Urgent. Will die without reading.

• 14:16 The Family Christian Store is very crowded today. #
• 15:22 It has been two hrs since Janna has viewed her evite and she has still not rsvp’d. Off with her head. #
• 16:04 I think I’m trying to do too much. #
• 20:27 Just went thru some old shit from my high school writing classes & holy fuck was it embarrassingly horrible. There’s been no improvement ha. #
• 22:49 Game Night has been scheduled. There will be pink balloons and Baileys. Possibly bloodletting. TBD. #

• 09:26 Its like the Omen theme should cue up every time Chooch enters the room. #
• 09:35 I’m learning lots by being a parent. Such as, my frustration threshold is the same as a toddler’s. #
• 09:40 Most times I don’t figure out Blue’s Clues until the very end. And even then, sometimes I’m like “wait—what?” #
• 10:44 I’m one Etsy sale away from the 100 sale milestone! That’s a big deal for obsessive ppl with no lives. (I.e. me) #
• 11:22 Shit. Chooch wants a burger for breakfast but I don’t cook meat. Also – I don’t know how to cook meat& there’s the potential 4 death. #
• 12:41 and also by breakfast, I meant lunch. I do not withhold food from my son until noon. I swear. #

• 09:37 I got an offer to have one of my designs bought by a letterpress studio. WHAT. #
• 11:14 I wish I was more knowledgeable on the topic of swamps. #
• 11:21 Today’s unavoidable parental qualm: arguing over Ms and Ws. “NO, THAT’S AN M, STUPID!” #
• 11:21 Disclaimer: that quote was from my son. #
• 12:30 Hello. I broke 100 sales on Etsy. I never thought I’d see the day. WHERE ARE THE BALLOONS. #
• 12:35 Too many decent things are happening. Where’s the eviction notice? Meteor on my car? Wino waiting to shank my sternum? #

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It’s a Friday night in 1999 and my boyfriend Jeff and I are lounging around, paying vague attention to some non-MTV music video show.

  Suddenly, a pulsing beat (not unlike one of those horrible MIDI files web-dorks have been embedding into their angelfire homepages) kicks in and the cutest/sluttiest school girl in pigtails is baring her midriff and gyrating her pelvis in a gymnasium. I’m mesmerized. SPELLBOUND, you might even say.

“Who IS THIS?” I whispered.

“Oh hell no, don’t even tell me you like this shit,” the boyfriend says nervously, trying to wrench the remote from my hands before the world of homogenized pop devours my soul and caulks my heart’s cockles with coconut taffy and Love’s Baby Soft.

“This is the gateway! You give in to THIS and next you’ll be wearing taffeta bows in your hair and going to concerts at the mall. Now tell me you don’t like this.”

“I think I do, dude. It’s undeniably catchy. And she’s kind of hot. I mean—what? NO. Ew, I don’t like this.” A minute later, while I’m laughing nervously, I learn that it’s some strumpet called Britney Spears. Under a cloak of darkness (i.e. online), I buy her album.

For awhile, I try to hide it. I kick it under the couch when people come over. When friends are in the car with me, I make sure not to ever, not ever in one hundred million thousand fifteen years, pop in the mixtape that spins  “Crazy” and “…

Baby One More Time.”  It’s the street cred kiss of death; there would be no way to talk myself out of that one.

But then one day, I’m like, “You know, I want to rock out to some fucking Spears and I don’t give a shit who knows.” So maybe I just got done breaking plates over my head to Bring Me the Horizon, or maybe I just cut myself to the plunky suicide notes of Xiu Xiu, but if I want to smack on some fucking bubblegum bubbles while jumping on the couch to a little tune called “Womanizer,” then dammit, I don’t care who knows it.

I LOVE BRITNEY SPEARS.

I penned death threats in my diary to K-Fed. I wept openly while watching her documentary.

I LOVE BRITNEY SPEARS. And now my son does too.

Now, what’s your guilty pleasure?

On the night of the senior prom, Fritz stood on MaryEllen’s stoop for eighty-seven minutes and nineteen seconds, holding a bouquet of exotic flowers that gradually wilted with each passing tick of his watch.

Finally, on that nineteenth second, MaryEllen’s father pulled the trigger of the shot gun. Nonchalantly, he went back inside the house and unlocked his daughter from the basement.

Another pregnancy scare avoided.

Urgent. Will die without reading.

