Before I bury you in a landslide of bullet points, I just want to thank every single person who reached out to me about my post the other day, whether it was on my blog, Facebook, Twitter, to my face at work, text—however you did it, thanks! I always enjoy feedback, especially when it’s positive. (Haha, I mean, duh.) I’m really glad that I was able to write something that resonated with so many people; I half-expected people to think I was just being silly (maybe that’s because one of my friends actually made me feel that way when I was telling her the story). It sucked to write it, but that’s life. Disappointments around every corner! Anyway, onward.

• I think I’ve worn stained clothing every day this week because I’ve been too sick to notice and also because I guess hanging dirty clothes in my closet is my new thing, I don’t know. At least today I got to cover my stain with a sticker proving that I donated $5 to wear jeans to work. I’m not a rebel like Jeannie, who wore jeans without boasting her sticker. (This is only a bullet point because Barb wanted it to be.)
• Hey speaking of wearing jeans to work, it’s a good thing I wore them because I’ve been spending the evening cleaning out my office because I GOT A NEW POSITION! Woo! It’s a lateral move, but IDGAF because it means that finally after 4 years, I get to work a normal daylight shift and not be a mole person anymore! I’m a little apprehensive because I will have a new boss and I have to learn an entirely new process, but holy shit now I can go to all of the concerts without having to request off work and NOW I CAN EAT DINNER WITH MY FAMILY AGAIN! What a fucking novelty. I’m excited to rejoin society and maybe get to go to a fucking happy hour once in awhile, Christ. I think this is going to be a good thing. Bye-bye tech support. I never fit in on over there, anyway.
  • Mean Amber was practically salivating last night at the prospect of training me for my new job, so now I’m kind of scared, ha-ha!
  • I almost started having a panic attack after I said yes to the new position and it’s almost like Jeannie can sense my fear/increased perspiration, because she came over and was like, “Let’s talk about how this is a good thing” and then I no longer felt like I was crouching on the Chicago Skydeck with the glass spidering beneath me.
  • Within 30 seconds of Sue sending out the “monthly news” email, which included a mention of my new position, Glenn emailed me and asked if there was an appeal process. HA HA HA.

• What you are seeing above is my contribution to a coloring contest going on here. I don’t understand why someone put a question mark on it. I think it’s self-explanatory that it was colored by someone in the middle of a rage blackout?
• Last weekend, I learned that those little Brit bitches, Sophia Grace & Rosie, have their own MOVIE, so I made puking noises. “I know, right!?” Chooch cried. He’s the best, you guys. (Except when he’s not.)
• This whole week has been fucking weird and disorienting. I kind of feel emotionally jostled.
• We watched “Pompeii” last night and it was not very good and I can’t remember anyone’s names but the whole time I was screaming, “THAT BLACK GUY BETTER NOT FUCKING DIE! HE’S GOING TO DIE, ISN’T HE!?” He was way better than that one white guy. It was OK but somehow I still cried at the end because that’s all I do now is cry.
  • Meanwhile, Chooch got all worked up when he found out I’ve been to Pompeii. He is OBSESSED with Italy and the more he finds out about my childhood, the more resentful he gets. It’s a super fun game we play, you guys! Team Erin, amirite?! AMIRITE?!!??!!? Also, his response to “Hey, the Senator is David from Lost Boys” was “No.”

• “So then I asked daddy if I could drink vodka and he was like ‘NO!’ And I was like SORRY, I didn’t know!” – Chooch, recounting his day to me.
• Hey, speaking of Chooch, he’s been watching YouTube cooking videos. Last weekend, he came bursting into our bedroom (scared the hell out of me) and said, “OMG look you guys! It’s a delicious DIY Superbowl snack!” and thrust his phone into my face. So after they picked me up from work last night, we had to go to the grocery store to get ingredients for lemon bars that Chooch wants to make. What is he, a goddamn Henry wannabe now? Then we came home and he settled in for more cooking shows:

• King Shit’s (Jonny Craig’s) ex-fiancée is following me on twitter now and we’ve had some interaction over the past week. I have to say, I am really sorry that I never bothered to give her a chance until all of this shit went down, because she is fucking great. And so much better off without him. I’m not going to lie, I kind of wish she was my best friend. She’s like the prettier, funnier, smarter, more talented and awesome version of me. So basically, not like me at all. But this whole situation has made me think about how different and more terrible break-ups are these day. When I went through my last break-up, which admittedly was actually not messy and a pretty clean break, that was in 2001. There was no Facebook or Twitter to put your ex on blast. I hadn’t even started my LiveJournal yet, so any hateful things I had to say would have been to the pages of my real life diary or to my cats. Can you imagine if Henry and I split? I would fucking break the Internet, you guys. Henry would have to go completely off the grid so I wouldn’t be able to harass him via social media. But let’s be honest, I would wait at least a year or two before Catfishing him.
  • #Teammandaface4l
  • In other King Shit news, Trenton from Hands Like Houses tweeted the other day: “Referring to women as bitches, sluts & sexual objects – meant seriously or not – is what creates a cultural attitude that this is ok.” I thought that was wonderful! But then I was like, “Wait….” So I replied and thanked him for that sentiment but asked if he was aware that he’s currently on tour with someone who makes awful comments about rape and domestic violence. I don’t even care if I get attacked by close-minded fangirls at this point. I’m not keeping my mouth shut on this one.

• Not gonna lie, this Artifex Pereo album that was just released this week just might be the album of the year. Please, please, please do yourself a solid and purchase the shit out of this. Especially if you like non-screamy, classic post-hardcore in the vein of Circa Survive. They also remind of me a tiny bit of The Receiving End of Sirens, if you’re into that. And if not, you should be because that was a great fucking band. I’m trying to get Henry to agree to go to Cleveland to see them on July 5th with Icarus the Owl, because these guys are going to fucking explode, I just know it, and I would like to see them while they’re still playing a small show in a bowling alley. So tell Henry to take me. It’s a Saturday, for Christ’s sake!

• One of our old co-workers, Missy, came back yesterday! Not just for a visit, but to actually take back her old position, so that’s been exciting because too many people were leaving there for awhile. Sandy decided that we should make a welcome back sign for her and assigned several of us letters to decorate. Can you guess which one is mine? I want to say it’s totally fancy, but I feel like that’s basically complimenting Glenn and ew. no. Anyway, I also got the “K” but I was running out of time to color it so my last minute inspiration was to model it off a blouse I imagine one of our co-workers could possibly wear.
• Tonight, I’m meeting up with some local bloggers to discuss the possibility of putting together a ‘zine! I can’t tell you how stoked I am for this. When Jeannie asked me what I was doing this weekend, I was like, “Ugh, I’m sure you’re going to mock me, but…” and then I told her but she was like, “No, for once, I actually think that’s cool.” BABY STEPS, you guys! One day, Jeannie will admit that she thinks I’m totally cool.
• Fuck the Rangers. Fuck the Blackhawks.
• Chooch has a birthday party to go to at the roller rink after his piano lesson and I’m actually excited to go with him because my undiagnosed illness has prevented me from exercising ALL WEEK (seriously, I haven’t exercised since last Sunday morning before we left for Allentown and I feel such fat) so I’m looking forward to skating off some of the chub.
• SPEAKING OF ALLENTOWN (ugh that trip is going down in infamy), some of you guys seemed to really like the whole live blogging thing! (Barb was excited to tell me that on Tuesday because sometimes she likes to prove that she still reads this sinking ship.) So, maybe that format will happen from time to time. Let’s not get too carried away though. Although, we do have a small road trip coming up in June, so maybe then? I have to say, it was nice to knock those posts out in real time as opposed to coming home and trying to put together something from memory. And also, if I’m putting all that shit in a blog post as it happens, then I’m not tweeting and Facebooking every single backhanded thing Henry says to me in the car, so there’s less Erin in your feed. Win/win. I love writing (or blogging, since some people might argue that what I do these days is a far cry from writing) and as excited as I get to document things, I also put this weird fucking pressure on myself to GETITDONE!!! and you know what that really makes me want to do? Watch music videos on YouTube instead. I’m so defiant that I even defy myself. THIS IS WHY I DON’T GET ANYWHERE IN LIFE.
• Real Talk: I’m glad that blogging is one of the few things in life I haven’t given up on.

OK, go! Enjoy your weekend, fools!

This Flashback Friday is from one of my favorite times at Lakemont Park with Henry, Chooch, Alisha and my brother Corey, from September of 2009. The only thing missing from this post is the huge temper tantrum I threw after we left when Henry said the magic words: “Where do you want to eat?” Fuck, that sets me off. I might be back later with some bullet points if I can continue this daunting task of keeping my head up at my desk.

Anyway, enjoooooy.

You know that game, Roller Coaster Tycoon? The game where you build your own theme park and it’s supposed to be totally fantastical? Imagine you’re me, playing that game and getting frustrated after ten minutes, leaving half the park unpaved with rides (the cheapest ones because you’re on a budget) plunked down intermittently with little to no planning and at some point you notice that there’s a giant, gaping vacant lot between the bluegrass band playing on a shoddy stage and the cinder block arcade that smells like b.o. and cabbage and what better way to get people to form a human-worm than by dropping down a Monster Truck and offering rides, and then you start to get out of control and before you know it, you’ve built a stand shilling $7 gyros and a pavilion pawning Christian-inspired wreaths. And please make sure half of your rides aren’t running.

Now imagine this is a real life park and you know exactly what Lakemont Park in Altoona, PA is like.

And for some reason, we decided to go back. Well, the $5 admission might be a good reason.

Blake opted out this year, maybe because last year he was the equivalent of tossing Dennis Rodman into a camp of albino midgets. In Pittsburgh, he mostly doesn’t stand out. But in Altoona? A town where the inhabitants still bust out their Desert Storm sweatshirts? A town like that, someone like Blake gets more than his fair share of stares. So Alisha filled in for him, and Corey, who goes to school somewhat nearby at Pitt-Johnstown, met us out there. When he called me upon arrival at the park, I helpfully told him that I was wearing a pink hoodie.

“Because your brother hasn’t met you before?” Alisha asked snidely.

Alisha wouldn’t ride the old cars with me, choosing instead to wait for her own car. Now that I think about it, this might have been the only time all day where I wasn’t called “stupid” on a ride. Perhaps riding alone has its perks.

Oh, the Toboggan! How I missed thee. Alisha actually rode with me on this one. She bit her tongue when the car got to the top of the tunnel and I didn’t find out until later, but that didn’t make me laugh any less.

I had a crush on pretty much every boy working there, except for the yokel who was manning the Scrambler, who had Alisha and me get on first, causing us to nearly squash the shit out of my three-year-old. My right bicep was on fire afterward from all the bracing I did. And then you would think he would stick around after unlatching our car to ensure Chooch’s feet safely met the ground but NO. He walked away, leaving me to hold Chooch’s hand as he jumped off the ride, bending my arm in a way that only Gumby should be familiar with. I couldn’t hold on to his hand any longer, so he ended up FALLING OFF THE RIDE AND LANDING ON HIS BACK UNDER THE CAR.

Mother of the Motherfucking Year, right here.

Thankfully he didn’t get hurt, but I know it must have been jolting for him. He stood up and brushed himself off while I was all, “OMGOMGOMG” and Henry was standing on the other side of the fence, watching this whole spectacle, rolling his eyes at my incompetence. It was an awesome moment for the scrapbook.

