Apparently LoudTwitter is down again so I got to do these all by hand, which was exactly how I wanted to spend the last 30 minutes.  

Earth-shattering updates throughout the day, brought to you by Tart-Tits. Please try to continue breathing while taking it all in.

• 15:28 Anytime I see George Parros, I think I’m watching vintage #NHL footage from the ’70s, god love him. #
• 16:26 If you strummed my nerves, death metal would likely blow your face off. #
• 16:48 I’d stab my way through a wall of altar boys to get to sushi. #
• ***
• 00:19 I’m constantly glimpsing Leatherface’s silhouette in the frosted window of my front door. Exhilarating. #
• 10:24 Me: “Hockey’s on tonight!” Chooch, gesturing disgustedly to NHL TV: “Um, it’s ALWAYS on!” #
• 14:52 Jack o’lanterns would cower in fear if I were a dude.
• 19:40 Henry’s spent the last 10 minutes sniffing potpourri. How un-Service of him.
• 20:32 “Don’t try to be like me.” “Why would I want to be an asshole?”
• 23:02   Chooch is recording From Dusk Til Dawn. Just what he needs, a Tarantino language enhancement.
• ***
• 00:33   Leave it to a girl fight on MTV’s RR/RW Challenge to lure @awoodhick into the room.
• 10:15 Nothing like a little Better Than Ezra in the morning to crush my spirit by reminding me of better days!
• 18:13 I’m not normally one for Facebook games, but Roller Coaster Kingdom has my time & attention hog-tied. Nice vaca for my brain. Send me gifts!
• 18:40 I love how irritated SOME PEOPLE get when I won’t take anything for a headache. It’s not like I COMPLAIN a lot.
• 22:10   Three-year-olds make the worst messengers. Totally a “duh” statement, but just putting that out there.
• 22:15 I know I’m old when every haunted house I’ve gone to this season gave me a headache for a parting gift. Tonight’s haunt was worth it.
• 23:52 Henry did a batch of 27 pendants while I was out tonight. Can only imagine what he’ll want as payment. Sometimes being a ho sucks. GET IT.
• ***
• 00:10   Not much has changed in 8 yrs. I still beg Henry for gifts, just now they’re for Roller Coaster Kingdom.
• 15:00 http://twitpic.com/mmhiy – Progress: custom children octopi, almost done.
• 15:02 Chooch just came downstairs and said, “Daddy said, ‘You’re bad just like your mother!'” & we both laughed.
• 17:08   Nothing good can ever come from an ass lingering in your face.
• 20:14 In looking for a Sharpie to draw on a pre-carved pumpkin, the only one Henry found was an orange one. Oh ho ho. Also, #Pens look dead.
• 22:29 My #Pens-related cheers of exuberance are slightly more raucous with the aid of spiced apple wine. Henry does not approve, I’m sure.
• 21:24 #Pens win in a shootout. Now I can go shoot up. Or, you know, weave a rug.
• ***
• 10:45 It’s always a contest to see who got the most sleep.
• 12:34   Never let Henry fill out the info for your fantasy hockey team unless you want a misspelled name.
• 12:37 Today I found out that Chooch hates my blog and Facebook because they’re always in his way. :/
• 15:08I love it when I realize I’m subsconsciously crying while listening to certain bands. No really, I love it. It’s like an enema for the soul
• 15:11 Why can’t I ever be with Henry when he sees people fucking in a car.
• 16:55 Spent the day making mix CDs and wishing Matt Duchene was my little brother.
• 17:11 Me: “I had a dream about an amusement park.” Henry: “I’m not surprised.” Fuck you, Roller Coaster Kingdom, for making me predictable.
• 17:34 Oh but I could sit here fisting a blob of Play-Doh all day. As long as it doesn’t get messy, but when has fisting ever been clean.
• 18:36 About to go on a haunted hayride w/ my friend Cinn. (Black) magic happens every time we get together so hopefully no one’s barn burns down.
• 22:59 Cinn dropped my half of a Snickers on the ground and gave me her sanitary half instead. That is true friendship.
• 23:08 I expect @cantcme99 and @saucalisha to eat filthy candy for me from now on.
• ***
• 00:39 After keeping haunted houses for 14 years (dork alert), I still maintain the small ones are best. Fuck the glitzy $18-ticket cattle herds.
• 00:45 Haunted house journals, is what that last tweet should say. I’m drunk off wine and NHL On The Fly, boy-eeeeez. Fuck the Flyers!
• 10:57 8 yrs together and Henry still serves me scrambled eggs without Ketchup. It’s relationship-rethinking time.
• 11:07 Trying to share new music w/ Henry, he goes “Bitch, fuck your music” and shoved me down the basement steps, where I gave music a blow job.
• 12:34 If you ever want your day ruined, come to my house & Henry will get right on that.
• 15:08   Alisha was scared during the daylight walkthru of Castle Blood. We’re stopping at Wal-Mart so she can buy new underwear. :/
• 16:27 Henry’s reminiscing about all the times I’ve punched/attacked him &I’m in tears from laughing. GOOD TIMES.
• 16:42 Constantly reminded of why I hate the Steelers.
• 17:13 Alisha just said she doesn’t need to have an imagination with me around. That means we’re best friends & she’ll eat dirty candy for me!
• 17:19 Chooch asked me to tell him a story abt Henry pooping his pants but every scenario I could think of involved Henry’s ass & giant weeners.
• 20:07 I feel like a prerequisite to being in the Mob should be serving time as a Philadelphia Flyer. #nhl
• 22:08 I wish Devil-centric threats had an effect on my child. But thanks to my friends giving Marcy her nickname, he thinks Satan is a cat.
• ***
• 11:26 Chooch, upon learning that some girl on TV is named Paige: “Paige, like on Degrassi?” Shit, I’ve molded him well.
• 12:42 I don’t think not wanting drug addicts/dealers around my kid makes me a bad person. Kicking blind babies, maybe.
• 17:43 I’m looking for homemade deep conditioning techniques (besides ejaculate) that are foolproof for a ‘tard like me. Plz help.
• 20:29 Chooch wants to be himself for Halloween & if asked what he’s supposed to be, he’ll say, “a motherfucker.” Perhaps I’ll sit this one out.
• ***
• 00:56   If you ever want to see Henry jump& squeal like a pussy, tell him a spider’s abt to crawl up his leg. Or a new Sweet Valley book is out.
• 01:42 @starkeepr I’ve tried the cum conditioner before. I can’t remember if it worked, I was too busy feeling awkward since it was ur dad’s.
• 01:50 I miss the days when the radio didn’t make me sick of Death Cab For Cutie.
• 15:59 Henry uses the same password for everything, except Facebook. I just found out today. Wtf kind of sham of a relationship am I in, anyway?
• 16:39 Tired of all the “omgits[blank]” usernames I see everywhere. Is no one original anymore? Oh wait, I already know that answer.
• 18:05 MTV’s Disaster Date would be better if the contestants actually endured bodily harm &/or amputation/death. I’d sign up Janna so fast.
• 19:13 hoping to see Ovie do something fancy tonight. Like maybe a celebratory goal-scoring Tarzan swing off Hartnell’s ginger fro. #nhl
• 19:42 I get serious heart palpitations whenever I email a photo of a custom painting to the customer.
• 20:44 I love watching the Capitals play. Even more, I love imagining Hartnell crying carrot tears every time the Flyers lose. (I hope they lose.)
• 21:08 I might volunteer to be a clown. And then immediately ask to be paid.
• 22:17 There are quite a few dancers on SYTYCD that I already can’t wait to go home.
• 22:20 No really. Let’s NOT cross our fingers for Paula Abdul to join the #SYTYCD judging panel.
• ***
• 01:44 Well shit, I can’t kill myself until I have enough knee socks to finish my noose. Send me some?
• 02:16 I’m thinking I should start scratching DIE into peoples’ pictures again. Perhaps after I go to sleep, though.
• 12:09 Has too much kazoo ever driven a person to kill? Because I feel as though I’m en route.
• 14:00 Just heard Malkin be referred to as “the Russian kid” on NHL Live.
• 16:55 Glad Chooch waited until now to pick a costume that requires a trip to the hardware store & a 100 hrs of manual labor. Godspeed, Henry.
• 17:11 Henry wants to shave Chooch’s head, stuff him in a robe, jam some flowers in his fist & send him off as a Hare Krishna. Oh, desperation.
• 19:34 Henry may be a cocksucking, heavy-footed, unfunny, dirty sock-litterer, but that douche can make a mean pot of soup.
• 19:51 And suddenly, Henry feels good about my pick of Kunitz for Extra Attacker. #nhldorkery
• 20:55 Please do not take this hat trick away from Crosby.
• 20:58 A Chooch Tale: “My puke spilled, into my mouth, but I dranked it back down, like this [insert hearty swallowing sound effect].” The End.
• 22:00 YAY EXTRA ATTACKER!! #pens #nhl
• ***
• 01:32 Almost just agreed to let Henry practice acupuncture on me, where the fuck is my head. Almost beneath a wreath of ice picks, that’s where.
• 12:08   http://twitpic.com/ne9pc – Perhaps he could just be a gamer for Halloween.
• 12:29 Nothing beats sitting on the couch and receiving an anal violation from a Happy Meal toy.
• 14:50 My kid is fucking exhausting every goddamn costume idea I have. I’m giving him one more hour to decide, or NO TRICK OR TREATING.
• 14:52 FUCK, PARENTING IS HARD. Doesn’t he know he’s trick or treating to jack off mommy’s Reeses Cup addiction??
• 21:06 I only hope that “om nom nom” gets buried in the vernacular landfill sometime very soon, next to the rotting corpse of “I can haz.” FUCK.