• 18:39 Holy fuck, Taste of Chaos has a good lineup again. #
• 01:08 Attempt #2 at watching The Strangers. #
• 12:58 Henry and I are arguing about cops again. Haven’t done THAT in awhile! #
• 15:49 Now we’re arguing over who are manlier: hockey or fruitball players. Henry & his Devil’s Advocacy can suck one. #
• 16:23 2 ppl are about 2 make out. In the craft store. I mean, sure – yarn gets me hot but not enuf 4 my tongue 2 find its way in henrys mouth. #
• 17:03 twitpic.com/slo0 – As far as I go on the xmas decoration tip #
• 00:04 Henrys alarm was going off &he went upstairs to turn it off despite my warnings of “DONT DO IT THE STRANGERS MIGHT BE UP THERE ITS A TRAP” #

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Although horror is my absolute favorite genre of TV, movies, art and books (and sometimes even music), I get all spastic and overly-paranoid when it comes to movies that are based on or inspired by true events. So while I’ve been wanting to see The Strangers since it came out, I’ve been putting it off.

I tried watching it alone Thursday afternoon before work. The sun was out, Henry and Chooch were napping, I thought I could do it. I lasted maybe twenty minutes. Nothing had even happened yet, really, but Liv Tyler’s character was alone in the house while Ben from Felicity (RIP my favorite WB show) went to get her cigarettes and the suspense was literally making my veins pulse and my heart was beating so fast that I was starting to not breathe properly, so I paused it and woke up so he could be my audience as I repeatedly screeched, “I CAN’T WATCH IT I’M SO SCARED I CAN’T WATCH IT PLEASE COME DOWNSTAIRS I’M GOING TO DIE THEY’RE COMING TO GET ME I’M HUNGRY MAKE ME A SANDWICH AND WHERE’S MY DIAMOND RING IT’S BEEN SEVEN YEARS.”

That night at work, my boss Dave took a side job as Heart Attack Giver and had me clutching my chest every fifteen minutes. He fucking gets off on terrorizing me with loud, booming noises and one of these days, I’m going to be seeking workman’s comp because of him. Then I mistakenly told him that I was even jumpier because I had tried to watch that movie, so that gave him even more ammo and I began wishing I had a periscope to guide me around corners.

I looked in the rear view mirror every two seconds on the way home that night.

Last night, with big strong Henry by my side, I managed to watch that damn movie from beginning to end, biting off my pinkie nail in the process and taking mental note of all the ways some asshole could conceivably break into my house. It didn’t do any favors for my blood pressure.

As I tried to fall asleep afterward, I told Henry for the twenty billionth time that I would really like to buy a gun. “One of those tiny girly ones. With diamonds.” (I feel like we’ve had that conversation before.)

“Yeah right,” Henry mumbled into his pillow, which is coincidentally the same thing he says when I ask for a ring, and we fell asleep.

Creepy Uncle-Type encroached on my personal space the other night. He brought with him a pocketful of misdemeanors, twitching mustache, and drug store aftershave aroma.

“When you gonna come have a beer with us?” he asked.

“I don’t drink beer,” I replied. I notice that I always use a snotty tone when conversing with him. I think he likes that, so I should stop that.

This gave him invitation to attempt to entice me with hard liquor. I smiled and said, “Wow, that sounds great” a few times, you know, to humor him.

“Yeah, you should come party with me,” he reiterated, and I noted that he had dropped the “group-hang” pretenses. “I got keys to the club.” He began rummaging in his pocket, for what I could only imagine was the lollipop he was about to use to lure me out to his truck.

He seemed to be waiting for me to deepen my inquiry on the matter, so I obliged by asking what kind of club he meant.

“The Yacht Club!” he exclaimed, his predatory eyes gleaming like he was about to go in for the kill. I found myself scooting back a little in my seat.

“Oh cool, and can we listen to yacht rock?” I asked with faux-enthusiasm. If he picked up on that, he chose to ignore it.

By now, he had found the object he was fishing for and pulled out a barrel key from his coat pocket. “See that? The key to the YACHT CLUB. I can go in there ANY TIME I WANT.”

“Yes, I imagine with a key, you could,” I said,  letting him have his moment in the spotlight.

“You should come party at the yacht club, with me at the yacht club, me and you, partying at the yacht club, I have a key to the yacht club so we can party at the yacht club. Wait, you ARE 21, ain’t you?”

I think he was asking me out?

I guess he doesn’t know that in order to be my work boyfriend, he has to call me The Lovely Erin, cutie pie, and doll; notice that I’m wearing a headband; and ask with utmost sincerity if I need anything from the store. And sorry Creepy Uncle-Type, but that role is filled from approximately 6pm-9pm, three days a week, by my music friend Bill.