He apparently wasn’t too traumatized by my Spears-ism, because he rode it again later with Corey.

Corey out-mothered me by assuring that Chooch’s feet were firmly planted on the gravel before letting go.

Leap the Dips is the oldest working roller coaster in the country or solar system or some shit. I forced Chooch to ride it, because even though he was dragging his feet, I knew he’d be ok and I really want to infuse him with coaster-lust as soon as possible so that I’ll have a ready-made riding partner at some point. I mean, this coaster is so ridiculously tame, there aren’t even any seat belts. It goes, like, 5mph. Chooch was still insisting that he didn’t want to ride it as Henry got him situated in the backseat, but I whittled away at his masculinity like any good parent would do in a situation like this, pointing out all the little GIRLS who had ridden it before him and come off enthusing and expounding the merits of this coaster granddaddy, and before he knew it, we were at the top of the hill and coasting languidly over shallow dips. I stole a few glances behind me and Chooch’s face was in a paralytic state of shock, but by the time the ride was over, he was all “Woo hoo, that was awesome.”

Chooch pulled it off with more aplomb than Corey, at least.

This photo was taken moments after Corey confessed that he made up the “life changing moment” speech he had to give in his public speaking class. Apparently, we had an Uncle John who never married and therefore treated us as his own children, so when he ended up dying of brain cancer, Corey took it tremendously hard and still wears the deathbed cross that good old unkie bestowed upon him shortly before giving up the ghost. This was the moment I realized that for sure, with no doubt, Corey is my brother.

I’m trying to get Henry to funnelcake-house our living room. It’s not going very well, but I have some secret weapons I’ve yet to unleash. And by that I mean hedge clippers and a taser.

We spent some time in the stinky, humid locker room of an arcade for some reason.

I tried to give that son of a bitchin’ lion a high-five afterward and he completely snubbed me.

People kept staring me down, giving me blatant once-overs. And I didn’t even have pink hair yet. That’s Lakemont for you.

Alisha, Corey and I rode the Monster with a mother who insisted on bringing aboard her 2-year-old daughter. I was frightened for her. And for my safety because I’ll be damned I’m getting clocked in the head by a toddler upchucked by a ride whose height restrictions she wouldn’t meet at any other respectable amusement park. Right as the ride started, Corey hollered, “Remind me to tell you something funny about September 11th!”, a statement which is #8 in the “How To Silence a Crowd” handbook. He also belted out “Vagina!” at one point and at first I was like, “Dude, there’s a small child on this ride with us!” but a quick once-over of her mother gave me gruesome sepia-toned visions of belligerent battles with a drunk husband/boyfriend over top a dinner table set with greasy buckets of fried chicken and cans of Pabst and a bathroom laden with hyperdermic needles so at that point I felt free to verbally masturbate with every cuss-combo I could think of as Alisha made our little monster tentacle pendulate so fast that I couldn’t breathe through the laughter, forcing her to yell, “You’re stupid” for the 678th time that day.

Remember last year when Blake and I rode a metal monstrosity called the Skydiver because it looked like a harmless yet fun take on a ferris wheel? And I vowed to never ride it again? And I said shit like this about it?

See this ride? This is a fucking ride built by the cooperative genius of Hitler, Satan and Mr. Burns and camouflaged behind the cute and fuzzy appearance of a ferris wheel. LOOK CLOSELY. LOOK AT THOSE CARS, JUST DANGLING THERE HARRY CAREY. LOOK AT HOW SOME OF THEM ARE UPSIDE DOWN AND POINTED TOWARD THE HARD, GRITTY SURFACE OF THE EARTH.

Of course, Blake and I simultaneously salivated at the sight of a metal contraption that could potentially send us spiraling to a grisly demise, after which I would hope our mangled, mashed, and possibly vivisected corpses would be studied laboriously and recreated for the next “Final Destination.”

No one was in line when we approached, but a trio of teenaged girls stood near by, ogling its height with craned necks. We assumed that the ramp they were standing near was the entrance, but it turned out to be the exit so we were sent away by the two greasy beer-bellied attendants. As we passed the girls on our way to the real entrance, one of them said, “Oops, we made them think this is the entrance by standing here,” and I called out, “I know! Now we look dumb!”

NO, WE LOOKED DUMB FOR WILLINGLY PUTTING OUR LIVES INTO THE FATE OF THIS FUCKING RIDE THAT THEY CALL THE SKYDIVER. First, the padded bar was slammed down onto legs and applied so much pressure that I went numb below the knees. It created a beautiful illusion of amputation, so much that I began complaining of phantom limb pain before the ride even started.

Did I mention we were the only ones riding it?

We hadn’t even made a full revolution before my body was wedged against the side of the cage, leaving a very fashionable waffle print against the side of my face, and I’m not sure but I think my bowels were capsizing. Our cage was spinning and revolving and flipping in so many different directions, and combined with revolutions of the actual wheel itself, I had no fucking idea what direction we were facing. Except when our cage was pointing straight down to the ground, giving us the delightful sensation of plummeting toward Hell.

I knew we were at the bottom when I would catch blurred glimpses of the neon green shirts of the attendants, so I would scream – NAY, bellow – “PLEASE LET US OFF THIS FUCKING RIDE. OMG FUCK YOU PLZ.” I began wondering if it would count if I quickly typed up a Living Will on my Blackberry. I think Blake was crying. Every time it would fling us upside down, my arms would shoot out to brace myself, even though the lap bar was ensuring that nary a penny could escape.

Just then, the spinning began to slow, gears cranked and ground, and eventually we slowed to a stop near the attendants. My hand flung to my heart and I started to thank them, but my words slurred AS THE RIDE EMBARKED ON A BRAND NEW CYCLE, BACKWARD.

My body gave up fighting and resumed its former position, smashed against the grated window of our torture cell. I began clenching, to prevent any accidental pants-poopage. “Please God, don’t let me poop my pants in front of Blake. He’ll tell all of MySpace” I prayed to the giant pink plastic heart pendant that became my makeshift Skydiver rosary. That’s what fifteen-year-olds do, you know. Send out bulletins, outing adults who poop their pants. That’s what’s I’d do too, if the opportunity ever presented itself.

The first round was obnoxious, but tolerable, like watching an anal fisting. You grimace, you laugh at the enlarged asshole, you cry a little.

But then the Skydiver decided it had to go backward too, and that was about as unnecessary and gratuitous as the part where the girl shits on a glass table.

And that is how the Skydiver is quite like a Japanese porn.

Well, because I’ve clearly been fucked with the Downs dildo somewhere along the cobblestone road to the whorehouse, I rode it again this time. TWICE. IN A ROW. There’s no single riders, probably because without that extra slab of flesh in the cage with you, you’re more likely to oscillate the cage right off its hinges and soar into orbit. Or crash in a heap of mangled metal and annhilated anatomy.

The first time, I rode with Alisha. After ensuring our ovaries were sufficiently dessicated under the pressure of a large padded saftey bar, the real life before picture of a Proactive Ad slammed our cage shut and sent us off into oblivion where flashbacks of last year’s crucifixion inside a life-sized cheese grater came crashing back to me like a meteor into earth. There’s one point of this ride where it stops. Just fucking STOPS while you’re at its pinnacle, vignettes of Christmas past zooming by your eyes like a crudely drawn flip-book, and once you get around the dizzying sensation of being a trillion feet from cement you realize that you’re suspended in some sort of doggy-style position thanks to the padded bar that’s keeping your lower half melded into the seat, and then you can’t help but think that Elizabeth Bathory surely had something similar to this in her dungeon to give her prisoners a good, proper anal skewering.

And then you start thinking of horror porn and what? Doesn’t everyone think fondly of porn when they’re on the edge of the cliff, ready to plummet to death?

While it was an intense ride, it wasn’t as physically painful as I had remembered it to be last year, so I felt confident getting back on the saddle immediately with Corey. But this time, the ride operator smashed down the bar in such a way that it gripped a bunch of skin on my upper thigh and pinched it tight. I tried to scream at him to get it off me but I’m sure all he heard was “Hey waaaaaaiiiiiiii————-” as our cage whirred away from the station. And every revolution heard me shouting, “You fucccccccckkkkker!!!” and “PLEASE STOPPPPPPPP!” and “I’M PREGGGGGGGGGGnant!!!!!”

The physical pain of Round 2 was so overwhelming that I was unable to notice anything else going on. Bolts could have been popping out. A unicorn could have flown past and crop-dusted me with rainbow piss. All I knew was that the skin on my legs was accordianed underneath that FUCKING bar and my 6-foot-giant brother was slamming into my left side and I could have gone all Hellraiser and melted through the grated side of that cage and I’ll tell you what, that would have been a welcomed relief.

They need to renovate that bitchin’ ride, make it more comfortable. Maybe throw in some purple velvet seat cushions and instead of that bar, they might want to dig up some mermaids to kneel on the floor and hold the riders’ legs with massaging hands. And I’m talking about the good kind of massaging hands.

I swear to god, for real this time, I’m done with that ride. But like any good abusive relationship, I’ll probably take it back next year, when it bats those beautiful blinking carnival lights at me.

My first time at Lakemont Park can be found here.

More photos here.

I’ve been moderately sick all week. Allergies? Cold? Sinus infection? I can never tell & I’m straight stupid when it comes to taking medicine.

I wasn’t feeling particularly worse today than the other days, but I was definitely pretty sluggish. I was making some mistakes too which we all know is highly unusual for me. (Lol.) Also, my head felt…full…and everything sounded amplified to me. So when my office neighbor was eating some type of chips, it honestly sounded like he was lunching on glass. I had to walk away.

I asked my supervisor if I could just work through my break and leave a little early tonight.

She said that was fine and then she looked at me, like really looked at me, and cried, “Oh wow, you look awful! You are sick! Go home now!” And then she sent out an email to the department saying I was leaving early because I was sick so then other people, people I had spoken to multiple times already today, were like “OMG YOU DO LOOK SICK!”

And I’m like, thanks guys because I wasn’t even feeling THAT SICK and I didn’t think I looked that terrible?

So I left work at 5:30 (normal time for everyone else, but early for people resigned to working late shift for the rest of their lives) and felt totally weird about it because…I wasn’t that sick!

Except now it’s 9pm and you know what? I’M SICK. :(

I only meant to write 4 sentences tops explaining my current state but look at what happened. Anyway, the whole point is that I tried to get Henry to guest blog about the show in Allentown but he’s being a bitchkebob about it so here are two pictures of Marcy instead. (But raise your hand if you want a Henry Guest Post!)

In 2009, I wrote a blog post that I had no idea would become the most-viewed thing I had written. It was called “Jonny Craig is a Piece of Shit.” Back then, I thought I was the only one who had shitty experiences with him in person. But it is consistently viewed to this day, do you know why? Because “why is Jonny Craig an asshole?” is a popular search term. Occasionally, someone will leave a comment on that post, too. Most of those comments are from ex-fans who want to share their own horror stories with me, but there are also the scathing ones from rabid supporters, telling me I’m pathetic, that he doesn’t owe me anything as a fan, and that I’m clearly butt-hurt.

Look. I’ve only been butt-hurt once in my entire life, and that was when I lost my footing on a pile of pumpkins at Trax Farm and wound up sitting on a stem. True fucking story for all of you pumpkin porn fanatics out there.