Automatically shipped by LoudTwitter. Now you can rest easy, knowing my (sometimes incriminating) inner-most thoughts, actions and tampon-change. Please do not call the FBI.

Castle Blood has been one of my favorite haunted houses to go to since I was in high school. It was one of the first, if not THE first, in the area to let you interact with the costumed characters by giving each group a mission to fulfill. Granted, they make it fairly impossible to fail and the prize is the same every year (vampire teeth), but damn if the decor and costumes aren’t fun to look at.

Twice a season, they offer no-scare daylight trick-or-treat tours for kids. We took Chooch last year and he seemed rather complacent about it. I thought maybe this year he’d be more into it, but all he cared about was seeing Dracula. Seriously, the kid was reenacting Pee Wee’s Alamo performance with all of his “When do we get to see Dracula?” inquiries.

Before embarking on our mission, we had to meet with Gravely in the library, who informed us what three talismans we’d have to be on the lookout for in order to pass the test at the end. This year’s theme was Night of the Vampire or something, so he asked, “What can you tell me about vampires?” When it was my turn, I said off the top of my head, “They have to be invited in.

” Gravely said, “That’s a good one, and not one that I hear often. Good job.” I didn’t have time to gloat though, because Henry snidely patronized, “You only know that because you just watched True Blood the other day.” Yes, that’s right, you dumb motherfucker. I just learned that fact in 2009 from an over-hyped, commercialized vampire series on cable TV.  FUCK YOU HENRY. And people wondered why I broke up with him on Facebook.

Chooch did not give one tiny shit about the live actors offering him candy and trying to intimidate him with their make-up enhanced sunken cheekbones and bloody lip-corners. He was entirely too busy poking around all the props and admiring the animatronic bodies clandestinely plugged into walls. I’m starting to think he’s showing an interest in set design.

Alisha had a crush on every corseted denizen. It was embarrassing.

In each room, a new dead person would recite their well-practiced script, but it fell on deaf ears.

Chooch was bored out of his mind, toeing the ground, dropping the talismans he was stupidly entrusted with, and hissing from the side of his mouth, “You said Dracula was gonna be here.” Not like he would have understood half of what was being told to us anyway, since the spiel wasn’t toned down at all for the sake of the underage set. I even caught Henry furrowing his caterpillar brow at words that weren’t exactly SAT-caliber, but still too smart for him. Maybe Chooch would have been more captivated if they had spoken on his level; you know, peppering sentences with the Tarantino All-Spice of “asshole” and “motherfucker.”

I was more excited than Chooch over the candy he was collecting. It was hard for me to keep my hands out of each candy bowl we passed. Especially the one full of Reeses Cups. Shit.

I had to give Chooch a reassuring shove to get him to accept the vial of vampire blood from a vampirate who sounded super sick and I swear to god if we get H1N1 I’ll be so excited to say I caught the swine flu from a motherfucking VAMPIRATE, ya’ll.

Chooch was completely over it by this point. He was sitting on the ground, with his back toward the mad scientist. Only the highest form of insult for a performer, and let me tell you, these people DO NOT EVER DROP CHARACTER. I could have dropped a baby out of my uterus right in the middle of their cobwebbed crypt only for a cloaked witch with a hunch back to come swooping in to say, “Ooh, a freshly baked mortal infant for my witch’s brew!”

Sadly, all good things must end and once proving that we collected all three talismans, we were all given a pair of werewolf teeth that were really just vampire teeth and then we all had to do our best wolf howl. Of course, mine was phenonemal, Alisha’s was weak, and Henry’s sounded as though he was being fucked by a pine cone. This was also the only time Chooch seemed happy to participate, because he’s good at being loud.

And now tomorrow is Halloween and we still have no costume for Chooch. I almost had him convinced to be an old lady. We even went to the thrift shop last night to find him a dress, but he started acting all stupid about it and I got all stressed out and left him and Henry in there. When I ask him what he wants to be, he says, “I just want to be CHOOCH.” So I asked, “And what will you say if someone asks what you’re supposed to be?” He said, “A motherfucker.” NO, NO YOU WILL NOT SAY THAT.

If he doesn’t decide on something easy and cheap by tonight, I’m stuffing a green box around him and he can go as a fucking dumpster baby. Mama’s not playing games anymore.

Oh hay, someone should buy me.

The original of this painting sold back in January to someone local. She wanted to meet in person rather than have me ship it, and I’m really, truly, honest to god not good at that. But I met her anyway one night at a gas station down the street from FedEx (RIP to that job) and it was exactly the recipe for awkward situation that I imagined it to be. The gas station was in a shady area and I totally raped the underneath of my car by driving over a medium that I couldn’t see, and as if that didn’t have my heart in aerobics, our art transaction totally looked like a drug deal. The really awkward part came after she paid me and we both just stood there and I’m thinking, “Oh god, please don’t ask me to get coffee or sometime, please let’s just rip this band-aid off and go our separate ways” and probably I was being paranoid but I thought I saw her body start to do that forward-lurch shoulder-scrunch routine that people do right before going in for a hug, so I interrupted by saying “Thanks!” for the fortieth time and that was that.

And I remember driving home that night thinking that if it really had been drugs, I’d have had so much more money in my wallet right then. After that, I just felt really depressed and while I can’t remember the rest of this with 100% accuracy, I’m willing to bet I went home, drank a ton of wine and cut myself a little a la Degrassi’s Ellie Nash before watching MTV reality shows.

Nice lady, though. Too bad she had to meet up with a paranoid socially retarded freak.

I’ve always felt that if this painting could have it’s own musical theme, it would be “Empty” by B! Machine (only my favorite synthpop musician EVER).

Hello to the hoi polloi.  I was lamenting the fact that my fridge isn’t peppered with amazingly tacky magnets. But getting magnets as gifts makes them so much cooler. And then I thought, “I wonder if I posted a Magnet Casting Call, if anyone out there would actually send me one.” Probably not, but let’s try anyway. Each magnet will get blogged about. You will be famous. Not really. But your magnet might.

