Alternative Press finally posted the video of Craig Owens performing a brand new song, and it’s super exciting for me because Henry, Robbie, Nikki, and I were there, in the same room, watching with drool as this was filmed last month. (Well, maybe Henry wasn’t drooling; he probably waited until later and let it all out in private.)

That was such a beautiful day. I’m happy to have this video so that we can all relive it! Can’t wait to see what Craig has up his sleeve for 2016.

On paper, my Saturday looks like it was a fabulous day: breakfast at Pamela’s with Wendy, Summer, and Jeannie; roller skating; cherry pie; horror movies. But NO. It was frustrating and borderline volatile. (I say borderline because nothing got broken.)   

Summer, being less of a crybaby than Erin. 

I woke up in a wonderful mood even though it’s a struggle to leave the house early on a weekend. I love meeting Jeannie and Wendy for breakfast at Pamela’s, the only Pittsburgh establishment whose hype I can get behind—not to be morbid, but I want to be buried inside a blanket of their blueberry hotcakes. The last time we were there was over the summer when Wendy was still pregnant so this was Summer’s first Pamela’s trip! A real monumental occasion. 

Breakfast was wonderful. In hindsight, I should have stopped while I was ahead, but I have had this idiotic Sephora gift card for two years and I really wanted to use it (I’ve lost and found it three times, along with my entire wallet because that’s the type of adult I am); there is one across the street from Pamela’s, and I walked in knowing full well that I was going to be spending way more than what was on the card because Sephora is a racket like that. 

So already I was feeling anxiety because there is so much I woke rather spend $$$ on. I mean, I like make-up and other assorted shit like that but I hate having gift cards that are specific to one place. I really wanted to spend money on music, not moisturizer, even though I really do need moisturizer now that winter is sucking my face dry. And of course the one time I actually need assistance, I am INVISIBLE to every asshole in that store. 

So I left, and not quietly either. 

When I was little, my Pappap would always call me a pistol. I was born with a silver spoon practically shoved in my ass, and if there is one thing in my entire life that I have ever been really great at, it’s the fine art of hissy fits and temper tantrums. 

Even as an adult, even after years of struggling financially during most of my 20s, I never lost the spoiled brat in me. It’s my literal Drop Dead Fred, hovering over my shoulder and whispering things like, “Oh hell no, you’re not going to let THAT happen are you?”

One time, years ago, Henry made me an omelette and I kicked a hole in our bedroom wall because he put mushrooms in it and I didn’t ask for mushrooms. 

I kicked a hole in the wall. Because I am a fucking loco brat. 

(Fun fact: Henry just patched up that hole last week while he was painting the bedroom. So, 13 years later.)

From Sephora on, that is the Erin that starred in the Saturday Shit Show. The wall-kicking Erin.

By the time I came home, I hadn’t calmed down much. Every single thing Henry said to me, no matter how innocent, was met with screeching snaps and snarls. Because it was his fault. Why did he have to buy me a Sephora gift card?!

Finally, I went upstairs and played a Defeater record, hoping that would settle me down before it was time to go skating. I was chill long enough to take this picture:

Erin Rachelle, during happier times. 

But then the switch was flipped again as we left the house to go skating. Chooch and I were sniping at each other because: siblings. We were only five minutes from home before he and I were both huffing about how we should just turn around and go home, and Henry was doing that thing where he remains very quiet but his eyes are kind of bulging a little. Finally, he actually did whip the car around, which caused Chooch and I to both angrily mutter, “Oh, that’s great. I guess we’re not going skating. I guess we’ll just sit in the house and rot all day” and then Henry lost it and yelled, “TELL ME WHAT THE FUCK YOU WANT TO DO?!” and then under his breath he mumbled something about feeling like he woke up in another dimension.

So we went skating. 

Oh! I was also angry because my phone charger broke as soon as we left the house. Henry was like “Is this actually over a phone charger?!”

Henry said he was going to go to the post office and Lowe’s while we were skating, which made me cry, “YOURE LEAVING US HERE ALONE?” I made him at least put my skates on me first, but he ended up not leaving anyway, probably because he was too afraid.   Instead, he stood on the other side of the rink wall with all the other parents, and made sure Chooch and I didn’t indulge our inner derby demons. 

But on the rink, Chooch and I usually team up with each other because we are both roller NARCs, rink tattlers, skate snitches. We hate when people don’t follow basic rules and etiquette, and Chooch kept catching up to me, and in a staccato cadence marred by huffs and pants, he would cry, “THAT KID OVER THERE NEEDS TO GTFO! DID YOU SEE ME ALMOST SKATE OVER HER HEAD?” 