Anyway, the catalyst of that post was meeting him for the second time during the Dance Gavin Dance/Emarosa Squash the Beef tour. He was standing behind me at the bar in Mr. Small’s and literally all I wanted to do was tell him how much I enjoyed Emarosa and what an impact their music had on me emotionally, how it stimulated my creativity (back then, I had based some of my paintings off their lyrics), and how interwoven it had become with my life. I wasn’t trying to sit on his lap (let’s face it, I’m too fat, much ugly for him anyway) or make him sign shit. I wasn’t trying to pull him away from his alcohol for a photo session. I just wanted to say nice things to him for < 30 seconds, God forbid. It took every ounce of courage I could muster just to even say hello to him, after years of allowing his voice to be the personification of my dysfunctional friendship with my ex-BFF Christina.

But he just stood there and stared at me, making it clear that I was boring the shit out of him, so I mumbled, “Enjoy your stay in Pittsburgh” and walked away with my head down. It was humiliating and I know that he was making fun of me as soon as I walked away.

Because that’s what douchebags do.

When you put so much stock in a person like that, raising them up on some shaky pedestal, creating images of them in your mind, and then the reality of their personality shatters everything you had built up, it’s devastating. Maybe that sounds pathetic, but music has always been how I have coped with things. It enhances all of the good times and softens the bad. So now when the singer of a band that had made me feel so good has single-handedly made me feel AWFUL, well, it was a little emotionally traumatic.

It’s amazing how we deify these underserving people in the name of fandom.

He sounded like shit that night too. Drunk, stumbling, forgetting lyrics. It was my friend Alisha’s first time seeing Emarosa and her succinct review was: “They’re terrible!”

No, Jonny Craig is terrible.

I vowed to be done with him after that, and I was doing well until Emarosa released their next album in 2010 and I couldn’t resist. I still hated him. But I felt if I could separate my personal feelings for him from the music, I would be fine. Besides, wasn’t that what all of my detractors were telling me to do in certain harsh terms on my blog?

The problem is that as soon as I hear his dumb voice, I melt. It has nothing to do with him. I forget what a douchebag he is and all I can remember is how good it feels to be that into music. And it somehow kept me psychically connected to Christina, even when we were no longer speaking. It always goes back to that anyway.

Meanwhile, Henry was totally annoyed. He doesn’t get the whole “OMG JONNY CRAIG SINGS LIKE AN ANGEL!” argument, and it drove him nuts how I would turn into a 30-year-old fan girl at the mere mention of his stupid name. You know how I have pretty much based this entire blog on hassling Henry, right? I mean, unless this is your first time reading it. So if he hates Jonny Craig, then I am going to FUCKING BE OBSESSED with Jonny Craig.

My obsession can be broken down like this:

5% immaturity // 10% mental illness // 10% sincere love of his voice // 75% desire to drive Henry into an early grave.

(I triple-checked to make sure that added up, btw.)

And let’s face it: I thrive on being obnoxious.

I ran with it. Jonny Craig became my shtick. I made a Jonny Craig Christmas tree topper. I had my friend Maya make me a Jonny Craig doll. I hung up pictures of him around my office at work (if you go to the Law Firm and start questioning people on my floor who Jonny Craig is and they don’t know, then obviously I must never talk to that person, ever). This whole time, it was helping me cope with issues that Christina had left me with. I know, some people would just get therapy. But I’ll just sit over here and hug my Jonny Craig doll. Because projection is normal. Right?

The MacBook scam happened. The detox. The rehab. I was prepared for this to be the end of the Jonny Craig story, but then he started dating a girl who seemed to really change him, or at least, she was trying. And the crazy part was that she didn’t seem like a basic groupie. She seemed pretty intelligent, which one might argue about since she got involved with JC in the first place, but love is blind, you guys. I’m with Henry, aren’t I? Of course, I had to keep up my Crazy Jonny Craig Fangirl Persona and act like a nutcase when they got engaged (I think I might have even referred to her as Jonny’s penis-cozy in one of my faux-fits, what the fuck is wrong with me), but really–I hoped that she would save him.

Because as much of a loose cannon as he is, he really is a bright spot in a scene overflowing with generic, formulaic background noise.

All of these things I was willing to overlook because the music meant that much to me. I was so excited when Henry reluctantly agreed to drive five hours to Allentown last weekend so that I could see Jonny’s new band, Slaves. But then when I was going through his twitter feed to get screen shots of the nasty things he was saying about Emarosa (I wanted to have those as visual aids for my Emarosa blog post; can you stand how thorough I am?), I ended up seeing some terrible things.

Really awful things.

Jonny and his fiancée are currently going through a messy breakup, and he had a tweet that said if he saw her being raped, he wouldn’t stop to help.

He had another tweet saying that he never beat her when they were together but now he wishes he had. He deleted the original tweet but his retweet of this smart girl’s response still existed on Twitter:

This asshole seriously needs to have someone monitoring his social media accounts. Like, I don’t know, maybe his MOTHER?

“Really fucking nice guy, Erin,” Henry spat when I showed him.

(Even worse is that these asinine girls were tweeting things like, “Jonny Craig could have his hands around my neck and I would still love him.” Which of course he was retweeting because these are the things that make King Shit’s ego swell. Keep encouraging him, girls. Make your mamas proud.)

At this point, it was too late. We had already bought the tickets. Rented the car. Booked the hotel room. Whether we went to this show in Allentown or not, I had already inadvertently supported a misogynistic douchepig and it made me sick to my stomach. So sick that I had a mild panic attack standing outside of the venue that night and we almost didn’t go in. Henry had to take me back to the car so I could calm down.

Look, I don’t know his ex-fiancée, but as a woman, I can’t stand for shit like that and I will automatically have her back. This is the reason men run the fucking world, because they say shit like this and no one does anything. They’ll have tons of men cheering them on in between disgusting chugs of beer, wiping Hooters wing sauce off their lips with their unwashed football jerseys of rapist athletes.

There could be actual video footage of Jonny Craig beating a woman, and he will still have fans. I mean, Chris Brown still gets played on the radio, doesn’t he?

“I just feel like if I see him, I’m going to fucking punch him!” I kept saying over and over. I was so disgusted. I kind of wished that I had worn my Emarosa t-shirt, like I had joked about last week. I brought it with me and at the last minute, Henry agreed it was a bad idea because it wouldn’t be Jonny who noticed, it would be his legion of scantily-clad side broad hopefuls and I wasn’t trying to get clawed at by their nasty acrylics. Talk about a petri dish of I Don’t Wanna Know.

We went inside. I scowled at all of the meatheads in their Jonny Craig is My Homeboy shirts. I cringed at all the girls wearing barely nothing, knowing exactly why they left 89% of their clothes at home. I suddenly felt so protective of all these little girls.

Slaves took the stage and as expected, the crowd went nuts for Jonny. But for the first time ever, I felt nothing. I just stood there with my arms crossed, refusing to clap, refusing to do a single thing Jonny demanded. And then he dedicated the last song to his ex, Amanda. “Til death do us part, bitch!” he spat and everyone was like “Yay!” because that’s cool, right?

I looked at Henry and my eyes started to well up. I felt like such a traitor to women everywhere just by being there.

“I can’t do this anymore,” I said to Henry afterward. “I can’t keep supporting this asshole.” And I think that was the happiest I have ever seen Henry in the thirteen years we’ve been together.

Meanwhile, King Shit was standing a few feet away from us, going through the motions of showing his fans what a “changed person” he is by posing for pictures with them. Two moms (like, I know I’m a mom, but these were MOMS wearing mom jeans with their mom purses slung across their mom boobs) ran over to him, took his picture, and then ran back giggling to show their respective daughters, who didn’t look more than 15-years-old. The daughters predictably squealed and were dragged back over to him by their moms.

“I guess these old broads don’t know he loves demoralizing under-aged scene girls,” I yelled to Henry. Oh, it was sickening to watch. And then afterward, I saw someone’s picture with him on Instagram and the caption said something about how Jonny was rushing everyone along because there was “quite a horde” of fans waiting. I didn’t know “roughly fifteen people” constituted a “horde,” but OK.

I’m not going to lie: I’ve always looked at fans of Ronnie Radke and wondered, “How could these kids love a guy who is such an asshole?” And duh, hello. Look at me. Blindly supporting a dreg of society since 2008.

More than anything, I feel like I owe it to my 8-year-old son to wash my hands of this guy. What kind of an example would I be setting for him if not? He already knows the guy is a drug addict (but the piss test! it was clean! blah blah!) and just a flat out mean person, but I definitely don’t want him to think that it’s OK to make those kinds of violent comments about women, publicly no less, and still have girls falling over you. “Hey, this guy acts like a douchebag and my mom loves him, so…..”

So maybe, if you’re a Jonny Craig avenger reading this, some girl with low self-esteem anxiously awaiting your chance with him, some bro who thinks it’s cool to treat people like dirt, then you might think this is a lame reason to throw in the towel. And that’s fine. Because one person writing a blog post like this is not in any way going to hurt his career, don’t worry JC afficionados. But I have too much respect for myself and at the end of the day, it’s all about girl power. I won’t stand for comments glorifying domestic violence, whether they were empty threats or not—-doesn’t matter. This guy clearly needs help, and I wish his new bandmembers luck with all of the future statements they’re going to need to release, swearing that their singer “has changed” and “is clean.” Seriously, good luck with that, and I hope he doesn’t destroy your careers.

I think I’m going to tell my kid, when in doubt, to ask himself “What would Jonny Craig do?” And then do the opposite.

So, we came home yesterday and I started to get sick. Sore throat, totally run-down, fuck that shit. I’m still kind of spacey today, so I’m doing the whole photo post cop-out thing. Yay, less words to read! Oh and yes, I’m done having snit fits, which my liveblogging posts where lovingly called.

I. NAILS

My friend Kendahl has her own line of indie nail polish in the works and I was one of the luckies who received some pre-release testers! God, do I love it. Her line is called Firecracker Lacquer and you’re about to be reading a lot more about it on this blog! (Along with better photos of it, too, I promise.)

II. Belated Flea Marketry

When my Michigan peeps were here a few weeks ago, Bill begged, like honestly pleaded with me to take them to the flea market because it was his DREAM to walk around tables of rusty tools and smelly Yinzers with me after years of me writing about it here and on LiveJournal. What can I say, the man dreams small.

I wanted this bangin’ clown knitting thing and since it was Mother’s Day, I felt that I DESERVED it. It was only $8 and Henry was like, “Jesus Christ, you act like just because you baked a 10 pound 2 ounce baby, you should get presents once a year.” But Bill stepped in and said, “Tell the man you want this for $5.”

“No, you!” I cried because god forbid I should talk to a person. So Bill took the bitchin’ wall-hanging from me and wound up getting it for and a 45-minute conversation with the seller.

My favorite part was when the man accused Bill of calling him a hustler and Bill was like, “NO. NO NO NO THAT IS NOT WHAT I SAID, SIR. I SAID YOU DRIVE A HARD BARGAIN!” And then the dude lamented the fact that no one wanted to peruse his collection his reggae CDs.

What in the fuck.

This was either before or after he killed me and I had to find a meatsuit to possess in order to keep banging out these pathetic blog posts. Question: Have my typos gotten better or worse now that new hands are typing? I’m only asking because I think I picked a drunk.