If you want to placate me by sending me a magnet (and it doesn’t have to be new!), email me for my address. butgavincantdance [at] gmail [dot] com, boooooy-eeeez. I’ll even make it into a contest, somehow, if enough people play.

In other My Blog Is Broke news, my email notifications still aren’t being sent (read: Henry is too “busy” to look into it and I’m too blog-dumbz0rz). I feel bad about it because some people have asked me if I purposely blocked them, and that’s not the case at all. I would never do that. Unless you’re a Flyers fan. (Kidding. I’m desperate for blog readers so even Flyers fans are embraced luke-warmly.

) No one is getting notified when I post, which might even be a blessing for some! In fact, the LiveJournal feed that I have for this blog is about a week behind for some reason.

Also, I’ve been asked a few times recently from people who use Blogger how they can blogroll me since I’m on WordPress. My answer to that is a bevy of multi-colored question marks undulating above my head. I have no idea. If anyone out there is WordPress savvy and knows the answers to my blogging salvation, please – send help. And quickly.

In the meantime, since subscribing does nothing right now, I would suggest either following my RSS feed by clicking on that handy green RSS button under my header and to the right. Or, if you’re on Facebook, subscribe to my blog there!

I went to a haunted house in Donora, PA last Saturday with my friend Cinn and her boyfriend Bill. I don’t get to see Cinn very often but she’s always been the big sister I never had, so when I do get to hang out with her, it never feels like a ton of time has passed. Every October reminds me of when we met in 1998, and we reminisced about that plenty in the car Saturday night (much to Bill’s chagrin, I’m sure, as he’s heard the story a thousand times by now).

Two years ago, I wrote an essay for a writing class about the event that solidified our friendship, and I guess because it shines a big, embarrassing spotlight on my softer, more sentimental side, I never posted it here.  But I don’t know, who cares. Here it is.

————————————————-

       “Stop, you’re making me choke on Skittle juice!” Cinn screamed from behind the steering wheel. A long ribbon of highway unraveled in front of us and I grimaced when Cinn said we had at least two hours left in our journey. I tickled our ennui by flirting with the driver of every vehicle that had the misfortune of passing us, only exciting the burly and unwashed-looking men manning the gigantic semis that made compact cars like Cinn’s sway perilously.         

       Two days earlier, I was meeting Cinn in person for the first time after several encounters in a gothic chat room called DarkChat. She arrived at my apartment, her shocking red locks were closely shorn to her pate and jutted out in spikes here and there, and we went off to buy our costumes for the upcoming Type O Negative show and Dracula’s Ball in Philadelphia. I knew nothing about her but that she was twenty-eight to my nineteen and lived only a short jaunt away from me. I didn’t even know she was married until that weekend, when I arrived at her house at the designated departure time, but somehow the particulars didn’t seem to apply to this friendship – we had somehow managed to connect based on something entirely more intrinsic than a/s/l.

       Agreeing to go on this trip was just what I needed, coming off the heels of a tumultuous summer filled with break-ins, having my wallet pilfered and car stolen (and then ever-so-thoughtfully returned hours later) by people I thought were friends.  It was a summer that started off strong, full of parties and crushes and a bounty of alcohol, but by the end, it had become a twirling tailspin of depression, loneliness and the stark reality that 99% of the people with whom I shared my apartment weren’t going to be there when I needed them. I had taken to living as a near-recluse, keeping my heavy curtains perpetually drawn, even on sunny-skied days. During this self-imprisonment was when I stumbled across the chat room. At first it was nothing more than a release for my pent up aggression, a place admittedly to flame and mock the suicidal Goth kids; but then I began noticing that there was interesting conversation scrolling past the screen, people gushing about bands that I liked. Before I realized what was happening, I was being sucked in to this strange realm of pale-faced misfits. And I fit in because I was a misfit too.

                                                   ***

       Our dresses hung like black-laced shrouds from the garment hooks in the back of Cinn’s car. The plan was to check into a hotel when we arrived in Philadelphia, change into our off-the-Hot Topic-rack gowns and meet up with another DarkChat user, Your Druidess. I had never chatted with this lady before, but Cinn confidently assured me that she would be standing outside of the Trocadero with our free tickets to the Type O show. Here I was, recuperating from a summerful of broken trust, only to turn around and hand over what little left I was able to scrape up  to this strange woman who I essentially knew nothing about. However, I would be lying if I said I didn’t consider, at least once, that this woman with her Simon LeBon coif was a real vampire, luring me to a sinister abattoir for Internet chat room newbies under the guise of some gothic jamboree. Maybe I might have second guessed some of her innocent sidelong glances, seeing them instead as the shifty glance of a nervous Internet predator.  I would later learn that she was nervous – of what I was furiously scribbling in my vacation journal.

       Her real name was Allison, but she preferred to be called by her online moniker – Cinnamon Girl — and preferred to call me by my chat handle, too – Ruby. Conversation flowed easily between us, even though we had engaged in minimal chat room interaction, and I diligently noted in my journal that she kept count of every cemetery we passed, had an eye for spotting majestic trees, and churned out a myriad of cheesy one-liners, such as “Call me a bitch, but call me” and “Boobage is like mileage,” which I still don’t really understand even a decade later.

       My friends thought I was making a mistake by coming on this trip. Meeting people on the Internet is bad idea, some of them said, trying to deter me. This isn’t going to end well. You don’t even know her. Do you even like Type O Negative? Aside from a cover of “Summer Breeze,” I knew little about Type O Negative, but Cinn changed that with a nonstop Type O curriculum in the car. I’ve been a fan ever since, though it’s a wonder I didn’t wind up abhorring them.

         But that wasn’t the point. It could have been any band, it could have been Anal Cunt, and I still would have said yes. It was something that at nineteen years old, after the reality of the summer’s end had set in, I felt I really needed to do. It would be an experience, something to write about, a story to tell.  I wasn’t in college; I wasn’t living in a dorm and going to frat parties or spending semesters abroad. It may have been just a trip to Philly, but it was more than that to me.

                                                   ***

       “We’re not going to have time to find a hotel,” Cinn said, exhaling a heavy sigh of defeat. We had finally reached the city only to be met with gridlocked traffic. “Start putting your makeup on.” She tossed me my bag from the back seat and I bedaubed my eyelids with a layer of glitter thick enough to make a drag queen proud and possibly get some change tossed at me if I stood on a corner.

       “Do I have to wear these fake eyelashes?” I groaned, tumbling the plastic package over in my palm, in search of instructions. I had already managed to squirt glue in my eye before she had a chance to say anything, but in my journal I wrote that she physically forced me to adhere them to my eyelids else I’d sleep on the streets that night.

       We squeezed into our slutty Morticia dresses in the tight confines of a dingy gas station bathroom. The fluorescent white track lighting made my normal complexion look legitimately sallow and I wished I could achieve that look at the ball. Cinn made that wish her own reality by heavily coating her entire face with white powder, a measure I was unwilling to take. Cinn accidentally dropped a ten dollar bill in the commode.

                                                   ***

       Your Druidess never showed up.

       We stood dejectedly outside the Trocadero for an hour, watching hordes of Type O fans bustling into the sold out show, clutching onto hope so fleeting, it was like cocaine sifting through our fingers. I silently breathed a sign of relief though, because I wasn’t 100% on board with donning my ridiculous Goth uniform anywhere other than Dracula’s Ball. Cinn was openly weeping over this  imbroglio when a big-wheeled pick-up truck sped past, Michael Jackson’s “Man in the Mirror” blasting ironically at high volumes from the windows. I shot my fist into the air and saluted.

       Your Druidess is a stupid name, anyway.