When it’s amateur hour, and it mostly always is if there are birthday parties on the schedule, it’s like skating through the Killing Fields: a vertible slalom course dotted with limbs and felled bodies, parents struggling to pull their children off the rink, and skate guards whirring past at warped speed without so much as a second glance. 

IT’S KILL OR BE KILLED. 

Let me tell you someyhing about where I am in life: I really dislike being around people. The exception to this is concerts, which is really weird considering, but I think my love for the bands helps me deal with it. As soon as stepped onto the rink, I knew it was going to be bad. Romp n Roll’s skate guards are teenagers whose pals come to hang out with them, and in this case, “hanging out” entails rollerblading like high-speed Bond villains around the rink. There was one that almost knocked me over and I wanted to complain but Henry was like “Good luck, he’s friends with everyone who works here.”

Oh don’t worry, it got worse: in an effort to block out the enemies, I decided to focus on the music. I thought it would be nice to request a Bowie joint in honor of his recent passing, so I sent Chooch over to the DJ booth to do my bidding. He loves requesting songs, just like I did when I was his age. 

Before I continue, let me explain that the DJ is old, like probably older than HENRY. He has the voice of Casey Kasem, even. For all intents and purposes, he has all the characteristics of your basic, generic party DJ. 

So when Chooch requested Bowie, he should have been rifling through the discography on his head, narrowing down the tracks best suited to play in tandem with the pulsating track lights and terrified yelps of children unseasoned in the art of rollerskating. 

But instead he asked Chooch, “Is that the one who just died? I’ll try to play Mony Mony, ok?”

Whaaaaaat. 

I slammed into the wall opposite of Henry to disgustedly scream about this disgrace to music. 

Henry just shrugged and said, “I don’t know what to tell you.” Considering that’s his classic response, then it seems to me like he does in fact know EXACTLY what to tell me.  

I don’t know what exactly I wanted him to do, storm the DJ booth with flaming bags of dog shit or what, but I guess I thought he would at least care a little bit more than he was letting on. I hate how unreactionary he is!!

But don’t worry – he played Mmmbop and some lame Taylor Swift song. 

Shortly after this, regular skating was interrupted for “cart races” and I hate this segment of the session because it takes FOREVER. It’s such an unorganized shit show, like every time they do this is the first time. So we sat in the snack room and made Henry buy us pizza because he had the audacity to buy himself a soft pretzel without us. Can you imagine?! Feeding himself and not us?!

Chooch and I told Henry about all the people we hated and he just rolled his eyes because he doesn’t understand what it’s like to expect perfection. 

After cart races wrapped up, we resumed skating. On my second time around the rink, I skated through a sticky gum-like substance and came very close to falling. I made a HUGE DEAL over it, turning and pointing over my shoulder at the infected area of the rink, loudly mouthing off to my skating partner about it, who said, “I’LL GO REPORT IT!” 

He loves reporting things. 

I skated around two more times but was unable to locate the contaminate. Then the DJ turned on the lights and signaled for one of the incompetent rink guards to inspect the area, so I skated off and joined Henry along the wall.

“I CAUSED THIS,” I urgently informed him. And then I started cracking up, but not because I thought it was funny–I was kind of embarrassed. “I can’t go back out there now,” I cried, clutching Henry’s arm. 

“Why?” he mumbled. “No one cares.”

EXACTLY – NO ONE CARES. I watched as the rink guard did nothing more than give the general vicinity of the almost-accident scene a cursory glance, little more than a lazy once-over, before shrugging in the direction of the DJ booth, and then the rink lights went out again. 

“There was nothing there,” Chooch said a few minutes later when he joined us. “I told the DJ you tripped over a block but they didn’t see anything.”

“It wasn’t a block, you idiot!” I screamed over top of some unoriginal pop song. “IT WAS GUM OR SOMETHING! GOD, UGH!” And then to Henry I growled, “I’m done. Go get my shoes.” I was irate. The situation had inflated inside my head to tragic proportions where the entire roller rink had conspired against. I was ready to start fights with people. 

“We’ve only been here an hour!” he exclaimed, mental math’ing how much money I wasted. But then Chooch lost a dollar in the claw machine, so then there were two of us crying about wanting to leave and Henry was hissing something about “never again” so then I accused him of being on Romp n Roll’s side when I almost PERISHED out there AND the DJ didn’t know who the fuck David Bowie was?

Get fucked, Henry. 

It felt like everyone was pointing and laughing at me in slo-mo as we walked out and I’m still not sure if that didn’t exactly happened. Ugh, fuck you smilers!