Urgent. Will die without reading.

• 17:57 I think I just got asked out and I’m lol’ing internally. #
• 21:12 I’m just going to let Chooch name all of my paintings from now on. #
• 23:15 If u ever wanted to know what I was like as a young lass (& still) watch Jon&Kate+8. Mady is me. I am Mady. #
• 23:46 Speaking of peeing, I wish I had some almonds. #
• 11:28 God you hear one song and it just ruins the whole day. #
• 17:51 One of the guys at work told me I look like Alice in Wonderland. I blushed because my mind goes right to the porn version. Of course. #
• 22:03 I’d be drafting my suicide note right now if I was an Islander. #
• 10:37 My surly son allowed 10 sec of cuddling b4 realizing what was going on & shouted, “No, go!” Now he’s off yonder calling cats assholes. #

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They range from 4×6 to 5×7, all on canvas board. They’re compact enough to make cute stocking stuffers. They fit comfortably between the anal beads and Astroglide.

I also want to take this opportunity to pimp out my teammates over at Etsy’s Dark Side. If you like the gothier side of life, they’ve got pretty much anything you need from clothing to ephemera to jewelry. I own rings from AgonysDecay  (Michael Myers, natch) and HandmadeHorrors (the cutest razorblade ever) and they come highly touted in my book. I haven’t purchased anything from her yet, but I’ve been ogling and hearting things over at LushPunk‘s shop so much that you’d think I’d just heard of Australia or something.

Porkchopshow not only has a great shop name, but would you look at his oddities? It’s like walking into a time capsule and I likey.

And a separate shout out goes to LaurenUrban, who makes the prettiest glass jewelry and plates. I own two cocktail rings, earrings, and a pendant from her and they are just gorgeous and swirly and mod. If you have a date with the Pink Panther coming up, then you need this pendant!

Turquoise and Blue Mod Fused Glass Pendant by LaurenUrban

I love Lauren!

Christmas is fast approaching. JUST SOMETHING TO THINK ABOUT, YA’LL.

Urgent. Will die without reading.

• 18:42 Santa told blake to pull up his pants. #
• 19:22 The patrons of Denny’s let out a collective sigh as we exited. #
• 19:48 Henry has apparently been reading literature on how to raise teenagers. #

• ---

• 08:28 Henry cleaned the bedroom so it no longer looks like a dormroom. Would have tipped him but he no leave chocolates on the pillows. #
• 12:41 I’m bringing puffy paint back. #
• 15:41 Supposedly I melted the handle to henrys pot when I made Chooch mac n cheese. I wondered what that noxious odor was. #
• 16:47 If I ever lose my mind and start shooting, it will be in a craft store. #
• 20:32 I’m taking my quest for a new bestie to public access. Do it up Paris-style. First requirement: someone who actually picks up the phone. #
• 20:41 Or maybe my show will be “I Want to Be the Hump on Erin’s Back.” #
• 09:25 There’s a good possibility I was just called a pee-cow. #
• 09:39 My son just mastered the main players of the color wheel not too long ago, &here I am throwing ‘ecru’ at him. “That’s not brown, dummy!” #
• 12:22 Henry child-proofed our bedroom door knob but now I can’t get in, either. #

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It’s that time of year for the obligatory, oft-painful portrait with a wrinkled, disgruntled retiree whose wife makes him don a red velvet suit to pay for a HoverRound. I had been priming Chooch for this for the past few days, and he was fully prepared to march in there and demand Hotwheels and train tracks, maybe a nice bottle of merlot for mommy and some copies of Butt Love for daddy. We picked Blake up on the way because, well, a scene kid on the lap of Santa might be pretty funny.

We got there and Chooch was pissed because there was a family of three kids in front of us and God forbid, Chooch had to wait. How dare anyone hold Chooch back. I was annoyed because all three kids wore clad in matching Steelers jerseys. In case you didn’t know, I hate the Steelers. Seeing this was more of a monstrosity to me than those corny crocheted sweaters adorned with festive pins that blink and play tinny renditions of Jingle Bells. The kind of sweaters home ec teachers wear, you know the ones.

When it was Chooch’s turn, he balked. Henry had to push him up the plank to his sudden death.

Briefly, Chooch’s face gets all contorted, his cheeks flush with horror, and he lets out a helpless wail. Henry and Blake calmed him down (I was busy being a deadbeat mother and stood off to the side, laughing inside my hands.