                                              ***

       Refusing to let Your Druidess’s blunder ruin our trip (she was probably a fifty-year-old fisherman, anyway), we decided to make the best of it and seek out the Dracula’s Ball, which we had planned to attend after the show. Driving through Central City on Halloween night, past loading docks and alleys full of shadowed forms, I began to understand why the Fresh Prince’s mom made him move to Bel Air. It didn’t seem like we were in the right place and my old friend Panic began to rise again up my esophagus, like a recently ingested model’s salad. It burned.

       She’s going to stab me with her fake fangs and roll my body into the river. But before I let my paranoia get the best of me by hurling myself from the moving car, I spotted an undulating line of poorly dyed raven locks, billowing capes, and sparkling neck-bound crucifixes. We had found the Dracula’s Ball. In my head, I rejoiced with the Tabernacle Choir.

                                                   ***

       This is high school all over again, I thought as I came precariously close to being engulfed by the obnoxiously large black velvet couch on which I sat, like a shell-shocked Alice at a tenebrous tea party, while Cinn was over at the bar getting refreshments. My feet dangled inches from the floor, the chair was that ludicrously oversized. Cinn came back with a beer, which I grabbed for desperately (and I don’t even like beer), but she handed me a glass of Coke instead, mouthing off some spiel about not contributing to minors.  And here I thought we were bros.     

       We were the first people to be let in, having been hand-picked in front of everyone by Malachi, Philadelphia’s Baron of Goth. I never did find out who he was supposed to be, but I know that girls swooned when he neared them and men shook his hand with great respect shining in their eyes. A top hat nestled stately upon the carefully tousled kohl hair framing an alabaster face; a tailed tuxedo suitable for Marilyn Manson to wear to the market and a cane imprisoned within the grip of a white-gloved hand finished off his meticulous look.  He could be a vampire. He could really be a vampire. When he approached us with an extended palm, every girl gasped in envy. Murmurs of our luck resounded around us as we advanced to the doors, leaving everyone to reapply their black eyeliner in disgust.

       It smelled like a clove and anise cocktail inside the Ball, with a slight trace of sweat and smoke coalescing to provide an acrid after-scent.  Black velvet and gossamer draped from rafters, chandeliers, and limbs, like gauze on an unraveling mummy.                                                                                                                   

       Tall, emaciated boys in high-collared shirts with frilly sleeves strutted to and fro, arms akimbo, feet stuffed into thick-soled black Creepers, while girls spiraled dream-like around the dance floor, giving off the illusion that they were floating above the ground as they skipped in staccato patterns, yet managed to retain their fluidity; cupping their hands into cordate offerings, they contorted their arms in hypnotic patterns which a friend would later tell me he dubbed “Passing the Ball of Energy.” Every third girl had some variation of fairy wings clipped to her back and none returned my smiles.

       You know those stares you get when you leave the house accidentally still wearing the skin-suit you fashioned from your last murder victim? It was like that.

       I tried to tell a girl I thought she danced beautifully and she all but hissed in my face while dripping gobs of glitter much like the molten blobs of wax that plop from tilted taper candles. And here I thought I had escaped the Prom two years before; this must have been Thomas Jefferson High School’s revenge. The girls could see right through my façade, sniffing the scent of my dress’s cheap threads and knowing that it wasn’t purchased in some Elizabethan boutique, branding me a poseur. The acceptance I once felt in the Goth chat room was all but shattered when I was forced to stare this culture in the face, without the shield of a computer monitor.

       Feeling safe with my roots in the wall, my aphasia and I remained sidelined for most of the evening.                                                    

                                                   ***

       “What’s an egg cream?” I asked Cinn, scanning the menu at Silk City Diner.

It was 11:30PM and the diner was sprinkled with several other Ball escapees. Cinn said that we would see how we were feeling after we got some food in our stomachs, that we’d decide then if we were going to go back to the Ball. Under the table, I crossed my fingers for a vomitous outburst, an exploding appendix, an arm severing spontaneously.

       Minutes later, the waitress had convinced me that egg creams were quite possibly the most delicious refreshments one could ever want to flow down their gullet; I imagined Jesus ripping himself from the cross and striding purposefully into the nearest diner and ordering a tall glass of creamed eggs. “What’s the first thing you’ll do when you get down from that cross, Jesus?” “Get myself a nice cold egg cream, friend.” And how could Jesus be wrong?

       The waitress slid a tall glass of egg cream along the Formica table top. I should have known I couldn’t ever agree with Jesus. It was disgusting. A foaming cylinder of soda water and chocolate syrup, essentially. I didn’t know what eggs had to do with it, but there must have been a lot of courage infused into that vile libation, because I felt recharged and feisty, like the Erin I was before my generosity and effervesence had been wringed dry like an old ratty dish rag. Mounting the sparky-vinyl booth, I shouted, “Can I have your attention? We’re from Pittsburgh and I’d like to take your picture!”

        In a surprising twist, everyone graciously obliged. It was like an awakening for me, a reclaiming of that spark that had been robbed from me that summer, the lack of which had quickly shoved me into a shell. I felt rejuvenated from my moment of bravery and decided that I wanted to go back to the Ball.

        But first I had to wait for Cinn to emerge from under the table.

                                                   ***

       She introduced me to the man with red irises, long and slick black hair, and two sets of fangs, saying his name was Tom and that she had met him earlier in the night, during her quest for beverage which should have taken five minutes, not thirty. Suddenly oblivious to my presence, they began making out and I had a feeling this wasn’t the first time their tongues met that evening. I rolled my eyes and wandered around the building, curious what I might find on the other floors.

       The basement was a crypt for kegs and an astringent aroma of cloves and mildew which made my nasal passages feel unwelcome. The second floor seemed dandy until I entered a room that was like walking into a bathroom at Studio 54. Sickly Goths lounged languidly around tables of blow. I had a feeling that probably wasn’t the best room for me to be loitering. I’m a very addiction-prone girl.

       Not really feeling comfortable anywhere inside (except Vendor Alley, where I threw down fifty dollars on a red leather bat choker with wings so salient they bore small holes into the skin of my throat while I wore it), I relocated to a stoop outside, taking solace in my pack of Camels and scribbled furiously in my journal. I began panicking about where I was going to sleep and how I was going to get home, because I realized I had no idea of Cinn’s intentions.  I felt threatened by this man Tom. Women get weird when men enter the picture. I hoped that I wasn’t about to get ditched, although it wouldn’t be the first time.

       I returned the raucous salutations of inebriated passers-by, declined offers of rides and wild nights, and accepted a stamp pad which I promptly tossed to the side, afraid it might be laced with acid or whatever hallucinogenic was popular on the streets of Philly. A homeless man sang in my face until I silenced him with a crumpled dollar.

       As I lit my fifth cigarette with cold-shook hands, I heard a shrill voice reverberating down the sidewalk on a wave of the pulsating beat of Electric Hellfire Club.

                                                   ***

       Every October, I feel nostalgic for that music. I fill my autumns with a rotation of goth-rock bands like Sisters of Mercy and Christian Death; I remember the way those people danced and looked so free, and still wish I could fit in with them. But instead, I listen to this music alone, this time in the warmth of my house, and not from a curb outside of a club, on a cold hemorrhoid-incubating slab of city concrete. Not only am I fake Goth, but a seasonal one at that.

                                                   ***

       “Jesus Christ, I’ve been looking all over for you! I thought you had been stolen, and I was so scared. And then I kept thinking about your damn journal and all the made-up stuff you were writing about me, and what would the cops think—-” She roughly pulled me into her, hugging me tight and petting my hair. It was a scene straight out of a crowded department store at Christmastime, except that I wasn’t a crying child silently thanking Santa for helping her Mommy find her, but a nineteen year old girl with rogue specks of glitter scraping her eyes and a sleep-deprived surliness.

       Tom was still saddled protectively to her side.

                                                   ***

       “Are you sure you’re not hungry? We can stop there,” Carl said, jabbing a finger out the car window at some fast food chain. “Or there.” It was the third time he suggested this supposed good intentioned pit stop. I was seated awkwardly in the passenger seat of his truck, my dread-filled eyes staring straight ahead, glued to the back of Cinn’s car.