We drove home in absolute silence. Except for one I declared that I was going to write a letter, which is how I retaliate when I’ve been wronged. 

Later, Henry made dinner and I told him with zero coats of sugar that it had no taste. He gave me a really scary look and then went to the store because I said I wanted cherry pie but I think it was less because he wanted to make me happy with pie and more because he needed to get away from me and Chooch. 

 
But by the end of the night, everything had righted itself and Chooch & I settled down (after having a brutal tug of war over a blanket until Henry stormed away and brought us a second blanket) to watch The Visit, which was way better than I expected and even Henry said it was “not bad” which was high praise because he hates everything M. Night touches. I guess M. Night is to him what Ryan Murphy is to me. (Seriously, stop giving American Horror Story new seasons!)

Sometimes it’s not about being happy vs. sad. There are all kinds of other weird second-strong emotions fighting for their moment to shine, and the bad ones win out occasionally. There really wasn’t anything that was going to “fix” my day other than going to bed and starting over in the morning.  And my Sunday was definitely better.

P.S. I forgot to mention that I had numerous coughing fits over the weekend  which was clearly my body’s attenpt to expel the demons. 

Chooch and I went geocaching last weekend and we are now, together, co-blogging about it. I’m not writing this with my hyperbolic plume either. This experience was particularly blood-boiling, and I have an extremely low boiling point to begin with.

Short-fused. 

Tightly-wound.

Hot-headed.

I’m all of these things. 

Hey its yo boy Chooch, I’m gonna tell you a little things about Geocaching. K, First things first, I learned about Geocaching in school in a book. Geocaching is basically a High-Tech Treasure Hunt Game where you get the app or go on a computer and look for a Gray, Blue, Orange, Light Green, or Dark Green dot and you click on it. It will tell you what the coords are and you just go look for it.

Erin here: I thought he learned about it from YouTube, so I am currently pleasantly surprised.

So I thought there wasn’t much to do, I thought me and mommy could go Geocaching. Daddy didn’t think it would go well, but I did. He said we would kill each other cause’ we’re so competitive. So we went on a Saturday and went to South Park. Because usually there is a lot of Geocaches in the park. As soon as we got there mommy flipped out. Two minutes in she just wanted to go home. I was in the wrong area the whole time.

Erin here: Geocaching with Chooch is terrible because he thinks he knows but HE DOES NOT KNOW. He took us to some area that had an older man like, DIGGING something or someone in the woods and we had to walk near him. That was incredibly unpleasant. Chooch was putzing around with the app and I kept screaming, “AREN’T THERE COORDINATES?! HOW ARE WE SUPPOSED TO KNOW WHERE TO LOOK?!?!” and we were literally just standing there, walking in tiny circles, staring at the ground and toeing rocks. Chooch isn’t wrong — two minutes in, I completely flipped my lid and screamed (and I mean BELLOWED), “This is fucking ridiculous! I am going THE FUCK HOME!” Volaries of birds burst out of a nearby tree. The man with the shovel was like “…the fuck is that lady’s problem?” and according to Chooch, everybody hated me when this happened.

“Everybody.”

We were in the fucking park in January! There were not many people around!

Except for a biker who said hello to me RIGHT AFTER MY OUTBURST and because I’m a fucking psychopath, I switched on Sweet Erin and jovially bid him a fine afternoon in the fakest fucking baby voice I could muster.

OH, SUCH DEMURE.

Back to Unicorn Chooch: After looking for like… 7 mins or so I was just looking through rocks, and I saw some weird looking rock. I felt the bottom and it was flat. I turned it over and it was a sliding rock cache. I found the cache. We put some inappropriate mommy cards* in there. I mean like the cards she makes. I was so happy. But… I forgot to bring a pen to sign it. So I made mummy go check the car for a pen. No luck.

Me again: When I went to the car, some dumb elderly couple cheerfully said hello to me, as they were getting their idiot bikes out of their minivan. I said, “HI-YEEEEE!” in return and they kind of stepped back a little because I guess I sounded like I was being an asshole. BECAUSE I WAS.

*And he’s talking about my Totally Awesome Blog Cards, thanks!

I just put a card in and went on the app and said I found it. I wrote “Took forever I thought me and my mom would kill each other! My god”

So then mommy wanted to go home but I told her there’s one 0.3 miles away. We walked down a muddy trail next to a golf course. There was a tree tipped over so it was like a tunnel. I wasn’t going off trail I was totes on trail. We got to some torn down outhouse because I thought it was right there but nope. Farther down by a log. I was getting stabbed in the leg by tons of thorns almost dying. Then I tried to climb over a log but fell. I could’ve died. Mummy couldn’t see because she was in some crack. Lol sounds weird.