This was actually a reenactment of a hug that happened .003 seconds prior but I wasn’t ready to take a picture.

III. Ice Cream: Because If I Didn’t Take Pictures, How Would My Five Friends Know It Happened?

Last Sunday, we went to get ice cream, which is riveting stuff in and of itself. But when we got to the ice cream place we originally chose, the road was blocked off my many cop cars and we found out later that we had missed a shooting by like a half hour.

So we turned around and went to an ice cream place in another sketchy area where Henry made me pay with my own money, who does that!?

Because this picture is necessary for some reason.

Chooch doesn’t like it when I take pictures of him anymore, I guess because he’s afraid the Internet presence I created for him without his permission will affect his future. Even though I keep telling him his future is playing the main stage at Warped Tour, and this sordid Internet past I’ve help him accumulate will only help his relevancy. Is it time for my vodka tonic yet?

I had a smores sundae and it was good.

Great, now I can delete these photos from my phone. HAVE A GOOD NIGHT.

8:00am: I asked Henry if I should live blog on the way home
and he said no, that’s dumb. So I’m going to do it, obviously,
because fuck Henry.

8:10am: Hotel breakfast stresses me out because
I hate doing things!! I saw Henry had scrambled eggs and I was
like, “There are eggs?! I don’t know how to get them” so Henry got
me some scrambled eggs. It’s a miracle I was able to operate the
cereal dispenser.

8:43am: Henry tripped on the way out of the
breakfast room and then tried to deny it.

9:18am: OMGOMG I forgot
to mention that last night when we were at that stupid brewery
place that didn’t have apricot coriander beer or anything else I
wanted to I had to get a cucumber basil martini and I hated our
waitress, Henry very quietly said, “I liked the third band that
played.” OMG HENRY LIKES MISS FORTUNE PASS IT ON!! “Why didn’t you
tell them?!” I cried. “The singer was standing right in front of
you during Slaves!” But he just made up some excuse about how he
can’t talk to guys that cool.

10:21am: Kill me.

10:38am: I guess I’m not allowed to go into Sheetz
with Henry. That’s OK, I’ll just sit in the car like the dog that I
am. :( Could have at least rolled down a window for me though.

11:02am: FINALLY MY QUEST TO HAVE A BOSOM FRIEND IS OVER!!

11:13am: Just talked to Chooch! It went like this:
Me: Guess what I don’t like Jonny Craig anymore.
Chooch: Good. He’s stupid, obviously.
Me: I didn’t even clap for him.
Chooch: OK great.
He’s not much of a phone talker. Or a believer in enthusiasm.

12:23pm: I’ve had to pee for the last hour but my controlling boyfriend won’t stop anywhere. Also, pissed that the fucking spider died in Charlotte’s Web. Still dwelling after 30 years.

12:26pm: Just passed a billboard for a window company and it reminded me of this one time when Christina and I weren’t friends, maybe the 7th time, and she was obsessed with her job at Gilkey Windows, so I would tweet about how Pella Windows were the bomb and even tweeted a picture of a Pella window display at Home Depot because I KNEW IT WOULD UPSET HER. DUMB WINDOW WHORE.

12:35pm: Henry just yelled KEEP IT UP, FUCKER to me and no, it was not in a hot, porn-y context.

1:49pm: Drove around Altoona looking for somewhere to eat lunch which of course culminated into a huge fight & break-up so finally Henry stopped at a Sheetz to get snacks after I berated him for being a joke of a man who doesn’t think to buy SNACKS WHEN GOING ON A ROAD TRIP, and then I made the blah blah motion with my hand to him as he walked past the car, which really endeared me to him, surely. We made eye contact when he came back out of Sheetz and he started laughing because who can stay mad at my adorable face other than my mom, Henry’s ex, Christine Haney, Christina, that vapid cow Seri, Gay Ryan, those two cockbags from Canada? (I’m sure I’m forgetting at least a dozen assholes here.) Then I bit into the Lara bar he bought me and my jaw actually ached since it had been HOURS since it had to chew anything. Fuck you, Henry.

2:30pm: Henry finally decided to stop and feed me, when we’re like an hour away from home. Not even hungry anymore.

2:44pm: Henry just spilled coleslaw on his shirt and he knew exactly why I picked my phone up (to blog about it, obv) and said, “Really?” YEAH REALLY. ASSHOLE WITH A COLESLAW STAIN.

2:55pm: I ate this without making a mess.

Dean’s Diner. Horrible waitress. Dean, check yo’ staff.

4:33pm: Dear blog, we got home about 30 minutes ago and Marcy was pretty ambivalent about our return. Then we remembered we have a child so Henry left again to go retrieve him. I want an ice cream cone with sprinkles. Thanks for reading this nonsense. Fuck you, Jonny Craig.

It’s 10:32am and we just dropped Chooch off at his Aunt Kelly’s and are officially en route to Allentown for the Hands Like Houses/Slaves show. Except that I threw about 18 fits this morning because I didn’t have anything to wear so then Henry was trying to pick things out for me and by that I mean he was trying to make me wear things that make me feel fat because he’s a motherfucker!! Who does that?! And then he was like here wear this purple shirt, you wear this purple shirt a lot. NO I DON’T! But whatever, I put it on. I’m live blogging this because probably we’re going to fight again soon and I’ll have no one to talk to. Just you, Blog.

10:35: SHEETZ. Henry is finally going to feed me.

10:46: Sheetz is the worst on Memorial Day weekend, UGH!! It was so crowded and I panicked because I’m wearing a fatsuit that Henry picked out for me and I just wanted to be done in there so I grabbed a PB&J from the cooler even though that’s not what I wanted and I’m mad!! I hope Henry chokes on his Slim Jims. Motherfucker.

Before we dropped Chooch off, we drove past a church and Chooch decided to make up a prayer that started with “For the love of kittens in London and Taiwan.”

11:10am: After great deliberation (with himself), Henry has decided to just go ahead and use the EZ Pass that comes with the rental car. Wow. What a monumental occasion. I’m so glad it happened on a day I decided to live blog. LIVE IT UP, HENHEN.

11:17am: Just passed a truck crashed into the barrier on the opposite side of the road so Henry was all, “I HAVE TO WARN ONCOMING TRAFFIC!” so he started flashing his lights and then he saw an eighteen wheeler and said, “OH I WILL DEFINITELY HAVE TO WARN THIS TRUCK! HE WILL NEED TIME TO SLOW DOWN!” He’s so proud of himself. Get this motherfucker a badge.

OH, HE WENT FOR IT:

12:19pm: Stopped to pee a few minutes ago and Henry tried to hold my hand (when we were walking into the rest area, not while I was peeing). Then I had to go and accidentally look at myself in the bathroom mirrors and just ugh, thanks for ruining my life Henry!! Came back out after some ginger bitch kept being in my way and Henry had a bag of Auntie Anne’s pretzel bites as if I’m not already engorged enough! UGH!!

12:21pm: OK I feel a little better but I need more coffee ASAP. And Henry keeps pointing at dumb things out the window. GO FUCK YOURSELF AND YOUR STUPID SCENERY!!! Maybe I’m not actually feeling any better, n/m.

12:38pm: Just screamed at Henry to not hit the hawk flying up ahead of us and he yelled, “It’s flying 15 feet above us! I’d have to make the car jump to hit it!” UGH STFU HENRY GO CONFUSE A DICK FOR AN AUNTIE ANNE’S PRETZEL BITE WHY DON’T YOU!!!

12:44pm: According to Henry, I’m “lucky” to have him because “any other guy” would have left me at home after I threw my “tantrum.” OH OK.

1:19pm:

Fun fact! I had to buy this album three times because I kept playing it to the point of no return. Also, we stopped several minutes ago so I could get an iced macchiato at Starbucks but Henry loudly said, “I’m going to a real store to get a drink” and then walked defiantly across the rest stop to the A-Plus convenience store. You sure showed all of us coffee drinkers, Henry.

1:52pm: UGHHHHHH!!!!

2:10pm: We’re at this diner in Carlisle, PA. They only like me here, not Henry.

2:14pm: HENRY JUST SCRATCHED HIS ‘STACHE:

2:34pm: Henry had to reorganize my veggie burger and then cut it for me because feeding myself is hard. :( I had ketchup everywhere and I was so scared.

3:40pm: How are we not there yet, ugh. I only have so many things to say to Henry, and it’s mostly “shut up” in a variety of tones and volumes.

4:04pm: Oh look there’s our hotel but Dum-Dum Henry can’t figure out how to get there. Also, Allentown is a shit hole. (Actually, I haven’t seen any of it but I’m really good at prejudging.)

4:24pm: At the Ramada Inn. I asked Henry for a quote and he mumbled, “glad to be here. Stoked” but for some reason I think he’s being sarcastic.

4:38: Aaaaaaand, panic attack.

5:00: Going to die now. BBL as a ghost.

5:53pm: After talking me down from a cliff, we’re inside the Croc Rock which is a total dump & full of disgusting women-hating bros and underaged girls thirsty for Jonny Craig. Also, the ceiling is leaking and it smells like piss. Fuck you, Allentown. At least Hands Like Houses are here.

We just saw the guy from Hands Like Houses who looks like a young Tim Curry to me, ughhhh. Even Henry just calls him “Tim Curry” now. “Look here comes Tim Curry,” Henry said the first time we got here right before I cried, “I CAN’T DO THIS LETS JUST GO WAHHH” so we sat in the car and he patted my knee until I was OK. But you guys knew I had issues.

6:25pm: Girl next to me just said, “Is it just me or does it smell like cat piss in here?” And I’m like YES but then WAIT WHAT IF IT’S ME?

6:45pm: Alive Like Me asked who’s excited for Slaves and I did not cheer. Because fuck you JC no I love you NO I HATE YOU! AHHHHHHGGGHHH. Someone give me a mallet.

6:52pm: I’m always waiting for bands to say PUT YOUR MEAT CLEAVERS IN THE AIR, MOTHERFUCKERS! because I’m READY. But they never do. It’s always just “hands” :(

7:33pm: King Shit must be about ready to take the stage because every thirsty chick in this room just spontaneously released pheromone. I just want to puke though.

8:02pm: I HATE YOU I LOVE YOU I HATE YOU I LOVE YOU UGHHHH.

8:33pm: Shucks y’all that was a pretty big mistake.

9:35pm: I’m glad that was an early show because I’m starving and want alcohol (no bar at that venue, WTFFFF??). Totally stressed out and Henry is driving in circles looking for a secret bar that has apricot coriander beer. When we left, we walked past a pizza place where King Shit was eating with his rebound girl, ugh it made me sick. I just can’t with him anymore.

9:45pm: Professional Driver HenHen found the Allentown Brew Works but lied about the apricot beer. At least the hockey game is on.

10:03pm: Henry doesn’t like champagne.

10:30pm: I hate our waitress so much and Henry is like in love with her. And no that’s not even why I hate her. I just had a martini because this asshole place didn’t have that stupid apricot beer and that’s all I wanted I hate my life today was SO DUMB. FUCK YOU.

10:34pm: so I guess me (Henry) has to post . As of now I have nothing to say, except its been a helluva day.

11:02pm: Me: “I’m taking down all of my Jonny Craig pictures in my office on Tuesday.” Henry: “OK.”