       Tom had invited us back to his apartment and devised a brilliant plan which put him in the driver’s seat of Cinn’s car, while I was pawned off on his friend Carl, who appeared to be an amalgamation of Ozzy Osbourne’s and Michael Bolton’s genetic markers. Translating this to mean that Tom and Cinn wanted to spend time alone, I acquiesced – but not without a loud, throat-scraping exhale, the kind that every teenager perfects, to illustrate my annoyance — and joined the lascivious Carl, who was desperate for an excuse to stall our reunion with the others.

       “No, really. I’m not hungry. I just ate two hours ago. A lot. I ate a lot. Four courses, at least.”  My gaze remained indestructible, refusing to let Cinn’s car out of my sight.  “Maybe even eight,” I mumbled in an undertone. I’m going to be so pissed off if I get raped tonight, I thought bitterly.

                                                   ***

       Tom’s apartment was what you’d expect for a man convinced he was a vampire: no matter where you placed your ass, an animal print of some sort was promised to be underneath; black pillar candles occupied every free surface area; Egyptian relics and religious tchotschkes gave the room a very underground Pier 1 ambiance.

       I was trapped on Tom’s couch for three hours, during which I suffered through a painfully awful vampire movie (Vampire Journals), and even worse, Tom’s lame attempt at humorous commentary; a photo op for Carl, in which I appeared to be shrinking back inside of myself while Carl ravenously leered over my shoulder (a photograph I treasure to this day); and Tom’s guided tour through the technological wonderments of WebTV.

       While Tom was searching for a better ankh image to embed in his email signature, I slipped out to Cinn’s car where I proceeded to collapse into frustrated tears in the passenger seat. It was 6AM and I wanted to sleep, but not in Tom’s perverse lair. Cinn came after me, and I sobbed about not knowing what Tom keeps under his floorboards and not wanting to sleep in the same room, building, state as Carl, and I complained of the searing pain I was feeling in my eyebrow. I had just had a new ring put in days before, by a husky goliath in a piercing parlor who looked like he could have just shimmied down Jack’s beanstalk. The gauge was all wrong, but he forced the purple hoop through the miniscule holes in my brow. When I awoke, I was supine and groggy on a couch, and he showed me the paper towel drenched with my blood.

        “I need to wash my face,” I wailed, hiccupping on tears. “This glitter is really making my piercing hurt.”

         Probably scared of what fabricated tale I was bound to weave inside the purple cover of my vacation journal, Cinn placed her hands on my shoulders and promised we would leave right then. She was true to her word. She drove all morning, stopping near Hershey to feed me a nutritious breakfast of raspberry Danish and strawberry muffin.

                                                   ***

        After that weekend, Cinn and I forged a sisterly relationship, which isn’t always a good thing, but I know that she would save my life if she could. We’ll go for months, sometimes years, without speaking, but underneath it all, it was like we survived a train wreck together, a Gothic train wreck of spider-webbed carnage and fish netted limbs, anise smoke and novelty fangs, and that alone bounds us together, no matter our differences or penchants for running off with mysterious strangers. I still haven’t found my place in life, an accepted membership into some snobby subculture, but I’m OK with that. I like being the girl with a cover no one can judge.

                                                   ***

              The night after I returned home found me in the emergency room, with a doctor surgically extracting my eye brow ring, barely visible amongst the swollen patch of eyelid that caused people to mistake me for a mongoloid.  “Look at all the puss that came out!” he lectured me, while two nurses vowed to never let their daughters get pierced.

                       I still have a scar.

Almost as an after thought, I decided we better carve a pumpkin. We’re seriously the most holiday-ambivalent family; even though Halloween is hands down my favorite time of the year, I’d rather just admire everyone else’s haunted yards than cobweb my own.

We tried to decorate last year and it wound up looking like a rusted junk yard. Oh wait, that’s even without decorations.

So after Henry scoured the house for a Sharpie (you’d think we’d have a bounty of them since I’m an “artist”) I pulled myself away from the Penguins game for a whole twenty seconds to scribble out some generic Halloweeny face and then sat back down in front of the TV with my glass of wine while Henry got all hack-happy with a carving knife. I came in during TV time outs to make with the photographic memories,

We thought the booger-loving side of Chooch would emerge and make his gender proud by getting all squashed up in pumpkin guts.

But he was like, “Oh hell nah, that’s disgusting.” So slap another check in the Mommy”s Traits column. I’m blowing Henry out of the water.

Another generic jack o’lantern! I can’t wait for Halloween to be over so I can let it rot on my porch until Christmas and then feed it to blind people.

My favorite is Caesura.  What’s yours?

Henry and his sister want to give their mom pictures of all the kids for Christmas, so his sister asked me to take the pictures because she knows I’m a trillion times better than Henry.

While I’m good at bossing around Chooch and Blake for photos, I don’t really know Kelly’s kids all that well so I’m kind of shy and a lot awkward around them, which sucks because I had some good ideas I wanted to try out.

Because of this, Henry attempted to help me out by yelling directions to them, and all that  resulted in was really unnatural postionings, like he was aiming for the look of a studio family portrait shot in the 70s.

I fired him after this one. I’m not sure what he was trying to achieve by pulling his niece Stephanie out to the side like that, except inducing doubts of self-worth.

I’m amazed that Chooch stood still for all the group photos. And Blake too, for that matter.

“Call me.”

This is the only one I really like; it makes me want them to start a band.  I’d like to try it again some day, when the sun isn’t blinding everyone and my nerves don’t have me in a full nelson.

When I met The Cure’s Robert Smith nine years ago in Canberra, Australia, the experience was so great, so life-changing, that I still to this day have not been able to write about it.

When I met Emarosa’s Jonny Craig last Wednesday night at Mr. Small’s, the experience was shitty and slightly crushing, and because of that, it’s about to be written.

I first met him a year ago in Buffalo when I was there for the Pierce the Veil tour. He was disingenuous, monotone, and seemed to be bothered that Christina and I had the audacity to bug him while he was idling behind the merch booth. This was after he had urged his (twenty) fans to come see him after the set. I had heard stories that he was a dick but thought, “Yeah, but I’m an adult. It should be different.” It wasn’t different. Maybe the fact that I’m older even made it worse, who knows. Christina tried to Novacaine the situation by pointing out that he seemed to be high, that maybe we just caught him on an off night.

So last week, when I saw him and Will from Dance Gavin Dance enter the bar area during Of Machine’s set, I decided to test Christina’s theory. I waited for Of Machine (who killed it, as did Of Mice and Men) to finish up before approaching Jonny, who was sitting at the bar mere feet away from me. We made eye contact as I rose, but by the time I took the TWO STEPS over to him, he had suddenly become extremely interested in his phone, like the fucking White House had just Tweeted him.

As I said hello, he and Will conversed solely with their eyes while I stood in front of them frozen for what seemed to be hours and I suddenly understood the  term “pregnant pause” because I felt that in that time I could have easily got fucked and carried a bastard-child to term, and let me tell you I’d rather go through all the nausea and the hip-spreading and the nine-month sobriety than have to ever be snubbed by some golden boy of the scene. Knowing without a doubt that this wasn’t going to end well, I said hello again and something fucking cliche about being excited for Emarosa’s set and somewhere during this awkward verbal spewage, he gave me the limpest handshake, loosely gripping nothing past my fingertips, and I wanted to say something like, “You know, this is how the Amish fuck” but he wouldn’t even look me in the eyes and at that point, I thought, Well shit, I’m not going to exalt this pompous motherfucker, so I muttered something like, “Enjoy Pittsburgh” or some other Board of Tourism staple and sulked back to my stool. It couldn’t have been more clear that he wanted nothing to do with me at that moment, ever, and made no attempt to even pretend like he gave a shit about anything some lowly life form such as myself had to say.