Me, with anguish: Hello, it was a GORGE and I was trapped in it, OK?

Erin’s turn: Chooch had us going totally off-trail and it was getting late in the afternoon. I felt like I was on some Blair Witch expedition and bitch, I wasn’t dying for no fucking Tupperware container in the woods. And then we get to these decrepit outhouse ruins and I thought for sure we were going to perish. I kept having future visions of tumbling into that hole and getting dragged down into Hell. Because that would be my luck.

So Henry and I used to occasionally go letterboxing back in the day, which was like the pioneer version of geocaching in that it didn’t give you GPS coordinates and you had to rely on good old-fashioned directions to find your booty. Like, turn right by the crushed Michelobe Lite can. The problem with this though is that most of the time, that fucking beer can wasn’t there anymore, you know? However, with this particular cache we were looking for, it said that it was near “an old source of water.” For some reason, Chooch felt that this meant “look for an ancient outhouse and try not to get murdered.”

Spoiler alert: it was not anywhere near the outhouse. Chooch fucking left me there and started scaling some mountain to get back to the trail that we had long-since abandoned and here’s something to add to the Erin Fact Book: I tend to get crippled with fear anytime I’m faced with walking down a steep hill. So it took a good five minutes of me standing millions of yards away from Chooch, screaming, “I CAN’T DO IT! I’M SCARED! WHY ARE YOU LEAVING ME!?” before I finally ran at full speed down the hill and then let momentum carry me up the other side of the “crack” as Chooch effectively called it.

I was rewarded by finding the stupid cache literally as soon as I joined Chooch on the other side. I stubbornly spat, “The clue said that it’s by an old source of water and I don’t see AN OLD SOURCE OF WATER” and then a split second later, I said, “Oh, right there” and pointed to a rusty water pump a few feet away.

And let me tell you, all of my homicidal rage completely evaporated and I was suddenly a completely different broad, jumping up and down and screaming, “Yay geocaching!”

So Chooch, back from playing GTA-V: We opened up the cache and put a card in. I took tw bouncy balls and a picture of a cat. I replaced it with the card.

We saw there was a bridge on the way back to the car we completely missed. I walked up really easily but on the way back down mommy cried for help and I was so disappointed in her. I thought she could do it until I told just to jump and she whined even more. Eventually like 24hours later she jumped.

Erin, Terrified of Heights: I WAS HIGH UP THERE, OK!? And I didn’t jump down. I cautiously and slowly scooted down. Anyway, it’s amazing how much my attitude changed after winning at geocaching. I practically skipped the whole way back to the car with a crown of blue birds swirling around my dome. Also, I was completely shocked at how calm and patient Chooch was during our trying times. He never gave up! So there’s one quality he didn’t get from me: the endurance of a champion quitter.

Bootiful horse ass! So cute with the tail and riders! I was like neigh and they were like moo! Then I just started singing The Killers.

That was a fun day maybe we can do it again!

Me: Probably not. Except for right now, since this was how I got Chooch to write on here. Fuck.

It only took me two years, but I finally made that sheet of vintage porn star Valentines I’ve been threatening!

These are perfect for your preschooler to pass out on Valentines Day. Give one to some asshole Planned Parenthood protester after you chuck their abortion propaganda in the nearest garbage can. Fuck it, send a whole sheet to Tiger Woods!

All of the designs on the sheet are also available as full-sized cards as well, plus this classy fucking John Holmes treat:

In addition to the porn stars, I have a new Lizzie Borden Valentine for 2016:

Can’t remember if I humble-bragged about this one last year, but my Patty Hearst Valentine is still a personal favorite!

And of course there’s the sheets chock full of affable homicidal maniacs! $6 for one, $10 for two, $15 for three, and $20 for four!

So here’s a personal story: I want to send one of my Valentines to my record label crush but I can’t decide which one. I mentioned this at work the other day and then paused and asked Glenn, “Do you think that’s weird?”

“That you have a crush on an entire record label? Knowing what I know about you, that’s actually one of the few things that actually makes sense,” he mumbled. Cue the Heartwarming Family Moment sit-com “aw”s. Todd on the other hand was like “[10 uncomfortable seconds of silence]….wait, what?”

I think I’m going to send them the new Borden one, because they’re in Boston and you know, Fall River, etc etc. You should send one to your crush, too—record label or otherwise!

Ever since The Devastating Trolley News, I’ve been thinking about all of the find memories I’ve accumulated over the years. So for Flashback Friday, let’s sit down together and talk about the time I accidentally caught feelings for my regular trolley driver back when i worked late shift.