The spring and summer of 2008 was one of the best times of my life. I had a job, so Henry and I weren’t fighting about money (basically the only thing we ever fight about). Chooch was an adorable 2-year-old with a penchant for blurting out “Asshole!” in public. Christina and I were at the pinnacle of our BBFdom, and she was visiting a lot from Cincinnati so hijinks were prevalent.

This was also around the time that she and I began our unhealthy obsession with all things Jonny Craig. We first fell in love with his angelic pipes when he was in Dance Gavin Dance, but then they kicked him out so we were sad. Fortunately, that spring we started hearing things about a new band who had snagged him while he was in band limbo. They were called Emarosa and even though they have previously put out an album with another singer, Christina and I had never heard of them. But they were about to become our new favorite band.

When “Relativity” was released that July, it suddenly seemed like DGD kicking out Jonny was the best idea ever. Emarosa had stolen our hearts and our creepy Jonny Craig infatuation grew exponentially. When music becomes so entwined with your life, it’s euphoric. It becomes more than just music.

It becomes a soundtrack.

Christina and I ended up meeting him in Buffalo later that year and it was emotionally traumatic for me. He was completely disinterested in anything I had to say but took an immediate liking to her. Drug users unite, I guess. That night ended with me sitting in the car of Xtreme Wheels, crying to Henry on the phone about how Jonny Craig ruined my life and I was going to just drive the 5 hours home in a snow storm because I couldn’t stand to be around Christina over night.

I ended up calming down after Christina bought me pie at a Greek diner, but our friendship went downhill that fall and never found its footing again. We were no longer speaking at all when Emarosa released their next album in 2010. I listened to it on repeat that whole summer, like a leper jumping into a silo of salt. It was my way of coping, because my friends were sick of hearing about Christina.

They probably still are, honestly, even though I try to stick a cork in it.

Because trust me, there’s not a day that goes by.

The winter of 2011, Henry and I were on our way to see Emarosa at the Rex Theater. They were co-headlining with “new” Chiodos (i.e. the short-lived Brandon Bolmer-era). I was casually scrolling through my Twitter feed when I came across a tweet from Absolute Punk. “Jonny Craig forced into detox.” Apparently, Emarosa and the record label had had enough and actually made him leave the tour that morning, and sent him to a detox facility in California. This was right after he got caught scamming his fans by selling a Mac Book that didn’t exist for drug money.

(Rise Records had to pay back all of the fans who blindly Western Union’d him money.)

At the last minute, Tilian Pearson from Tides of Man was asked to fill in for Jonny’s vocals. It wasn’t terrible, but it wasn’t Jonny.

I was really upset that night. An Emarosa without Jonny, followed by a Chiodos without Craig Owens. It was really confusing and stressful on my heart.

Meanwhile, Jonny was also back in Dance Gavin Dance, and jumped on a tour with them right after he got out of detox, so I got to see him a month later anyway. Seeing him live is hard to explain, because I love him as a singer so much, and he embodies all of the best things of 2008. I project a lot of emotion and bottled-up feelings on to him, which is why to the casual observer, I act like a 14-year-old reading a Kirk Cameron issue of Tiger Beat in 1987. He’s my best friend proxy, in a way. Especially considering he’s let me down almost as much as she has. But I still listen to his music, no matter what band he’s in, because it’s the only thing I have to keep the memories of 2008 alive.

Not long after the detox incident, Emarosa released a statement saying that they had parted ways with Jonny. Inevitable, but still my heart was broken. I loved Emarosa so much and the general consensus in the scene was that they were done. Without Jonny, what were they? Just another band fading into the background. With Jonny, they should have realistically enjoyed great levels of success, but because of his unprofessionalism, douchebaggery and drug addiction, it was a case of having the golden ticket to nowhere. They didn’t even record their last album together. Jonny did his vocals from the other side of the country.

What a piece of shit, right? God, I hate him but I love him so much, all at once.

Not too long after the Emarosa divorce, DGD also gave him the boot for the second time, but unlike Emarosa, they found a replacement pretty quickly: Tilian Pearson, the same guy who filled in for Jonny on the last Emarosa tour. Jonny hooked up with Kyle Lucas and Captain Midnite, recorded a new solo album, and went on a few tours. But Emarosa stayed pretty silent. I still followed them on Twitter and Facebook, but there were very few updates from 2011 to 2013. They opened up to Alternative Press and promised that this wasn’t the end for them.

But it really felt like the end.

Finally, last summer, Jonny conveniently let it slip on Twitter that Emarosa had found his replacement: Bradley Walden from Squid the Whale. I guess Jonny just wanted to put it out there and ruin whatever Emarosa was planning to do as an announcement. Because that’s the kind of awesome guy he is.

I didn’t know much about Squid the Whale previously but a quick listen made me a believer in Emarosa’s choice. Bradley could SANG, y’all. Still, I was nervous about what he could bring to the table, and how well he would be able to perform the Jonny songs.

After officially announcing their new singer, Emarosa went quiet again. Rise Records was posting all kinds of teasers on Facebook, like, “Hey guys, just heard the new Emarosa album. You guys are going to love it!” and we were all like, “STOP BEING DICKS! GIVE US A SINGLE!”

And they finally did:

And my heart burst into a million pieces of blood-coated stained glass. Ah, that voice, are you kidding me!? Backed by those five guys that I refused to give up on. It felt so good to be an Emarosa fan. Especially after the way they very professionally took much warranted pot shots at Jonny Craig in a promo video they released a few months ago. (No sarcasm here: considering the Hell Jonny put them through, I think they were within their right to talk about it and I’m really impressed at how they were able to keep it classy at the same time.)

While at the same time, Jonny was doing this:

With Jonny’s new band Slaves about to release their album in June too, the drama has been popcorn-worthy. And I have to say, I was nervous about seeing Emarosa live last Monday, because it’s hard to tell based on the shitty YouTube videos people have been uploading. I didn’t want Jonny to be right. It’s not easy loving a band and then hearing another voice singing those songs that have become your Bible.

I asked Chooch who he likes better and he said, “Bradley, obviously. Jonny Craig does drugs.”

I can tell you that it was only sound check, and hearing a five-second sample of Bradley’s voice made my heart feel like it was dropping out of my kooka. I had to grip Henry’s knee and he was like, “Stop it.” When the lights went out, they weren’t even fully on the stage yet and I was in tears. Then they went right into “The Past Should Stay Dead” and I was a sniveling mess. Bradley killed it. He sang those songs like they were written for him, and I know that’s driving Jonny nuts because he’s been whining on Twitter about how it’s terrible to hear HIS SONGS being destroyed. “His songs.” He did nothing to help Emarosa write those songs.

When Bradley sang the line “We know who does it best” I almost died, because POIGNANT.

He was all up in the crowd, being gracious, talking about how honored he is to be singing with a band that he has been a fan of for years. He didn’t try to sing like Jonny; he sang like Bradley. And he brought charisma by the boatload. How could something feel so familiar yet so new?

You know those fountains that move along to music? That was me Monday night at the House of Blues: music played and my tear ducts were engaged. Throw some fucking pennies in me.

And then this happened:

BRADLEY LEFT ME A HEART ON INSTAGRAM! Jonny probably would have just called me fat. I love that Bradley gives a shit.

The best part for me was seeing the rest of the guys SMILING while they played.

The worst part for me was when some asshole behind me started shouting, “WHERE’S JONNY CRAIG? YOU SUCK!” I was getting really upset and I think Henry was afraid I was going to open my mouth (I was) but some other girl beat me to it and shouted back to him, “HE’S A DOUCHE!”

“I hope Bradley didn’t hear him,” I cried to Henry afterward, and then proceeded to spend the next 72 hours being emotionally wrecked.

“Are you still crying?” Robbie asked incredulously while we were waiting for Chiodos to come on. YES, YES I WAS.

Bradley was standing by the merch booth after the show and Henry kept urging me to go talk to him because Henry likes to psychologically abuse me. I did a few stutter steps and while saying, “OK fine. No. OK I will. No I can’t” before finally just crying, “LET’S JUST GO!” I didn’t want to snot the guy’s shirt, you guys. I was just feeling way too raw to try and form words with my mouth without choking on tears and having yet another singer in a band think I’m special needs.

Honestly, I didn’t think I would ever get to see Emarosa again, one more memento of 2008 buried into the ground. It was a really confusing, emotional night for me. I wished that I could just crawl inside their music and lay there for awhile, like a bed full of all the best memories and softest feelings. SO CORNY BUT I DON’T CARE. STEP THE FUCK OFF. I’m having a moment.

I think they have the chance to become a true post-hardcore powerhouse and I can’t wait for their album to come out next month. Here’s to starting over.

************
I’m going to see Jonny’s new band tomorrow in Allentown, which I’m really stoked for because this is their first tour and I NEED TO KNOW, but after the Emarosa jabs, my love meter for Jonny is really waning. Maybe this will be my closure.

Seriously considering wearing my Emarosa shirt tomorrow night. #teambradley #emarosavseveryone

Standing in line for the House of Blues doors to open might have been the most scared I’ve been in quite some time. Henry, Robbie and I wanted to kill some time first, and that was when we went to the cupcake place down the street from the House of Blues. On our way in, we passed an older man, dressed all in black and wearing a backpack and what appeared to be some sort of vest. He was shouting all kinds of religious things to everyone and no one; there was just something about him that terrified me. Like, we all kind of laughed about it, but I had this annoying spot of dread percolating in my gut as we dipped into the cupcake shop.

Ate cupcake. Forgot dread.

Immediately after leaving the cupcake shop, we passed him again, and this time he was shouting something about “Lord, please give me the strength not to kill every motherfucker” or something equally as terrifying.

“What if the Lord doesn’t give him strength??!” I cried to Henry and Robbie.

“Then I guess we’re dead,” Henry said matter-of-factly as we staked our spot in the Chiodos line.

“He’s just some crazy homeless guy,” Robbie reassured me. “He’s not going to do anything.”

HE DID NOT LOOK HOMELESS TO ME. He looked like some kind of revolutionary socialist who may have been piggybacking a bag full of Glocks and bombs on his pissed off back. Henry said he was also berating the government in his Tourette’s-like outbursts, so that made me feel even more scared.

He just kept walking back and forth, shouting these horrible “prayers” into the sky, never making eye contact with anyone. My heart was pounding. I DID NOT WANT TO DIE. Not before finally seeing Emarosa again, you guys, ugh.

(Spoiler alert: I survived.)

“Can we please call the police?” I pleaded.

“For what? He’s not doing anything,” Henry scoffed.

“He’s making people feel threatened!” I cried.

“Only you!” Henry countered, while Robbie just stood there and laughed because valuing your life isn’t cool anymore I guess. And then Henry started laughing too!

“That’s fine, but I’m using your stupid body as a shield if he starts firing at us,” I said bitterly.

I can’t remember the last time I felt so exposed but it might have been that time I was fully exposed in front of people.

Meanwhile, Robbie was more concerned about the fact that the scene boys in front of us weren’t actually inhaling their cigarettes.  That kept me distracted for a minute, as well as when a security guard came over and told us to not stand in front of the doors of the Tourist Center. Yes, that’s what you should be concerned with, Security Tard. Not the scary, one-man-militia roaming around the streets of Cleveland. I’m sorry, but I’m pretty much afraid of every last motherfucker I see on the streets these days, OK?

The doors finally opened around 6:30 and I was about to start bum-rushing scene kids in order to slip inside the safe House of Blues womb.