I’m not some giddy, hyperventilating pizza-faced 15-year-old girl with braces trying to fuck him. I’m a thirty-year-old woman trying to show this piece of shit some respect, and he should be doing the same. I wasn’t looking for an extended tour of Emarosa’s van, for him to halt his entire universe  in order to show me his appreciation by giving me head against a dumpster in an alley; I wasn’t even expecting to take more than a minute of his time.

All I expected was for him to hear what I had to say and at least pretend like it meant something to him, so that I didn’t have to walk away feeling like a blown-off asshole.

When I sat back down, Alisha – who had been within earshot –  said something to the effect of, “Are you fucking kidding me?” I just shrugged and said, “I don’t have time to care. The fucking Penguins are playing tonight.”

Jonny proceeded to sit at the bar (not talking to fans) during the next two bands (Tides of Man and Of Mice and Men), not stepping away from his booze until god forbid his band was ready to go on.

And god bless his band members – they’re really fucking energenic and passionate musicians. But Jonny ruined the set. His voice was off. He was showboating. He was wasted. He had the nerve to rant about respect. It was Alisha’s first time seeing them and I felt bad, because my exchange with him had tampered with the way she viewed him.  And who does he think he is anyway, motherfucking Bono? If there were 100 kids in front of that stage during his set, I’d have been surprised. He should consider himself lucky he got THAT many people to care.

In some cases, I could brush it off. Band members are humans too and they can’t be expected to make time for every single fan; I know this. But it wasn’t like there was a throng of maniacal fans shoving CD inserts in his face and hanging off his shoulders for photos. Because Jonny’s music, his voice, has had an impact on me, it really was a let down. It sucks to know that I’ve spent hours listening to old Dance Gavin Dance (he was the original singer before they kicked him out and Emarosa took him in), letting his voice (which has always been like hot tea in a cavity to me) super glue the synapses in my head when I felt like I was at the end of my rope and I can’t tell him that because a) he wouldn’t care, b) he doesn’t even deserve to know at this point.

I watched him after he left the stage, watched him bypass all the kids on the floor and come straight back to the bar. I won’t lie, Emarosa is a young band with young fans. There were very few of us in the bar area. He should have been out at his merch table, where his fans – the kids – could have talked to him. If he wanted to get wasted at Mr. Small’s without having to “deal” with fans, then he should have brought a bottle of fucking Patron with him and drank himself into a stupor backstage, far away from the feelings of the people who have spent money on t-shirts and albums and shows, where he could send out a hundred misspelled Tweets in private begging for his fans coming to the shows to bring him packs of white Fruit of the Loom t-shirts, size small. Yes, this is what he tweets about and you know what? I’m not your fucking mother, get your own fucking mommy to buy you t-shirts, you  supercilious  beady-eyed fuck stick. Seriously, I have never seen eyes so small and close-set, except on a fucking mole. In fact, he should take the stage by popping out of a mound of goddamn soil, that fucking ginger Napoleon. Who the fuck does he think he is? He hasn’t been in the scene long enough to be able to get away with acting this exultant (shit, he isn’t even HOT enough to pull that off), but even then, there are guys like Craig Owens and Anthony Green who command respect yet are so gracious and appreciative of their fans, because they get it. THAT IS HOW THEY GOT TO WHERE THEY ARE. Oh, and also the fact that their lyrics aren’t vapid exercises in mediocrity.

Clearly Jonny Craig has a circus peanut dick.

Dance Gavin Dance was fierce as shit, though.

Earth-shattering updates throughout the day, brought to you by Tart-Tits. Please try to continue breathing while taking it all in.

• 11:51 Looking for something to watch, I go to Chooch, “How about ‘Glee’?” In his typical surly manner he retorts, “How about NOT ‘Glee’.” Ew. #
• 13:04 I need a couple hours under a sun lamp. And a job. #
• 15:00 I wish I had an experimental mylar flying saucer to send Henry off in. #
• 16:18 If you ever need half a wall painted, Henry’s for hire. #
• 17:29 Tired of pretending everything’s ok. Just tried to will the top of my head to pop off. #
• 20:46 Dear son, here is where you learn about hypocrisy: plz take pictures of someone other than me, thanks. #
• 23:17 Hay look @ the dumb! Halloween Store Videos are the New Lullabies: Chooch is so obsessed wi.. bit.ly/16fXul #
• ***
• 13:09 Our friends @daboogmang & @bed_in_revolt are visiting from MI, & all Chooch can think about is showing them the crawling guy @ Spirit. #
• 18:45 If Just Sitting There was an Olympic sport, the Committee would think Henry was cheating because he’d be THAT good. #
• 21:22 Bill and Jessi brought me a bottle of some homemade alcoholic concoction called APPLE PIE and I’m a second away from drunken bliss. #
• 21:44 Jessi managed to get blitzed before me. Hopefully she passes out soon so I can harvest her kidneys. #
• 21:49 Chooch dialed 666 on Henry’s phone. When asked what he wanted to say to the Devil, Chooch goes, “I wanna tell him, ‘You motherfucker.'” O.o #
• 22:22 @awoodhick & @daboogmang are embro iled in a lively discussion of Faygo and it’s economical merits. Lamest Friday night convo EVER. #
• 23:41 I wish someone would make me their sideline ho. #
• ***
• 01:08 Henry just said, “It can’t be that good – Cameron Diaz is in it” & I laughed so hard that I coughed then sneezed. Definitely drunk then. #
• 10:49 My blog averages 22,000 unique visits a month & you’d never know it. #
• 12:23 Jesus Christ, Chooch is a book bully. He makes librarians weep. #
• 13:00 twitpic.com/lw36w – Getting acquainted with Mr Bill #
• 13:00 Chooch became enthralled w/ the Mr Bill toy in Bill’s van, & is now watching the videos on Henry’s phone. The van is filled w/ “Oh nooo”s. #
• 13:07 On the way to the Halloween store, Bill and Jessi are having private convos in the front of the van. The audacity! #
• 14:18 Henry’s using his restaurant voice. Which is to say he’s mumbling in low decibels. #
• 14:24 Abou t to find out if Kelly O’s Diner deserves it’s spot on Diners, Drive-Ins & Dives, because the Dor-Stop sure didn’t. #
• 14:25 twitpic.com/lwi2o – The bathroom here is a moment in awkwardness. #
• 14:42 Minute 40 of refusing to pee in the bathroom/supply closet here. #
• 16:39 I wish the world could have seen the standoff between Bill & Jessi and my cat Marcy. It was a treat. #
• 18:43 Janna wants to be a realtor for “really really cute towns” & I was so disgusted that I tossed my trash in her bag of Ritz crackers. #
• 20:30 Freddy Kreuger totally hooked me up with Michael Myers and I seriously had heart swelling. #
• 21:37 Janna, in regards to The Lost Boys: “It’s a damn good movie.” How has she not been hired by a newspaper as a film critic? #
• 23:12 Hay look @ the dumb! getting drunk off apple pie: I’ve been in a slight mental rut lat.. bit.ly/lSFIw #
• ***
• 13:22 It’s a good thing not all humans are plagued with anatomical sensitivity like me, or we’d have no doctors. Also probably no serial killers. #
• 16:55 I wish you (the Internet) could have seen @awoodhick flinch when I pretended to throw a ball of clay at him. His moustache even quivered. #
• 19:10 It’s official: Chooch has his own Flickr account. flickr.com/photos/crawling_guy This can’t end well. #
• 20:46 Henry’s reading a book to Chooch & he sounds uncannily like me when I had to read aloud from a book for a play. IN FIRST GRADE. #
• 21:13 Hopes to never be classified as a “mommy blogger.” #
• 21:38 Remember when @daboogmang wouldn’t buy @bed_in_revolt a bunny & 180 orphans lost their liv es? What a fucker. #
• 23:39 Hay look @ the dumb! dreams and shit: Yesterday, Jessi won the title of Best Fiancee in the .. bit.ly/EiOAX #
• ***
• 00:54 Every last broad on the FLN Smart Tips segments needs skull fucked. Real talk. #
• 15:28 Anytime I see George Parros, I think I’m watching vintage #NHL footage from the ’70s, god love him. #
• 16:26 If you strummed my nerves, death metal would likely blow your face off. #
• 16:48 I’d stab my way through a wall of altar boys to get to sushi. #
• 00:19 I’m constantly glimpsing Leatherface’s silhouette in the frosted window of my front door. Exhilarating. #
• 10:01 The fabulous @MrsBsConfession is giving away one of my pendants for the 20th Day of Halloween! Visit silvermoonwitch.blogspot.com #
• 10:24 Me: “Hockey’s on tonight!” Chooch, gesturing disgustedly to NHL TV: “Um, it’s ALWAYS on!” #