June 2013

Since I’m a Regular Trolley Passenger now (thanks for nothing, Henry), I have become quite chummy with the trolley driver, who looks like HOLY FUCK Bob Ross is alive and living in the mountains! He says things to me like, “Here we are again, huh? Vicious cycle!” (Monday Greeting©) and “Happy Almost-Hump Day, huh?!” (Tuesday Greeting©, although sometimes he jumps the gun and lets this one fly on Mondays) and I’ll let you wonder wildly about the rest. I’m not the only one to whom he’s so salacious with his salutations: this man loves, and I mean loves to a point of compulsion, to beep his trolley horn at all his PAT Transit buddies.

He beeps at buses, he beeps at other trolleys, he beeps at fare booth broads trying to enjoy their cigarettes, he beeps at construction people digging up roads. I mean, the entire trip to work is everyday is soundtracked by BEEEEEEEEP! BEEPBEEPBEEP!! BEEP BE-BE-BEEP BEEP, BEEP BEEP! It was kind of cute at first, until the time we were going through a tunnel and two buses and one trolley passed us, throwing him into beeping conniptions. It was like a full minute of the most obnoxious, we-are-inside-a-tunnel-you-motherfucker horn blaring that I have ever had to witness. It was kind of like being stuffed in a metal tube and thrown into a deep vat of hipsters screaming about Arcade Fire becoming popular, where the degree of screaming becomes more urgent and shrill the further down you tumble until you finally land in a junkyard of unlimited Fran Dreschers laughing to Jeff Foxworthy jokes. I could still hear it, faintly, an hour later when I was at work. Totally ruined my afternoon.

The one day, he saw one of his buddies in a parking lot, operating some sort of crane, so he was straight beepin’ his proverbial trolley dick, but the guy did not reciprocate the love. I’m 99.9% sure that this was intentional, so Bob Ross: New Career rolled the trolley to a halt and laid on the horn again. This time, the crane-operator doled out the most sarcastic hand-wave I’ve ever seen, and I could almost hear him screaming, “OK! I GET IT! MOTHERFUCKING HELLO! BLOW IT OUTCHER ASS!” Henry said that he was pretty sure that the horns on trolleys and buses were meant to be used as a warning, not a Salute Buzzer. The other day, I couldn’t imagine who Bob Ross of PAT Transit was beeping at, when suddenly I saw a squirrel dash across the tracks. So I guess he does occasionally use the horn as the warning siren it’s intended to be. Good for him. Super nice guy though, for real.

August 2013

This morning, without realizing it, I began to think about my trolley driver. Not like think thinking, nothing racy or scandalous, just a casual thought popped into my head.

The last time I saw him was Thursday of last week. As I slapped my ConnectCard against the orange pad on the fare machine, he cheerfully boomed, “An hour and forty minutes, then I’m done!” I already know that Thursdays are his Fridays (I’m learning a lot about him from the quick sentences he’s able to push onto me as I step onto the trolley everyday at 12:47PM) so I figured he meant that in that amount of time, he would be done for the week. I smiled and mustered up enough faux-enthusiasm for the “yay” that has become my signature response to his jubilant greetings.

Yesterday, I had a different driver. He wasn’t mean like the guy who yelled at me once for trying to insert a flimsy, laundered dollar bill into the fare machine, but he was no Resurrected Bob Ross, either. We feigned polite smiles at each other and then I took my usual seat in the back, where I read a book the rest of the way into town.

It wasn’t until this morning that I thought about it, the different trolley driver and what my regular trolley driver said to me last week. An hour and forty minutes. What if he was counting down to his retirement? What if that was my last ride with the out-of-place mountain man and his unruly facial mane? What if I never had the same driver again, no one to act happy to see me everyday at 12:47 on the dot, no one to make me feel like I was more special than the other commuters who just got a generic “hello” or “how’s it going?” and nothing fancy and personal like the time I went back to riding the tolley after Henry had spoiled me with two entire weeks of having a personal chaffeur and the trolley driver, his face all lit up around his gnarly gray cheek-shrubbery, cried, “HEY! HOW YOU BEEN?! I thought maybe you bought yourself a motorcycle so you could ride to work in style!” And I was mostly embarrassed, but also a little smug that he was paying attention to me and not the hoodrat in booty shorts who had walked on right before me.

And what if now he was retired and I would never get to say goodbye and wish him luck? And why do I even care? Other than it has been nice to be greeted by a friendly, now-familiar face every day when I step onto that awful trolley and begin my daily descent into the depths of Hell.