Blake was all ready to join Chooch, but then Santa told him to pull his pants up. Blake obliged, but it pissed him off so he came back and stood by me. I had to turn around because I was cracking up so bad. Later, Henry admitted that he agreed with Santa, going on to add, “He’s my son, I don’t want to see his junk hanging out.” But only because he’s his son. So if it was another sixteen year old boy, it would be OK? Perhaps Henry should consider a seasonal gig as Santa for next year. The extra money would be nice; mama needs some supplies for the meth lab.

In the end, Chooch acquiesced and perched on Santa’s sleigh (I’ll use that in my Santa slash at a later date). I think he started to understand the concept, that this was one of those circus acts performed mainly to make mommies happy, one of those occasions where kids get to make a small payment to the Mommy Carried Me For Nine Months loan. Yes Chooch, this is about Mommy, not you, so suck it up and smile for the fucking camera.

I like how Chooch and Santa both have the same posture, kind of like the holiday variation of the gangsta lean.

(As I’m writing this, Henry is walking around in his boxers, conducting business on his cell phone. I keep waiting for a Risky Business-slide, but I think he knows he could very well break a hip.)

Urgent. Will die without reading.

• 16:51 someone go see jeremy enigk with me next friday. i’m a cheap date. well, aside from the angel dust i require. #
• 18:44 I still can’t believe Emilio died. #
• 19:13 My pappap was really good at that removable thumb trick. U know who’s not good at it? Me. And probably ppl with only one or no hands. #
• 20:48 sometimes I miss Sunday School and I get all “wtf, why???” but then i realize what I really miss are the doughnuts afterward. #
• 21:22 I’m not a fan of Xmas, but now that Sheryl Crow has a Xmas album, how can I NOT embrace the season? Sign me up 4 the Xmas fan club. # ***
• 01:25 Henry said ‘erection’ and I’m gagging on giggles. It must be time for bed. As in, sleep. Haha, erection. #
• 01:42 I just ranted for fifteen minutes about my disgust of weak people before I realized Henry was trying not to laugh at me. #

• 16:02 Was chased away by the bark of a dog while I tried to photograph the bait shop. Chilling. #
• 16:46 I want to go to a show tonite w/ Blake & his friends but don’t want to seem like a chaperone. Maybe they can tell ppl I’m an escort. #
• 19:59 My buddy Seamus the sea monster has been adopted. The happy/sad combo is a painful pickle #
• 21:52 I have strong desires to ERECT a gingerbread crack house. #

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*** Dear Friends,

Before I lose cred down in the pits of Hell: That was a joke.

Love,

Erin Honestly

Hamish couldn’t believe he was turning 245 days old in less than a week. A milestone like that deserved a bash, a big gala dinner dance filled with feather-topped, high-kicking can-can dancers and waiters serving up dimpled buttcheeks braised in a succulent kerosene sauce.

It needed a photo booth. Fireworks. Handmade chocolates flown in from Belgium, inscribed with superlatives relating to his life thus far.

Keen. Brilliant. Star Athlete. Tantric Sex Master. All these things delicately traced into the the crust of truffles.

It needed music. A bright, up-and-coming pop songstress. A young broad with a supple body and a nightingale voice; a sprightly thing who would take the stage in a latex thingaroo, barely covering her hummahoos. He made a note to check MTV to find such a starlet.

The next day, Hamish left his hut to begin party planning.

Discouragingly, it took three days alone for Hamish to find dancers. Unable to find can-can dancers with altitude crushing kicks, he settled on a troupe called the Octogenas, who were usually booked every night by their nursing home to perform in the rec room, but Myrtle Methadone had just met her maker and no one there was in the mood to watch a crew of old biddies shake their wattles.

Never performing outside of the home, the Octogenas excitedly signed the deal.

The next day, Hamish learned the lesson that fancy party waiters do not fit his budget, so he gathered up a group of bar flies who used to play darts with his dad and feel up his mama. They didn’t own tuxedos, so he grudgingly allowed them to wear flannel.

A day before the party, Hamish resolved to forgo the personalized Belgian chocolates, pouring a bag of leftover Easter Hershey Kisses in a microwave-deformed Tupperwear bowl.

The up-and-coming starlet he found came packing a rider that included a Lalique vase filled with blue and only blue M&Ms, fresh water from a Moroccan camel’s hump, a kilo of angel dust, and a current copy of US Weekly. Hamish settled on a folk singer he had seen downtown, sitting on a curb in a heap of earth-toned fabric, who plucking a broken guitar and collecting pennies and trash in a fedora.