The House of Blues is one of my favorite venues. It’s fancy and I want to steal all of the art work. Plus, I just have really great memories of seeing shows there. Henry loves it because there’s balcony seating, which I am usually OK with at House of Blues because it’s not just old people up there—and the view is killer.

We thought Robbie would be like, “SEEYA” right away. And he was….but only because he wanted to go to the bar and get a beer. But then he came back! He actually stayed with us the whole time! Unlike when me, Henry, Christina, Blake and Robbie all went to see Chiodos together in 2008 and Blake and Robbie did the whole “cartoon run” in an effort to get away from the Lame Adults as soon as we were inside the venue. Well, I think it was probably mostly Lame Henry they were trying to avoid.

God, that was an incredible night. Also, that was back when Henry hated Chiodos and it was his first time seeing them live; he hated his life so hard that night and stood next to the exit the whole time. That obviously made it even more fun for me. You should click on that link I posted up there if you want to see Henry in a bandanna looking like there is a pine cone up his asshole.

I like 23-year-old Robbie better than teenager Robbie, though, because he bought me a hard cider! Thanks, Robbie!

So the first band to play was The ’68 and I was stoked for them. I had managed to not hear any of their stuff beforehand, but I love the singer Josh’s old band, The Chariot, so I knew in my heart that I would love his new band. And they came out like two fucking hornet nests, you guys. Can you imagine how hard it must be as a two-person band to keep the crowd entertained? I know that the White Stripes are like OMG DARLINGS of music snobs worldwide, but man, when I saw them in…2002? 2003? I was bored to motherfucking tears. We only went because I had been reading about them in NME and obviously I had to like them because all of the indie rags were telling me to. Wrong. I still don’t like their music to this day.

But The ’68 fucking killed it. They were loud and grungey and grimy with short intervals of Josh Scogin being a fucking charmer in between songs and a drummer who paused to eat a taco. Fucking old school rock and I felt like I was back in 1995. Occasionally, I would glance over at Henry and found him SMILING. I know he liked it because the other night, we found a full set they played in Vero Beach, FL on this tour and he actually sat there and watched it and made comments. Henry is finally starting to like music, you guys! I’m going to buy him some ’68 merch for his birthday.

Hopefully they have booty shorts.

(Not from the Cleveland show, but whatev.)

Second band was Our Last Night. They didn’t do it for me, which is nuts because I loooooove post-hardcore so much that isn’t much in that genre that I don’t like (which is actually pretty embarrassing because there a ton of shitty bands in the post-hardcore parade). I didn’t hate OLN, but there’s always that one band at a show that makes me eyes glaze over, and they were it this time. However, they did a cover of that asshole Katy Perry’s “Dark Horse” and actually made it listenable! Major points for that.

And they were energenic, so yay cardio!

Third band: Hands Like Houses, woo!

This was my third time seeing them and they started off strong, but Trenton lost his voice by the third song because he wasn’t feeling well. And I mean, he LOST his voice. He was so frustrated, that he turned around and punched a cymbal and then thought people in the crowd were saying shit so he called them cockbags and then apologized. It was really weird and I felt super embarrassed for him. The rest of the band just kept playing and smiling, especially the one who reminds me so much of Tim Curry and has an awkward ponytail. I’m obsessed with that one.

“Poor Trenton,” I said to Henry after their set was done. “I want to give him a hug!”

“Maybe Jason will,” Henry laughed, pointing to the side of the stage where our friend Jason was talking to Trenton. Somehow I feel like that isn’t in Jason’s job description.

“Oh well, at least we’re seeing them again next week in Allentown,” I hinted around, hoping that I could trick Henry into thinking he had agreed to take me four hours away to their show with Slaves the following Sunday.

“Yeah, or maybe he’ll still be so sick, the tour will be canceled,” Henry said hopefully.

Fuck you, Henry.

Next was Emarosa and I’m sorry guys, but that has to be its own entry because I am going to squeeze my hormonal emo tears all over those motherfucking words and you will ask yourself, “WHY do I keep reading this bitch’s shit?”

While I was crying after their set, Henry excused himself and went downstairs to buy me an Emarosa shirt because he is A Good Boyfriend. I pretty much spent the rest of the night hugging it.

And then, Chiodos. My beloved Chiodos.

What can I say about them that I haven’t already on this blog? They are my fucking jam. The bread and butter of the post-hardcore scene. Forever a part of me. (Literally: I have their lyrics tattooed on my arm.) I have seen them in my city, in other cities, in large arenas, in small venues, outside in 100 degree heat, with Craig Owens, without Craig Owens, in a room marginally larger than the first floor of my duplex, acoustically, at a record store signing, and several times with just Craig.

And it’s perfection every time.

(Well, except for the last Craig Owens’ solo show which was mediocre and my blog post about it started a Twitter feud with him. Fond memories!)

When it was announced in 2009 that Craig had been kicked out of Chiodos, I never thought they would reunite. There was lots of animosity, jealousy, competition. It seemed that Craig was doing well with his new band D.R.U.G.S. and while Chiodos seemed to have lost a good bit of their fan base, I thought their album with Brandon Bolmer was brilliant.

I honestly never thought that Craig would ever be back in Chiodos. But it happened, and when I first got to see the newly reunited band last summer at Warped Tour, I was in audio Heaven. Personal feelings aside, Craig is a fucking SHOWMAN. That guy gets on stage and, doing nothing more than a simple God-stance, he has an entire crowd lapping from his hand.

I really miss guitarist Jason Hale. but I love what Thomas Erak (ex-Fall of Troy) has brought to the table, on the new album and on stage. He’s been providing background vocals on some songs and it really breathes new life into them. Plus, he’s just overall fun to watch.

They played a good mix from three of their albums (not surpisingly, nothing was played from Illuminaudio, the album they did without Craig), with the addition of “Thermacare,” which is fucking mindblowing to hear them play together. (There was a lot of controversary over this song, which you can read about here if you give a shit about band drama. Which I do so that makes me assume everyone else does too when I know that they don’t.) It felt so wonderful, like a fucking massage, to hear Craig’s screams again. The screaming parts & heaviest songs are my favorites. Sometimes I wish there was more screaming.

MORE SCREAMING.

Bottom line: Craig Owens belongs in Chiodos. And when, toward the end of the evening, he turned toward the audience and said simply, “Chiodos is back,” I started to cry. But…that’s nothing new.

Throwback to that time in 1983 when my lover Henry spooned me while we googled Jonny Craig together on our bitchin’ detachable keyboard machine from the future.

Now I want to get bangs again.

And banged.

In Germany!

[Real life note: Barb accidentally found this picture yesterday when we were trying to find this electronic toy I had as a kid and I was like, “WHOA GO BACK! GO BACK! CLICK ON THAT!” and then I made her email it to me so I could make it my Facebook cover photo, because why not?]

[Real life note, part 2: The toy we were trying to find, in case you care, was the Mattel Teach & Learn Computer, the name of which I had been unable to remember until yesterday, after spending two hours Googling the shit out of “1980s electronic toy” variations. Thank the lord for the Internet.]

[Real life note, part 3: Chris was also involved in the mad search for this toy. I was so excited that I actually considered bidding on one I found on eBay. “I’ve never used eBay,” Chris admitted. “It makes me nervous.” So I assured her it was legit by saying, “It’s where I get all of my pictures of dead people!” I said it kind of loud, but it was just here at work and everyone already knows about me.]

I’m a stickler for being on time. I think I get it from my dad. No, not because he was some wonderful role model in punctuality, but exactly the opposite. He was always late to everything (probably still is) and I was so tired of walking into darkened movie theaters, fumbling for seats while everyone else was already enjoying the movie that had already started, that I vowed to never live that way as an adult.

I have stayed true to that vow too, almost to OCD-levels of clock-watching.

I leave the house every day at exactly 12:30. The trolley I take typically arrives around 12:46, and it takes me a little less than 10 minutes to walk to the trolley stop. I have never missed the trolley, nor have I ever “just made it,” either. I get to the platform and proceed to stand there, staring down the tracks, waiting, checking my phone, cowering from strangers, finding people to hate.

Every single day.

But today, I was ONE MINUTE LATE. I looked at the time on the computer and when I saw the 12:31, I fucking flew into a tizzy. I was in such a rush to grab my purse, that I almost didn’t even say goodbye to Marcy! I was that worried about being late.

It got worse.

Part of the road was being worked on and was closed down a block away the from my house, so I had to cross to the other side. A very nice police officer assisted me with this daunting task of crossing without a cross walk, and then I found myself behind an old woman with a huge dog who were taking their good old time. I started to get nervous, but then the lady moved off the sidewalk a bit so her dog could piss, and I happily stepped around them….only to land myself right behind some strange being wearing a dirty gray sweatsuit with the hood pulled up over their head. At first I was pissed because they were walking comically slow, but then I noticed that they were also doing a limp/drag routine with their right leg.

I started to wonder if I was walking behind a legitimate zombie, but then she (it was a girl!) turned her head slightly and I was able to deduce that it was a living person, and the more I studied her labored gait, the more I realized that this was a person with a prosthetic leg and it was clear to me that she needs to maybe practice around the house a little more before bringing that show on the road. The worst part was that I honestly could not find a way to pass her, mostly because I had spent so much time worrying that she was a zombie and I didn’t want to get too close, and now I just didn’t want to be RUDE.

We had made it past the construction that was happening on the road, and a young female cop was directing traffic on that side. The limping girl turned and abruptly crossed the street, causing the cop to yell out for her to watch the cars behind her. She just kept walking, cutting across the street at a diagonal, dragging her right leg as she went. I needed to cross the street also. My new goal was to perform this task fast enough to cut her off before she made it to the other side so that we could avoid more awkward goof troop parade bullshit.

The cop and I made eye contact and I made it clear that I was ready to cross the street. At least, I thought I did when I pointed to the other side of the street and then back to myself. Traffic on my right was already being stalled by her, and then she held up her other hand to halt traffic on my left. She looked at me again and I took this as my cue to cross, so I stepped out onto the street just as she began waving for the cars on my right to go! WHAT THE FUCK!

And then a torpedo of stupidity shot from my mouth.

“Dumb bitch!” I cried out to her, while—-and I am not exaggerating—I threw my arms up in a huff and then when I brought them back down, I slapped my right thigh really hard to punctuate how fucking annoyed this made me. The strike was audible. A total tantrum on the side of Pioneer Avenue. I don’t know what came over me. The combination of racing the clock and now this zombie broad, too had me thoroughly stressed out and this stupid glorified crossing guard was fingering my panic button.

“Hey,” she said to me in a warning tone. And then that made me even more mad. Hey? That’s it? That’s all you’re going to say? Not even a more incredulous “Hey!“? No exclamation point needed, really?! WHERE’S YOUR FUCKING TAZER?

Meanwhile, the old bitch and her dog had caught up to me and I wasn’t trying to share the sidewalk again, so I ran like a brat to the end of the road, muttering obscenities out loud (congratulations, Erin, you’re a real Brookliner now!) and crossed down there, on the WRONG SIDE which really threw me off because I hate change.

Then I called Henry.

“Who do I call if I want to complain about a cop?” I spat.

“I don’t know. Another cop?” And then he must’ve replayed my question in his head and made the connection that I either had done or was about to do something stupid. “Why?” he asked wearily.