Yesterday, the new-to-me trolley driver didn’t happily honk his horn once. It was the quietest commute to work I’ve ever had.

****

Today, I was trudging along Potomac Avenue toward the trolley platform when a gruff, yet amiable, voice yelled, “Hello! Hey! Hello!” I lifted my sunglasses onto the top of my head and scanned the line of cars stopped at the red light. And then I saw him looking out of the backseat window of a black Blazer. My trolley driver!

I waved back and yelled an uncertain hello, because what do you say to your trolley driver when you run into him out in public, as a civilian, without the trolley intertubed around him? It seemed so weird and unnatural, seeing him without his forearm resting on the steering wheel of his long, publicly-sponsored carriage.

“I’m on vacation!” he yelled, his untamed mountain ‘fro looking even more carefree than usual, like stationary storm clouds suctioned to his pate.

“Oh really?” I called back and immediately felt stupid. That is the most worthless answer ever and I do it all the time, and all it does is force people to say “yeah” and what a fucking waste of time I just perpetuated.

“Yeah, look at me!” he cried, waving his hands over his body to illustrate that he was free, oh-so-free of his PAT Transit-mandated polyester-blend. His vacation wardrobe consisted of a denim vest with nothing underneath. It was at least buttoned, though. His arms were covered in tattoos, and I suddenly felt kind of perverse and voyeuristic to be seeing him in anything other than his brown Port Authority uniform, so I looked away real quick, focused on the nondescript broad behind the wheel instead. “I’ll be back in two weeks! On…” he paused for a second to think. “…the 27th! You gonna be there?”

I nodded and smiled. “I’ll be there,” I said weakly, swallowing a grimace. Yeah, of course I’ll be there. It doesn’t seem like I’ll be not taking the trolley any time in the near future.

The light turned green and we said goodbye. I continued walking to the platform, happy to know that he was returning on the 27th and I could go back to being the kind of person that a stranger is excited to see. Maybe I should use this time to put more words into my Things to Say to the Trolley Driver repertoire, other than “yay” “hi” and “I know right” (usually my response when he says something about the weather). I even called Henry to giddily brag about my encounter, to which he responded, “You’re so weird.” I think that, after 12 years, Henry still has hopes that I’m calling to tell him something amazing.

As I sat on the trolley, driven by yet another foreign-to-me face bare of any significant hair design, I wondered why my trolley driver was sitting in the backseat of the Blazer when the passenger seat was empty.

I guess when your job is to cart people around all fucking day long, sitting in the backseat might actually be your vacation.

September 2013

My commute to work has definitely gotten noisier since Trolley Driver came back from vacation last week, though the first two days were pretty quiet. So quiet, that I began to wonder if perhaps he was scolded for too generously doling out honks. Then one day, he began hyper-beeping and I thought, “OK, maybe the horn was just broke for awhile.” But then I realized he was beeping at a truck who had ignored the trolley crossing sign and nearly got T-boned by us. That was pretty damn exciting.

But by the end of the week, he was back on track, so to speak.

Please, enjoy a video I compiled of my shitty trolley ride to work:

That last part is only a tiny snippet at the maniacal beeping that goes on. For instance, there is some work being done on the tracks right after the stop I get on at, so there have been clumps of port authority workers doing their thing. As Trolley Driver passes them, he beeps—once for every single person. And then he slows to a halt and begins to jovially chide the guys in their fluorescent yellow and orange vests and they look like they’re so fucking exhausted of this charade. Man, I really love Trolley Driver!

But guess what!? There is some stupid broad who is sometimes waiting on one of the platforms downtown and he will idle there with the door open, having a conversation with her, even though she’s not getting on the trolley. This has happened numerous times since I’ve been a regular on this particular trolley, and usually the passengers will start to get vocal because hello, we have places to go! So then they say goodbye and he jingles his little trolley bell (and I don’t mean his weener, but maybe I do) and gives one last little TOOTTOOT before continuing on his way.
This happened yesterday and I realized THAT I AM JEALOUS OF THIS BROAD. Does he like her more than me!?!?

Henry pointed out that he* would probably do the same thing to me if he saw me standing on a different trolley platform. I guess he’s right. I mean, he did shout at me from the backseat of a car while he was on vacation.

*(Trolley Driver, not Henry. God, Henry would probably do a rain dance just so he could splash me upon passing.)

“It’s a Trolley Triangle,” was Henry’s response when I texted him the picture of The Platform Harlot.

