy was some old man in overalls, a family of matching mullets, and a wanna-be MILF who looked like she was rode hard and put away wet (Henry’s favorite saying, probably because it reminds him of his ex-wife).

This girl fled after she realized I was taking her picture. Apparently it’s weird to just walk up to a stranger and snap.

Bunny Ear Bingo. Had to shout MOVE IT and shove Janna out of the way so she wouldn’t gay up the Bingo throwdown.

This carny was the cleanest and most jovial of them all. Which is good, because he was manning one of the kiddie rides.

It always seems like a good idea to encapsulate yourself in steel death traps at the fair, until the carnies come by to slam the cage down on your head and you realize you just put your life in the hands of someone who can’t even take care of their own teeth. They call them carnies because of the CARNAGE.

Blake kept trying to get me to bum a cigarette off one of them so we could share it. While it sounded tempting, I was fairly certain that would be a good way to destroy my relationship. “WHERE DID YOU GET THAT CIGARETTE???” “Uh, your GIRLFRIEND?” I was joking about that today with Henry (he wasn’t laughing) and he said, “You forgot the part where I backhand it out of his mouth first.” Yikes.

Corey, Blake and I rode this one ride that looked really tame from the ground, but as soon as it started, centrifugal force (I was good at all the sciences but physics) slammed my fat ass into Corey and from there, we enjoyed the most painful, car-wreck-like ride of the fair. Janna, who was watching from the safety of the comfortable land, said it honestly looked like Corey was going to fall out. It was so painful that I was crying/laughing and then, and I’m not going to lie, a pee drop came out, so not only did I have to fight to stay alive, but I had to also spend the duration of that fucking piece of shit ride trying not to urinate on the entire fair below, like I was spraying the fall harvest or some shit. He got me back on another ride later, as my flesh was practically ribboned on the door of the rattling cage in which we were imprisoned.

After we disembarked, Corey and I adopted a zombied gait (I was essentially using both hands to coax my right leg forward); Blake was all, “WTF is wrong with you guys? That ride was fucking great, I enjoyed myself to the fullest.” BECAUSE HE SAT ALONE AND DID NOT HAVE THE OUTSTANDING OPPORTUNITY TO FEEL THE SENSATION OF MELDING WITH ANOTHER HUMAN BEING.

Today, I’m walking with a slight limp.

Corey, still recovering and threatening to puke on Chooch, who unfortunately spent most of the time with Henry. How booor-oooor-ing.

Old people, oldin’ it up.

Obligatory Scene Kid shot. I <333 scene kids!~! 

‘Sup Willie.

 Observing my mounting interest in winning treasures made in Taiwan, Henry was wise enough to hide in the shadows to give his wallet a rape-reprieve.  So Blake and I begged, nay – HOUNDED – Janna for money to play the balloon popping game. She looked like a virgin in headlights, wanting to say no, but not wanting to look like an asshole. Finally, she sighed heavily and mumbled, “Let me open my Mommy Purse and see what I have.” Blake and I got our way, but quickly lost interest and pawned off our cheap prizes on Chooch.

Janna was too much of a pussy to ride this & opted instead to stay on terra firm and fiddle with her pleasure vegetables. Blake got yelled at for jumping before the ride started and I mocked him like the child I am.

Overall, MUCH better than my birthday and I didn’t get any pizza on my shirt this time.The whole set can be seen here.

Urgent. Will die without reading.

• 14:30 Sometimes I want to slather myself in peanut butter & honey then roll around in sunflower seeds. Just like that piece of bread just did. #
• 16:32 Today’s happenings: Got my hair re-scened-out and Blake changed his mind about moving in. One has no bearing on other. #
• 17:21 twitpic.com/8anr – Britney and Preston holla. #
• 18:00 Have to take detours so Chooch doesn’t see signs for Target and freak out like a girl at a NKOTB concert circa 1990. #
• 18:56 I wonder if Hot Naybor Chris knows how excited we get when we spot him outside of the neighborhood. #
• 18:57 Henry wants me to clarify that by “we” I mean “I”. #
• 21:19 I guess I just don’t understand how dives are scored. #

• 15:40 On our way to fair. Blakes jeans are so tight -not to mention for girls- that he could barely get in the car. #
• 15:41 I love it when blake backtalks janna. Sass it up, blake #
• 15:42 Henry just yelled YOU WAIT TIL WE GET OUT OF THIS CAR!!!! To me. #
• 16:19 Texting the lyrics to wind beneath my wings to henry from backseat. I hope he’s touched. #
• 16:26 twitpic.com/8e5q – Motley carful to county fair: Henry Blake Chooch and Janna. #
• 18:26 At fair. Lost my brother. Then just found him and he won’t give me a fried Oreo. FUCKER. #
• 18:28 Corey found a hair with split ends in one of the Oreos. Just asked me if I still want one. #
• 19:04 Just peed a little in a ride. #
• 19:44 Janna is a failure. Fucking pussy!!! #
• 21:17 twitpic.com/8fae – Hay, best ride ever #
• 21:38 Corey just rummaged thru jannas purse, past all her contraceptive, panty liners, and pleasure vegetables. #
• 21:48 LEAVING FAIR SO SAD. Not sad about the welts on my arms and legs that are about to turn into bruises. #
• 22:50 Unstitch your eyes and you could read this forever. #
• 10:41 Feels like I was in a car wreck. #

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