Automatically shipped by LoudTwitter. Now you can rest easy, knowing my (sometimes incriminating) inner-most thoughts, actions and tampon-change. Please do not call the FBI

Yesterday, Jessi won the title of Best Fiancee in the History of People Getting Engaged by buying Bill two tickets to today’s Steelers game.

Anyway, if you live in Pittsburgh (which I do) and know anything about the Steelers (which I don’t, on purpose even), then you know tickets are kind of hard to come by and not very cheap when you do. So it was kind of a big deal for Bill, whose dream was to see the Steelers play in Heinz Field, and he cried.

I kind of want to steal Jessi from Bill so she can make my dreams come true, too.

This was right after the ticket deal went down at a nearby gas station.

My favorite part of this picture is totally Jessi in the background, God love her.

And here they are today, before they left for the game. You’d never know they’re from Michigan. Until they start talking all weird.

Actually, I guess I had a dream realized as well. Last night, we went to Cheeseman’s Fright Farm, and Freddy Kreuger totally hooked me up with Michael Myers.

I’m talking about Freddy straight up went and FETCHED him for me after Bill and Jessi were all, “Whoa, back up, g. Michael Myers is her boo, not yo’ triflin’ ass” when he tried horror-flirting with me.  Plus, on the hayride, one of the chainsaw guys totally sat next to me and gyrated all up on my side while waving the chainsaw in my face, and I have to say, it was pretty fucking erotic.

Bill had an opportunity to do something nice for Jessi in return by letting her pick out one of the bunnies that were for sale (and desperately coveted by her) at Cheeseman’s farm, but Bill hates all things cute and cuddly.

Pass it on.

Also we ate lunch at Kelly O’s yesterday (which has graced an episode of Diners, Dive-Ins and Drives*), where Jessi had her first taste of haluski and also managed to go the whole weekend without getting maimed by my cat Marcy, so I think it’s safe to say we all had a good weekend. Except Henry. He’s always miserable.

I’m sad that they’re leaving today.

[*Apparently, Bill hates Guy Fieri, and one of the things on the menu was “Mush, the way Guy likes it”. Bill ranted,  quite disgustedly, “I don’t know what mush is, but if it’s the way Guy likes it, then I know it’s the way I don’t like it.” Maybe I still had some of that apple pie in my system, but that was the funniest thing in the world to me and I wanted to make a plaque to monument that moment.]

I’ve been in a slight mental rut lately. I blame Henry. Somehow, someway, he’s behind this awful malaise.

Luckily, my MICHIGAN FRIENDS Bill and Jessi are visiting this weekend. They came in last night around 7:30 bearing gifts of baked goods, wine, and a Fantastic Four Bop Bag for Chooch. Of course, it only took him about 30 minutes to injure himself on it, and I think Bill and Jessi felt badly about that but they shouldn’t because he finds creative ways to hurt himself even without the aid of extraneous apparati.

They brought me what Bill kept touting as The Best Pie In the World. I graciously snatched it from his hands and thanked him, but in the back of my mind, I’m thinking, “Yeah, I’ll be the judge of that.

” AND IT WAS THE BEST PIE IN THE WORLD. Oh my fucking shit, I can’t even begin to extol it’s virtues, but it’s got like a billion berries in it and some delicious creamy custard-like substance that creates this orgasmic stratum akin to a sucrose reach-around.

Before they embarked on their road trip yesterday, they texted me to see what Henry’s favorite baked good is. This is something that, despite spending the last eight years together, I didn’t know the answer to. Mostly this can be chalked up to the fact that in my mind, Henry doesn’t have any favorites, interests, or thoughts. I called him to find out the answer to this million dollar question, but when he didn’t answer, I texted back what I would want: anything pumpkin flavored.

So “Henry” got a pumpkin bar. And that was delicious, too.

We decided to go down the street to Eat n Park for a late dinner.

Normally, we would walk since I only live a few blocks from it, but it was drizzling and chilly, so we drove. After dinner (a large part of which was spent watching Bill and Chooch thrown down with monster finger puppets, thank god I had a bag of them in my purse), it was raining harder. As we walked back to their mini-van, Jessi goes, “Good thing we didn’t walk,” and Chooch (who is only three, remember), retorted with a very teenagery, “I know, right?”

Back at my house, We began drinking this delightful concoction which is homemade by one of Bill and Jessi’s friends. It’s called Apple Pie, and it’s a homebrewed beverage made from apple cider, apple juice, cinnamon sticks and Everclear. It honestly tasted like an apple pie’s life fluid had been siphoned into red plastic cups so idiots like me can immediately get corcked and start talking super loud and laughing at things that Henry says. THINGS THAT HENRY SAYS. Like that would ever happen otherwise.

Here’s Jessi after one small cup:

And here is me after two cups, plus some wine:

This was taken by Chooch, who can now operate the crappy point and shoot we have. He likes to leave a finger hovering in front of the lens; it’s his signature. Oh, how I celebrate the day he discovered this camera.

Nothing pleases me more than taking time out of my day to delete unflattering photos of me and my chins.

Chooch is so obsessed with the fucking Halloween stores that he now falls asleep watching YouTube videos on Henry’s phone of people walking through them.

That stuff on his hand is nailpolish. Mommy forgot to put it away. Mommy is fucking stressed to the max.

This was previously posted on Facebook, so sorry if you’re seeing it twice.

Earth-shattering updates throughout the day, brought to you by Tart-Tits. Please try to continue breathing while taking it all in.