I NEED TO MAKE HIM LIKE ME MORE THAN HER. Should I (have Henry) bake him cookies?! Buy him an airhorn? Get him a Best Beepin’ Trolley Driver mug? Ugh, I’ll think of something.
You know I’m going to be obsessing over this now. I should probably find out his name at some point.

Michele ruined my life today. She emailed several of us at work an article about how the TROLLEY IS SHUTTING DOWN FOR 6 MTHS.

SIX MOTHERFUCKING MONTHS. 

THAT IS A LOT OF MONTHS. 

In case you didn’t already know, here are some important facts:

• The trolley is how I get to work basically every single day now that Henry’s job sucks and he hasn’t been able to drive me.
• It’s way more stressful now that I don’t work late shift every day and have to deal with the morning rush hour crowds. 
• It took me like 3 years to come to terms with commuting to work.
• I have major anxiety when my routine is changed. 
• Horrible things happen to me a lot just on my walk to the trolley alone, such as ISSUES WITH CROSSING THE STREET and strangers wanting to talk, and then my day is ruined. You can ask Henry because sometimes he’s on the phone with me and witnesses the horrors! (Don’t let him tell you I embellish.) Sometimes I get splashed with water! One time I fell into a hole!
• I’m a little bit neurotic. 

My first reaction was, “I have to quit my job.”

But then Todd verbalized some nonsense about TAKING THE BUS.

I whipped around in my chair and co-opted Henry’s method of laughing without mirth. 

“Todd,” I said firmly once I stopped stuttering from all The Shock of the news. “I can NOT take a bus.” And then I had to tell him the now-legendary* tale of when I was 18 and met some boy at the mall (actually we met over the phone when I was a telemarketer for Olan Mills, lol) who then invited me back to his apartment on the Southside but we had to take the bus, he said, and I was all agreeable with adventure in my eyes.

Until it was 3am and I didn’t know how to get home so my mom had to come and pick me up. 

*(Not legendary.)

I never took a bus again. I don’t understand the numbers and the letters and the routes. With the trolley, I have two choices: red or blue. And it’s a straight shot to where I need to go. No transfers or any such nonsense. 

My only other brush with the bus was when I was a sophomore in high school and decided I wanted to join a gang, because that’s what all rich white girls do to act out: engage in back alley knife fights and terrorize the neighborhood shop owners. (But probably mostly just serve as a penis coozy for the “real” gang members.)

I had a friend named Jeremiah who lived in The City and he said he could get me into a gang, but I would have to TAKE A BUS from my comfortable suburban sprawl because none of my friends were interested in driving me to the hood to get gang-initiated. 

“And that’s how I almost joined a gang,” I somberly wrapped up my deeply personal story. 

“Wow,” Todd said with faux-amazement. “Your life could have been so different.”

“I know right?! I’d probably have a face tattoo by now, at least,” I mused, picturing all the battle scars etched into my body like a gritty street war constellation. 

“Just make a bus friend,” Todd offered as a flimsy solution. 

Todd, I don’t MAKE FRIENDS. I break them. (….?)

I’m glad that I have two months to fucking LOSE MY MIND over this before it actually happens. I don’t know what I’ll do. I’m still leaning heavily toward quitting my job. 

It’s Wednesday. There was a 2-hour delay because I guess it’s very cold out or something. (Yesterday was very cold too but when I checked the weather before leaving the house, 20 degrees somehow seemed like it would be “warm” so I wore a lightweight jacket and no gloves. I’m killing this adult game.)

I spent all morning designing new Valentines for non compos with intermittent KpopX mental health breaks. It is literally the only thing keeping me stable, thank you KpopX. My current favorite song/routine is 2Eye’s “Pippi” and did you know that if my birth dad hadn’t died and my mom hadn’t remarried, my last name would be Pippi? Seriously, shoot me. I would have said yes to one of those other pre-Henry dudes who actually asked me to marry them. (What were they thinking?)

Here is Chooch’s expression from when I made him watch the Pippi video this morning:

I’d like to add that a few minutes later, I was upstairs putting MY FACE ON, when I heard him in the living room absentmindedly humming 2eye’s masterpiece. Yeah, that’s what’s up.

I made Henry watch an acoustic rendition of “PIPPI” last night and his expression was pretty similar, except his eyes were more glazed.

(Don’t worry, everything else I listen to is depressing as fuck so I’m no less emo.)

***

Last week, Glenn happily sent me an article about “South Korea resuming propaganda broadcasts hated by North” because it mentions Kpop, but not only that, it gives a shout-out to one of my favorite KpopX routine songs!!

So, between KpopX and making new Valentine cards, I’m keeping busy. Gayle tried to force me to borrow a book from her and I was like, “NICE TRY GAYLE BUT I AM IN NO PLACE TO READ A BOOK RIGHT NOW.”