“Because some dumb bitch cop wouldn’t let me cross the street and a car almost ran over my foot!” (<–Perhaps that last part isn’t 100% accurate.)

“I have to go. I’m working,” he sighed, so I hung up on that motherfucker.

OH I WAS SO ANGRY! And all of this had usurped so much of my time, that when I got to the trolley platform, I only had to stand there for two minutes as opposed to five before the trolley got there, and then some old bitch in a gingham blouse cut in front of me! TODAY WAS SO TERRIBLE!! MY HEART WAS RACING!

But then when I arrived at the Law Firm, some old man on the elevator told me he liked my shoes (skull TOMS).

“Thanks,” I said, looking down and studying them. And with mild sarcasm, I added, “I figured these are work appropriate.” It wasn’t actually funny at all, more of me just trying to keep filling the awkward silence that he had already broken, but he laughed really hard and I felt like maybe I had made one of those human connection things.

And then even after all that, I was still fifteen minutes early for work.

As usual.

***

“Can you believe I actually have a bruise on my thigh from where I slapped myself?” I said to Henry on the way home tonight.

“Who’s the dumb bitch now?” he asked.

Touché, motherfucker.

Plans to go to Cleveland on May 19th had been in the works for several months; basically, as soon as Chiodos announced the dates of their Devils Dance Tour. You guys know that I love Chiodos A LOT but when I saw there was no Pittsburgh date, I likely would have held off and waited for another tour. (Maybe.) BUT! When I saw that not only Hands Like Houses but also Emarosa were supporting them, I was all in. I mean, Emarosa. I’ve waited years for them to rise from the ginger ashes that Jonny Craig left them buried under. But this is blubbering that’s better left for a different blog post. And you know there will be one!

Henry’s oldest son Robbie is also a big Chiodos fan, and we had been fanboying over the new album together on Facebook. So it was no-brainer to bring him along with us. We left early enough on Monday to murder our stomachs at Melt, which is basically a grilled cheese porn shop. You will see grilled cheeses in such greasy, compromising positions at this joint that you’ll be leaving a puddle in your wake.

God, of DROOL! A puddle of drool. What did you sick fucks think I meant?

On the way there, I tried to tag Henry in a post about Jonny Craig’s new band on Facebook, but I forgot that I had unfriended him the night before,.

I love playing games on Facebook. And not the dumb ones like Candy Crush, but the ones that hurt people in real life! Psychological games FTW!

Gratuitous bathroom photo for Alyson Hell, Queen of Loo Shots.

Meanwhile, Henry had been stalking our friend Jason to see if he wanted to meet up. First, he was sending him direct messages on Twitter, but when that didn’t garner him a response, he started texting him, too.

“Oh my god, stop being so embarrassing!” I cried as we walked into Melt. Jason is super fucking busy and I figured that since all of these bands were in town, he probably had a lot of obligations and interviews to knock out at the Magazine Office. Which is why I wasn’t bugging him. But Henry is just so excited to have a friend in his own age bracket, that he gets a little aggressive. Plus, Jason likes bottled beverages so sometimes they talk about that, which is weird, but that’s what I get for being in a domestic partnership with a Faygo warehouse manager. People talk to him about beverage.

Wondering why Jason doesn’t love him as much as he loves Jason. My friend Kate referred to Henry as the Patron Saint of Frowning the other day and now I want to make screen prints of it.

Puppy Kisses, party of 3.

There was a short wait for a table since it was prime lunch time hours, and I busied myself by ogling one of the waitresses who only had a stump of a left arm and still managed to bustle with the best of them. I was thoroughly impressed. But then I was afraid she was going to think I was being rude so I tried to not ever look at her again. Awkward.

I was excited though because for some reason I recently referenced the Jesus Lizard and Henry didn’t get my joke because he had never heard of them, and there happened to be a framed Jesus Lizard poster on the wall. I jabbed Henry in the gut and said, “LOOK!” but he was like, “Ok?” and acted like he didn’t care which is what he always does when I know more than he does.

We were seated in one of those tables where one side has a chair and the other side is one long wooden bench, but the way our corner table was set up, the bench curved at the end so a third person could squeeze into a two-person table. I sat down first so Henry was stuck sitting in the awkward bench-corner and proceeded to whine about it because that’s what bitches do.

“It’s like, sharp sitting here. No really, it’s sharp and it hurts my leg!” Henry cried when I told him to pipe down, we’re in public. “I don’t know how I’m going to be able to eat once the food gets here. Where are they going to put my food?” I patted the corner of the table in front of him. It wasn’t that hard to figure out. “Move down some,” he pleaded with me. So I did but then I immediately moved right back because I only care about myself.

For the last several weeks, I had my eyes on the May special, The Sanchez, which is basically an enchilada inside a grilled cheese. This sounds like it would have a horrific impact on my already thunderous thighs, but WHEN IN CLEVELAND, am I right?

Ugh, but then the Ghosts of Upset Stomachs Past held a summit and encouraged me to go a different route so that I wouldn’t spend most of the show in the bathroom.

So I ordered the Big Popper, which is literally a jalapeno popper between fat-assed slices of Texas toast, DEEP FRIED, covered with powdered sugar and served with a mixed berry dipping sauce. Yeah, that makes sense, Erin. Your stomach thanks you.

All the best parts of the county fair stuffed into one XXXXXL carb-pocket. Only thing missing was a ride on the Zipper. Although, the zipper on my jeans was probably in danger of going on a ride once I was done eating.

I actually missed the shout out on the menu about it being deep fried. Maybe that would have deterred me, because I was trying to be gentle on my stomach, but that’s a ridiculous statement to even make if you’re dining at Melt in the first place. I mean, go drink some chicken noodle soup if you’re trying to knit yourself a gastrointestinal Snuggie. Because I guarantee you won’t be feeling digestively sound ten minutes into a Melt meal.

Henry and Robbie ordered something with meat in it.

I managed to eat a third of my Big Popper. ONE THIRD and my waistline was already engorged. Belly, distended. Forehead, sweaty. The fact that they even serve this shit with fries is hilarious. Oh, you want to know how it tasted? Fucking divine, you guys. All those flavors somehow beat the odds, celebrated their diversity and united to form one cohesive taste unit on a plate. It was like a sweet and savory Pride Parade in my mouth.

Meanwhile, Henry begged the waiter for sugar and also for permission to move the now-empty table next to us over so that he could move out from the corner.

“I have to check and make sure this table isn’t on the waiting list,” he said with hesitation.

“Well, we do have another person joining us, so we’re going to need the extra seat anyway,” Henry said haughtily and I was SO EMBARRASSED because our waiter was cool and now he was going to think Henry had an imaginary friend, because who waits until they’re halfway through eating to be all, “Oh yeah, and we’re actually going to have FOUR in our party”?

Ugh, Henry is the worst when we’re in restaurants. I said that out loud and he huffed, “Oh really? Me asking for more room is worse than all of the times we’ve had to LEAVE RESTAURANTS after sitting down because of YOU?”

I’m sorry, but sometimes I just get sinking feelings and need to leave immediately!

Anyway, Henry got his stupid second table and was able to free his ass from his woefully tight bench compartment. At least we got to quit hearing him bitch about it.

And then miraculously, Jason showed up for a quick visit so the fourth seat wasn’t all for naught after all, and believe me, Henry made sure to be all INYERFACE about it too. And he wonders why I unfriended him!

We hadn’t seen Jason since the Never Shout Never show last December (the one in which he made all of Chooch’s dreams come true!) so it was good to catch up and get some scene chatter in. Music is my favorite topic of all time, so Jason makes a pretty good (OK, fucking fantastic) conversational team mate. OF COURSE Jonny Craig came up, which made Jason (and Henry) groan, but that makes it even more fun for me!

Jason had to get back to work and we desperately needed to walk off our lunch, so after puking a little bit when the waiter asked us if we wanted dessert, Henry paid the bill and then took us on an accidental tour of the ghetto, which was actually pretty exciting.

With nothing else to do (this is what happens when I leave shit up to Henry; he wanted to leave sooooo early to get there but then had nothing besides Melt lined up for us to do! What a cock!), we headed downtown and killed time by walking through some of the arcades near the House of Blues. Really, all I wanted to do was go to Collossal Cupcakes, but Henry was all, “No, we must walk through the entire arcade and look at all of the closed shops and gag on the stench of curry and feet.” So that is what we did and the only good thing is that when we were on our way into another arcade, ONE OF THE GUYS FROM HANDS LIKE HOUSES WAS WALKING OUT AND HELD THE DOOR OPEN FOR US! So then I was like OMG OMG OMG OMG and Henry was like, “Who cares” and Robbie was like, “Ok.” And then every two minutes I was like, “Remember when…!!!”

Collossal Cupcakes ended up being a collossal waste, but at least Robbie got to bond with cupcake dispenser about their shared dislike of sweets.

It was worth it at least to make them sit in princess-y seats.

Henry and I shared a snickerdoodle cupcake and while he complained about it being that type of frosting he hates, motherfucker still ended up eating three fourths of it himself. Fuck him.

Remember when one of the guys from Hands Like Houses held the door open for us? THAT WAS SO NICE OF HIM.

And then some douchebag came in to get a cupcake milkshake for his girlfriend, who for some refused to come in and waited outside on the sidewalk, while TOTALLY flirting with the cupcake worker girl who clearly had already imprinted with Robbie over their mutual adversity to dessert.

Now I want a fucking cupcake milkshake.

What a clunker of a title. Let me explain: I had dinner plans at Ten Penny last Saturday night with Wendy, Kaitlin, Barb and Mary. Ten Penny is downtown, and since I accidentally walked past it one day last week, I was pretty excited at the prospect of taking the trolley downtown of my own volition and walking to the restaurant like a big girl. I think Henry was bracing himself for me to change my mind, but really, taking the trolley downtown at this point in the game makes me way less anxious than the thought of driving down there and finding somewhere to park, OMG no.

I walked past Wiener World and knew I was going the right direction, yay landmarks!

Of course I was early, so I wandered around (making sure I stayed close so that I wouldn’t get lost!). When I was on my way back to Ten Penny, I saw two women across the street, waving.

“I don’t recognize these women, but surely it’s some combination of Wendy, Barb*, Kaitlin and Mary,” I thought to myself. So I waved back.

They waved more exuberantly and then began jumping too. So I waved back more exuberantly and did a little awkward jump, because YAY FRIENDS!

They were waving to the bitch next to me. Also, they were strangers. I really need to get my eyes rechecked.

*(Barb ended up not being able to make it. Probably because she didn’t want to see me, ugh!!)

Luckily, I crossed the street and ran into Wendy, so I felt like less of a lost sheep. Thank you, Shepherd Wendy.

We went inside to claim our table and wait for Kaitlin and Mary, and I told Wendy of my newfound independence and bravery.

“I even took a DIFFERENT EXIT when I got off the trolley,” I confided. What a weird little phase I’m going through.

Here is where Wendy nearly choked on her water from laughing so hard. “I’m sorry, but you just sounded so earnest, you fool!” And then she wanted me to say it again so she could record it.

WHATEVER, WENDY. We were soon joined by the rest of our party and commenced the ordering of cocktails, which was hands down the best part of the night for me because I love fancy cocktails so much. Too bad that bartending “degree” didn’t get me very far.