And then it was the day of the party. The Octogenas undulated in seductive paths carved out by their walkers, with Agnes’s left breast flopping about and slapping bystanders with the misfortune of standing too close. And then Bertha lost her grip on her walker, crashed into one of the flannel-clad waiters trying futilely to take a reticent swig from his flask. The rest of the Octogenas abandoned their gig to accompany Bertha to the hospital, where she would undergo a hip replacement.

The folk singer, Sunny Moonbeam, twanged away quietly on the stage, eventually putting himself to sleep.

As Hamish looked around, he realized that his party had put everyone else to sleep, too.

Snagging the bowl of Kisses from the buffet, he left his own party and went downtown, where he settled in for a fifty cent peep show. He officially turned 245 days old as a brassy-haired, tough-skinned woman contorted herself in eye-widening positions on a wooden stool.
____________________

The deets.

A few years ago, Henry and I ate breakfast at this nice family restaurant in Buffalo, NY. When I was there a few weeks ago with Christina, I was delighted, absolutely ebullient, to see that we were staying in a hotel right across the street from it. I took a picture with my phone and sent it to Henry, hoping it would tug on his old, leathery heart strings. But it didn’t. It was probably tough for him to see the picture as he tried to look at his phone from around the call girl’s buoyant titties.

Anyway, after Christina and I left the scene of my broken heart, I decided that the only thing that would heal my shattered psyche would be a grilled cheese and pie, any pie, some delicious pie, from that very same restaurant.

We went back to our room first so I could remove any evidence of my previous tearshed. While there, we decided it would be a good idea to find out how late they were even open, because it was practically sleeting out there and we didn’t want to venture out in vain.

My Blackberry kept telling me there was no such establishment as the Olympic Family Restaurant and that obviously I am retarded for thinking there might be. Then I had an epiphany! “Hey, what if we check that there thingie that our parents used to use all the doggone time, what the heck is that thing called? A phone book?”

So I pulled the hotel’s complementary yellow pages onto my lap, slipped one finger in the middle of the pages and flipped it open.

“Um, Christina?” I whispered. “I opened it to the exact page, wtf?”

And I sat there, staring at this book, splayed open on my lap like some kind of magical tome, waiting for a genie or Satan himself to appear in a seductive cloak, begging to grant my wishes.

Nothing like that happened, and the coconut cream pie I ordered at the Olympic wasn’t all that, but in my mind I pretended it was baked with holy water and the breath of a mermaid and that I will never ever get the flu ever again.

Coincidentally, the page number of the phone book was 653, which is also the exchange of my old childhood telephone number. Two days later, I got two calls from two different numbers with a 653 area code. I didn’t answer, of course, because I was afraid Sadako was on the other end.

I was all about playing those numbers. I could visualize myself walking into a CoGo’s and holding up the line while I try to wrap my head around the rules of Lottery. Maybe I’d even treat myself to a Snickers. In the end,  my general malaise brewed over and I went back to watching True Life on MTV.  It probably would have been futile anyway, considering that I’m obviously cursed now.

Urgent. Will die without reading.

• 14:04 I’m sitting alone in a pizzeria, hoping to not get stood up by a bunch of rappers. # ***
• 14:08 Now joining me is an obscene platter of french fries. Oh this makes me look lovely! #
• 14:17 Eating alone will forever be a terribly awkward event for me. #
• 16:09 I let Christina update my blog yesterday and she done went and BROKED it. IE only shows a stunted version of it now. #
• 17:01 At least I know if Henry ever dumps me, the young CVS lad would take me on a date. #
• 17:02 Also, ninety-nine cent fudge tastes about as decadent as you’d imagine. #
• 18:43 <–This girl didn’t get enough attention as a child, obv. #
• 22:33 تقكد!!!! #
• 22:38 My phone was making me type in arabic 4 the past hour. Cried about it, panicked, broke a cake dome, then henry saved the day in 2 seconds #
• 01:09 I wish Internet Explorer and my blog would kiss and make up already. This standoff is freaking me out. #

• 09:50 Reason 32569 why henry is my lifesupport: he unbroke my blog! ohhonestlyerin.com. IE doesn’t want to fight it anymore! #
• 10:10 Hearing my son beg for The Cure alone makes all the pregnancy agony worth it. Stretch marks? Who cares! My son likes the Cure! #
• 10:42 Holy shit, I glanced at the TV and mistook Eddie Vedder for Chad Kroeger. My apologies, Eddie! #
• 14:36 twitpic.com/qdxf – My death row penpal sent me a book abt the Pixies w/ this inscription. Hello guilt trip. #
• 10:50 I’ve never seen Cheezits being devoured more theatrically than right now. #

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(***After several failed attempts at meeting, I finally got together with one third of Pittsburgh hip hop group, Jailcell. Mose is awesome, fantastically talented, and swore I didn’t come off too neurotic. I look forward to working with him and the rest of the group. AND he even suggested I bring my animal masks, so you know that made me swoon.)