• 17:05 If someone said you looked like a 60-year old sociopath who hasn’t washed her hair in a year, would you think it was funny? #
• 21:58 Hay look @ the dumb! my bloody-nosed life:  I’ve been out and about the past few da.. bit.ly/4wYQKQ #
• ***
• 18:27 I’m so very twitter apathetic today. Good news for you, though! #
• 18:59 Chooch just informed me that he threw a potato at Henry because he’s a bitch. It’s good to finally have an ally. #
• 22:06 Hay look @ the dumb! October Chooch: I wish Chooch wore a different flannel every day. I l.. bit.ly/L9e06 #
• ***
• 14:01 What the fuck kind of name is Caillou anyway. #
• 14:03 Chooch said he wants Jason Voorhees to get his knife and kill Michael Myers. My heart done broked. #
• 14:57 A trio of drunks just paved over the gorge that was evolving on my front porch, then they ashed in it. Love this rental property. #
• 20:39 I have a very odd child. Must take after Henry, for real. #
• 22:09 Hay look @ the dumb! Exclusive Blog Ho Pendant Sale: This is just for my blog-hoes, you kno.. bit.ly/miKhw #
• ***
• 11:54 In an attempt to give Appledale some lovin’: bit.ly/3JzpE9 #
• 14:21 Me: “Why don’t you sit down?” Chooch: “I can’t. I’m wearing a shirt.” Duh. #
• 15:57 I’m certain my neighbors wear boots made of cinder block, Andre the Giant’s DNA, and complete inconsideration for others. #
• 16:00 Chooch, seeing a hair loss ad: “Daddy needs that.” Me: “He’s not losing his hair.” Chooch: “Let’s make him lose his hair.” I’m so on that. #
• 16:15 Tavares, Tavares, Tavares. #
• 18:58 Started to tell Henry that he’s useless to me; we both choked on laughter over the sheer absurdity of it. #
• 19:07 Every time Henry dresses Chooch, he winds up looking like he just staggered home after a three day bender on a couch in Brooklyn. So scene. #
• 19:59 Henry just texted that some lady told Chooch to have a good night, & Chooch said, “I d on’t want to have a good night.” Attitude! #
• 21:28 Watching the Penguins on the power play is seriously making me drowsy. #
• 22:07 Hay look @ the dumb! “Little Black Backpack” sentiment strum: 1999: First Octo.. bit.ly/2ZPyUS #
• 23:47 Johnny Bananas continues to grow as a cocksucker from Challenge to Challenge. He’s up to King Kong dongs now. #never2old4MTVreality #
• ***
• 00:09 DO NOT GET ME STARTED ON BREAST IMPLANTS. Or else you’ll have to ignore me. Like @awoodhick does. #
• 10:54 Just scrolled quickly past 5 separate Facebook status updates in a row boasting Bible passages. Nothing like being molested by scripture. #
• 11:16 @polarbearclub That seriously made me love you even more. #
• 11:17 #mileystaydeleted. #
• 11:18 just voted “No. twitter is better off without her” on “Do you want #mileycomeback ?” vote too ➔ bit.ly/qoagr #
• 13:12 I don’t know why people always think I have an attitude. I’m like, so nice. #sarcasmornot #
• 12:59 Chooch is trying to insinuate that the red hair bitch on Fresh Beat Band is my gf. He’s singing “Mommy loves a GINGER” & I might punch him. #
• 13:55 It’s always nice to know I got fans on Death Row. #
• 17:37 I was just called a fucker dumbass. I’m humbled. #
• 22:04 Hay look @ the dumb! Hockey : This is a reminder why I love hockey, posted mainly for my ow.. bit.ly/13Qbz9 #
• ***
• 00:31 Don’t front like you don’t want to be watching the new #Degrassi episode, Henry. I hear your appropriately timed chuckles. #
• 00:36 An awesome photographer on flickr whom I really look up to favorited one of my photos & said it’s “just perfect.” I blushed for really real. #
• 01:04 Degrassi makes meth look so appealing. I might need to walk three doors down to Robin’s lab. #
• 10:11 Well. At least my three-year-old son asks me how I’m doing. #
• 17:37 I was just called a fucker dumbass. I’m humbled. #
• ***
• 12:46 CRUXSHADOWS up in here. #
• 13:09 twitpic.com/kzi5k – Chooch & his fucking computer games. #
• 14:22 Just found out I’m going to a hockey game on December 5th, and that’s quite alright by me. #
• 19:37 I’ve successfully convinced Chooch that Sergei Gonchar is his dad. He just saw a fight & yelled “Did that guy hit my Daddy?!” #fantasyhockey #
• 19:44 Guys, we know you’re all jelis of Letang’s perfectly tousled locks but a high-sticking isn’t going to make him spill his beauty regimen. #
• 20:11 I think Henry just told me he loved me, in some roundabout way. #
• ***
• 00:18 Remember when my cat Nicotina was staring at me and Henry’s not a napkin? #
• 00:46 I’ve always disliked all the parts with Debbie. #
• 12:24 Came downstairs to find Chooch watching Adventureland. On Pay Per View. “I saw it & I wanted to watch it,” he reasoned. I’m like, “Ur 3!” #
• 12:58 Going to take pictures of Henry’s family. This shouldn’t be awkward AT ALL. #
• 20:05 TRUFACT ALERT: @saucalisha’s favorite album in high school was RIVERDANCE. I have evidence before me, in her own handwriting. #
• 22:27 Dunno why ppl feel compelled to YouTube themselves walking thru Halloween stores, but Chooch watches them all in bed. Every night. #
• 22:34 twitpic.com/l7hpz – He just taught me how to navigate around YouTube on Henry’s phone. Scary. #
• ***
• 01:52 rofl I just pistol-whipped a baby lol j/k n/m #
• 10:33 Hay look @ the dumb! Art Promo: Caesura: The sun was beating down on them that day like a .. bit.ly/G1yFI #
• 10:44 I’m a little sore today from when that albino pushed me down the cellar steps; & the trepanning that happened later was awkward at best. #
• 11:55 Chooch is getting his 1st taste of Killer Klowns From Outer Space but all he cares about is the ice cream truck so far. #
• 17:51 Proof I need a break: caught myself using the complete opposite word of what I wanted FOUR TIMES today, in blog posts, emails, & stories. #
• 18:15 Always choose a safeword for your partner that is upward of 15 syllables to get the most pleasure from their pain #ruleofrelationships #
• 19:39 I get such a kick out of it when @awoodhick forwards my angry texts back to me. Oh memories, you know? #
• 20:10 Holy shit, Billy fucking Guerin. #
• ***
• 01:52 I fear getting offed by a basement-dwelling maniac while emptying the litter box. Hopefully I die doing something cool. Like macaroni art. #
• 11:23 New Freaky Feature is Coral from Tiny Tragedies/Tiny Tiara. She’s fantastic& now’s ur chance to find out 4 urself! bit.ly/32baCs #
• 11:55 Confirmed : The Troy and Kwame hey day is donezo. #
• 14:51 Finally found amazing local wedding photographers that meet my ridiculous standards. @awoodhick, you can propose now. #
• 15:23 WHAT, Henry used to play FOOTBALL!? Oh my sides hurt from laughing. I wonder if he knows Madden NFL doesn’t count. #
• 19:25 Oh my god I love my kid. The whole world is his stage, even when he’s tripping over it. I wish I was half as entertaining as him. #
• 21:17 How have Henry and I lasted eight years together with diametrically opposed pizza palates. #
• 22:21 Serves me right for glancing at Facebook before watching the Hell’s Kitchen finale. Owellz0rz, at least it was the person I wanted to win. #
• ***
• 13:28 I just thanked my kid for letting me use the computer long enough to pay my phone bill. Something’s not right about that picture. #
• 14:25 SHIT. My fake weener fell off & I can’t find it. #
• 14:34 I lost the words to Patty Cake. They’re probably off somewhere with my fake weener, playing jacks. #
• 16:02 Henry and I just took a drink at the same time. Soul mates! #
• 16:52 I know, the concept of turning right on red can be a real brain buster. #
• 17:46 I’m eating pre-show pie from a cardboard box & Alisha has returned to her roots by giving her ketchup a hearty pepper-dandruffing. #
• 17:47 OK fine, upon eating a french fry dipped in Alisha’s ketchup concoction, I’m here to report that it’s ok. #
• 17:53 I love it when I’m out with Alisha and strangers constantly feel compelled to chat with me. It makes her so angry & that makes ME glad. #
• 18:39 Nearly moved to tears by Of Machines. Even though the singer is dressed as Wolverine. #
• 18:41 But the mom in me desperately wants him to stop swinging the mic. Oh honey, please be careful. #
• 19:05 Was quickly reminded of how dickish Jonny Craig is in person. Newsflash Jonny – you’re not that famous. #
• 20:47 I’m glad I paid to hear the people next to Alisha sing out of tune. #
• 21:32 Let me tell you about excruciation: sitting at a club while the Penguins are in a shootout & I can’t watch. #
• 21:39 Old school Dance Gavin Dance, shit yes. #
• 21:52 ALISHA ELBOWED MY BOOB & PENS WIN & DANCE GAVIN DANCE IS SO OMG-YAY. #

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