I already knew that I wanted a Stormy Morning, because I always have to look at menus online before going somewhere, whether I’ve been there before or not, because I like to know what I’m walking into. This is how I knew that Ten Penny is a vegetarian’s nightmare. Almost everything was meat, and even the things that were just vegetables or potatoes had gratuitous bacon incorporated in an assortment of creative ways, like the brussels sprouts were capped with candied bacon and the truffle fries came with bacon aioli. (I love aioli so I almost cried about that.)

ANYWAY! Back to the cocktails. I knew before I even left the house that I would be glugging on a glass of the Stormy Morning, which consisted of St. Germaine (yes, please), Creme de Violette (oh shit) and a blanc de blanc. I would have been fine with a barrel of that heavenly secretion and a bread basket. I can never get enough bread.

Dumb Wendy ordered the Stormy Morning before me but only after she found out I was going to order it, so I made sure the waitress knew it was my idea first.

“She’s one of those,” Wendy sighed to the waitress, in a time that made it sound like she was referring to a mangy disease.

But as it were, we were there for dinner, so I had to order actual food. The only veg entree option was a pasta primavera and I can’t tell you how far away from the pasta tip I was that night. So I wound up getting the wild mushroom flatbread, which was fine but not anything that Henry couldn’t have made me. But whatever, I was happy with my dranks, y’all.

For dessert, we all split the S’mores, only because we wanted to fuck around with the novelty of melting shit over a mini-stove thing. That was pretty fun for a second, but the S’mores themselves were only so-so.

Marshmallow poops.

Then Wendy made us have our picture taken.

Overall, I would go back to Ten Penny the next time I want to more than I would at a dive bar to drink myself stupid. But unless I was going for lunch (GRILLED CHEESE & TOMATO BISQUE: ’nuff said), or suddenly start masticating flesh again, I probably won’t give their dinner menu another shot. Unless Wendy tells me to. Because she basically plans my weekends for me now.

Mediocre food or not, the whole point was to spend time with three of my favorite broads, and that part of the night was five stars, you guys. Go tell Yelp.

And then it was around 11:30 by the time we left and sorry, but ain’t no way, no how this bitch is riding the trolley home at 11:30 in the PM, so I texted my chariot. An irritated Henry arrived about 10 minutes later.

So much for independence.

Marcy was sitting next to me when I was doing Real Important Things on the computer last night (putting together puzzles on Jigzone, duh). Sorry Marcy, you sit that close to me, you pay the price.

Now she’s acting all weird because Grandma Judy is here and Marcy knows that means her beloved Henry is going somewhere.

I mean, I’m going too but Marcy has the confetti and noisemakers lined up for that.

Last week was a whirlwind. Never got a chance to go bullet-crazy up on here, so I JUST made Chooch give me the computer so I can do some kind of half-assed life summary thing. I’m sure Chooch has some sort of secret timer on the computer so if this post just ends abruptly, it’s probably because I’ve been electrocuted.

• In the last two weeks, I’ve been told “You’re my favorite mommy blogger!” and “I like you because you’re not a mommy blogger.” I don’t necessarily think of myself as a mommy blogger, but I guess I don’t care how you have me pigeon-holed, as long as you’re reading this. I will sit in a hole with your pigeons! Just read this fucking shit!
• The look on Henry’s face when I wrapped up a 60-minute workout with a 25-minute one was priceless. Fitness disgusts him.
• Racism came up a lot last week:
  • When Bill, Jessi and Tammy first got here last Friday, I was telling them about Marcy’s tumor and how we have to constantly spray it with this wound stuff from the vet. “Sometimes it starts to stink really bad, like the Oriental Market,” I explained. Realizing how terrible that sounded, I quickly tacked on, “That’s actually the name of the Asian market we go to all the time, I swear I’m not being racist!” Everyone was like, “Suuuuuuure” and then we all laughed uncomfortably.
  • Later that weekend, Chooch hilariously mispronounced some word that I forget now, and I said, “You guys should have heard how he pronounced Nigeria a little while ago.” Everyone laughed, and Bill joked, “Oh my god, what kind of racist household is this!?”
  • Some PSA commercial came on last Sunday night, wherein a little white girl gets invited to play with some black girls on the playground, but her mom stops her and nervously says, “Um…why don’t you go play over there instead?” and points to a group of white kids. I was like, “OMG WHAT A DUMB BITCH!” and Chooch said, in this totally patronizing tone that makes me want to punch him in the head (CYS, I’m joking!), “It’s called segregation, sweetie.” Ugh, that kid!!!
• The Pens shit the bed. Nothing to see here, you guys. Next news story, please.

• Henry has been playing with some annoying remote control helicopter that makes Marcy hate her life.
• I made a Spotify playlist yesterday for all of my mixed CD staples,. You know, the songs that you could hear every day for the rest of your life and not be mad about it? Anyway, if you want some new shit to listen to, go check it out! It has everything from El Debarge to the Refused.
  buy fluoxetine online fluoxetine no prescription

•  Ugh, VIP day at Chooch’s school, you guys. It was terrible. Basically, it’s where the kid gets to bring someone special to school with them. Henry went last year for some reason, and this year was my turn no matter how many excuses I threw out. I had to choose between three activities to do with Chooch that morning: gardening (fuck you, no), painting a bird house, or shadowing Chooch’s class. The latter is what I really wanted to do, but Chooch wanted to paint a stupid bird house, so that’s what I selected, because I guess being a VIP doesn’t mean getting to choose your own shit. Henry swore that it was just going to be the parents in Chooch’s grade, but as soon as I got there Friday morning, I quickly learned it was the WHOLE SCHOOL, K-8. FML.
  • Chooch ditched me as soon we walked into the school, so I had to stand in line ALONE. But then my neighbor was standing next to me and told me that we were allowed to take our kids with us to the cafeteria (where donuts and coffee were to be had) as long as our kids were eating breakfast. The school provides free breakfast every  morning but Chooch declines this 99% of the time, so after I signed myself in, I tried to summon him to come with me but that little bastard pointedly ignored me because he was being a big shot and sitting outside of his classroom with all his homies. So I had to walk over there and force him to come with me, despite his cries, “BUT I DON’T WANT BREAKFAST.” Too bad, fucker. You got me into this mess, you’re going to suffer with me.
  • The cafeteria: PARENTAL ARMEGEDDON. Motherfuck. It was so unorganized and crowded with kids who were eating breakfast and parents who were not selecting their donuts quick enough so the line was getting longer and slower. Chooch managed to grab his free breakfast  before me, and made finding a table seem effortless. “SAVE ME A SEAT!” I cried to him, and he was like, “Jesus Christ, I will, calm the fuck down.
    buy azithromycin online azithromycin no prescription

    ” I’m assuming that’s what was implied with his shitty eye roll, anyway.

  • A MILLION INTERACTIONS WITH MR. FINGERS. Humiliating and exhilarating, all at once.
  • Tons of donuts to choose from, and I took one with pink glaze even though my brain was like, “DO NOT TAKE THAT ONE.” Naturally, I didn’t like it very much, but my nerves prevented me from taking more than one bite anyway, so even I picked the perfect donut, that thing was still going to see limited mouth-time.
  • Got to sit next to Chooch for all of 5 minutes before he had to go back to class (the students had to be in their classrooms for morning announcements and things), leaving me to sit alone in a too-small, low-to-the-ground stool attached to a child-sized cafeteria table. I had to fill out some stupid survey for a raffle ticket with parents on both sides of me, trying to keep my elbows pinned to my sides while forgetting over and over again that the stirrer in my coffee cup WAS NOT A STRAW.
    • Hate when that happens.
  • Suffered through a few songs by the school band. Jesus, did I sound that bad back then? Of course I did.
  • All the parents who were gardening were escorted out a side door, but that only opened up a few seats because who the fuck chooses to garden? That just sounds awful. I was getting anxious for the principal to dismiss the shadowers next, so the cafeteria would be even more cleared out, but instead he was like, “All the bird house painters, start making your way up to the front here and find a table with paint.” Just as I was feeling relieved that I had a table, I realized I wasn’t at one of the ones set up for the activity.
    buy furosemide online furosemide no prescription

     Motherfucker.  Thought I found table on the stage, but no: Candy Cane and her fashion cane had claimed the entire table, and her stupid chainsmoking side kick was taking up the one next to hers, so then I was stuck on the stage with nowhere to sit because no one would fucking move so I could get back to the steps and I was honest to god considering walking backstage and finding a fire escape. I just can’t with people.  But just then, all the kids were coming back into the cafeteria with their blank bird houses and I could see Chooch waving to be excitedly from the back and I just sighed and pushed my way back down to the floor. You guys: People. SOS. Uncle.

    • Here is the comical scene where I kept telling Chooch to stay were he was, but we still ended up passing each other like ships in the night, constantly finding ourselves on opposite ends of the cafeteria. Finally I screamed, “STAY THERE OMG!!!” and was able to elbow my way through the sea of confused, displaced parents and children until I was close enough to grab him by the shirt and pull him to me. BEING.A.PARENT.BLOWS.SOMETIMES.
    • And then we couldn’t find a table. “Hi, is anyone sitting here?” over and over while parents purposely averted their eyes. It was like being in school again, for real.
    • Finally found the best table ever: WITH ALL DADS. DADS ARE NICER THAN MOMS. Particularly the one who was sitting across from me. He got us better paint and looked at me and smiled every time he made jokes and I would just giggle sweetly BECAUSE HE WAS KIND OF MY TYPE, OK? Not particularly bright-seeming and very blue-collared. Plus: NECK TATTOO. Later, I was telling Henry about him (because Henry is my BFF and I tell him about all my crushes, SO BUTT OUT) and I said, “I hope he thought I was Chooch’s sister. Like, I was considering calling Chooch ‘Baby Brother’ at one point.” Chooch actually SCOFFED and said, “There is no way anyone would think you were my sister.” STFU, boy.
    • Eventually, my 90 minute prison sentence was up and I got to take that fucking bird house home with me. Oh, and also Chooch. He got to come home too.

•  Yesterday, Corey and I revisited Gaby et Jules and made the excruciating difficult task of deciding what to order (we’re not made of money, y’all) and then took our foo-foo French  treats to the Homewood Cemetery, where we strolled leisurely while inhaling macarons. It was kind of The Life, to be honest. The macarons I picked* were poppy, lavender (because lavender), and the flavor of the month which was strawberry peppercorn. STRAWBERY PEPPERCORN IS AMAZING, IN CASE YOU DIDN’T KNOW. Because I didn’t know until yesterday. But now it’s strawberry peppercorn everything. First up: toothpaste.
  • *Picked. Like they grow on trees. I WISH THEY GREW ON TREES.
    • Not in noses, though.

•  That Slaves (Jonny Craig’s new band) show I desperately want to go to is officially one week away and Henry still hasn’t committed one way or the other. Last week, I was so desperate, that I posted his phone number on Facebook and asked everyone to simply text the word “Allentown.” His response was, “Nice to see you got your little friends to do your bidding.” And then as more texts came in later in the day: “Your posse doesn’t scare me.” I’m pretty much on my knees at this point.
  • Literally.
  • I WILL DO ANYTHING, UGHHHHHH.
• Got to paint a custom name thingie for my friend Carey last week. I love painting these so much! COME GET ONE!

• TOMORROW: CLEVELAND FOR CHIODOS AND EMAROSA! MY HEART IS EXPLODING!!!!