I was comissioned on Etsy to make a Charles Manson Christmas card, which I had been wanting to do since I started this line two years ago. There is almost too much to choose from with that case, though, and I kept putting it off.

Still, I accepted this girl’s request, and had three weeks to come up with something. The deadline was today. I didn’t even start it until today, but that’s good because pressure always works as a good swift kick to my ass.

So now I’m proud to introduce good ol’ Charlie into my line of dumb cards.

“Call up the Family from the Haight

Set a plate for Sharon Tate

Bring out the China and fancy napkins

And pour some egg nog for Susan Atkins.

Drape some flowers from the tree

And put out a tray of LSD

Slaughter the best pig from Spahn Ranch

(Hope the blood doesn’t make you blanch.)

I don’t want a belt or a sweater to make me swelter

All I want from Santa is Helter Skelter

So please, don’t think of me as a sinner

When I bring Charles Manson to Christmas dinner.”

Urgent. Will die without reading.

• 12:16 Its like when I text, all my spelling skills go down the commode.
• 13:06 I suggested going on a nice family walk today. Henry said “then find a nice family and walk with them”. FUCKO.
• 15:26 Was called a sleazebag by my RUDE boyfriend.

• ---

• 11:56 Listening to Husker Du, giving Henry gray hairs, going to take pictures.
• 12:51 http://twitpic.com/ozqe – Apparently no one’s allowed to look at Chooch when he’s wearing shades.
• 14:07 For someone who doesn’t believe in that God hype, I sure take a lot of pictures of his houses.
• 14:18 http://twitpic.com/p0j3 – In the mountains. Doing mountainous thangs.
• 14:28 http://twitpic.com/p0qo – Cucumber Falls, holla atcha girl.
• 16:01 Just introduced Chooch to the wonders of candy flying saucers
• 16:10 http://twitpic.com/p1ne – Heaven for Chooch and me.
• 20:39 Chooch just threatened to kill Blake.
• 22:54 Public access, I love you.
• 23:01 I want to host a foreign exchange student. Unless there’s a psych eval involved.

• ---

• 13:11 Evidently, my brother and I can rot in Hell, direct orders from our mother.
• 18:41 Swore Henry called me “fictitious” but then realized that word’s too big for him.
• 19:09 twitpic.com/pc2s – Standing in the circle at Target is better than Xmas for Chooch.
• 23:05 JUST FOUND OUT HENRY USED TO HUNT?! Sickening.
• 23:07 I’m going to start hunting hunters. I may be a vegetarian, but I don’t think I’d have a problem gnashing on hunter flesh.
• 23:07 OOOH IM FIRED UP. I’m coming for you, fuckers.
• 00:04 I’ll never fly a fighter jet again, that’s for sure.

• ---

• 13:45 I weep openly for Britney.
• 16:20 Chooch & I often have contests to see who can be most annoying/loud. Those are the times Henry is really thankful he left work early.
• 23:21 When I ate meat, I preferred the Whopper over the Bic Mac. Just in case anyone needs filler for my eulogy.

• ---

• 10:43 MTV’s True Life gets me through the day. I might otherwise be a drug mule.
• 16:21 http://twitpic.com/ppp1 – Fucker’s snoring
• 22:27 Steelers fan have dropped to #3 in a national survey of most loyal fans. And this is news.

• ---

• 5:43 Woke up to some religious q&a show on tv. Someone wrote in: will God be mad if I choose cremation to save $? This is my new fave show.
• 5:53 I always forget that some people consider god before doing shit. I’m going to try that. No I’m not.
• 5:59 If I sign up for Shepherd’s Chapel fan club I can get the Mark of the Beast audio tape. I want that.
• 9:17 http://twitpic.com/pump – I pity that cat.
• 16:37 My son is making his Satan puppet bite me and IT HURTS
• 21:10 http://twitpic.com/pzk9 – Bathroom reading material at Henry’s job.
• 23:00 http://twitpic.com/q0qy – Painting these kind of dulls some of the hate I have brewing.

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