Also, I feel like I’m getting sick. I AM SLOWLY BREAKING, HELP. EVERYTHING IS TERRIBLE. #SOS #911 #187

I’m having a bad day. Not anything major, but the stupid trolley made me late for work this morning and my nearly 6 year streak of arriving to my job in a timely fashion is BROKEN. I texted Amber2 to let her know I was going to be late and Glenn was practically doing a jig with a bucket of confetti. He’s been waiting for this day for years and told me that he considered sending an email to the whole department to inform them I was going to be late. I WOULD HAVE DIED. Oh my god, just no. I feel so much anxiety all these hours later, just thinking about that horrific email.

Look, I was only four minutes late and Henry said it shouldn’t count since it wasn’t my fault but fuck, there was no retrieving my day from the commode after that shitty flush.  Today was fraught with a series of mistakes, pretty much everything I touched, I promptly fucked up. It honestly was like it was my first day on the job.  So because I have no idea where my head is*, and I don’t want to accidentally start typing my social security number or my secret Hare Krishna amputee milkmaid erotica, here are some dumb photos I’ve been collecting this month on my phone. I’m lucky I can even handle that right now.

*(Evidently, it’s still on the stupid trolley.)

Listen. I follow a ton of succulent accounts on Instagram because my life is that fucking vanilla now. One of them is having some idiotic giveaway which requires a person to post a picture of their succulents and I’m a sucker who wants to win a succulent or eight (SERIOUSLY, EIGHT SUCCULENTS ARE IN THE POT), so of course I entered.

I like clowns, just in case you forgot. Send them all to me. I need cheered up.

A thing I painted with my fingers on a day when I was stupid mad. Fuck painting. AND FUCK FINGERS, TOO.

A LAMP I SCORED AT GOODWILL. Henry is not as excited about it as I am. There aren’t many things that get Henry excited. This lamp would have to make a cameo in the middle of a 1980s orgy on VHS for Henry to give a fuck. Find something to get stoked on, Henry. Please. You’re bringing me down.

Our bedroom is a fucking war zone right now because we’re painting (“we’re” LOLOLOL all the way home) and basically rearranging everything, but peep Chooch’s badass onesie.

I almost have Henry sold on painting our bedroom doors gold glitter.

I’m so excited to add Bled Fest to the painting I made stupid Henry last year for Valentine’s Day, IF HE KEEPS HIS IDIOT XMAS PROMISE TO ME, THAT IS. When I get something in my head, it is ALL-CONSUMING. I honestly dream about this and watch YouTube videos from the past Bled Fests like, every day. I could probably stand to get some therapy. SOME MUSIC THERAPY. OHHHHH! #bledfestorbust

And here I am, infiltrating Chooch’s man cave.

Chooch & his golden curls are going to the store with Henry.

A video posted by Erin Appledale (@ohhonestlyerin) on Jan 6, 2016 at 4:42pm PST

The end.

P.S. Seriously. Send me clowns in the mail. Address available upon request. I will send you something back!

One of the first, if not the first, music videos I ever saw was for David Bowie’s “Let’s Dance.” My dad was really into recording (see also: taping) Friday Night Videos back in the early 80s, pre-MTV.

I still have one of his VHS tapes of homemade music video compilations; it’s labeled with a piece of masking tape and I refuse to pitch it.

“Let’s Dance” is on there.

Even as a super young kid, when I saw this video, I knew this guy was cool as fuck.

And then obviously “Labyrinth” happened. I watched that movie for the first time in third grade, at my friend Elisabeth Holtz’s house, sitting on the floor making shitty beaded jewelry and thinking, “I would not mind one bit if David Bowie kidnapped my little brother.” Legend.

In high school, I “borrowed” one of my dad’s Bowie CDs because I wanted to put “Changes” on a mix tape I was making, and then I conveniently “forgot” to put it back. That ignited a nice little fight. My dad and I were almost constantly feuding during my teen years so it was no big thing to me at all, but looking back on it now, it was pretty ironic that he was the one who introduced me to David Bowie and then there we were all those years later, fighting because of him.

I ended up just going out and buying my own Bowie CDs after that.

(With my mom’s money, haha!)

Waking up to the news of Bowie’s death this morning took my breath away. I woke up Chooch and said, “Something terrible happened…

David Bowie died.” And that’s when I realized I was crying.

Chooch shot up from his bed like Nosferatu from a coffin, and cried, “WHAT?! How!?” I told him it was cancer, and he went on a tear, motherfucking cancer up and down.

“Now there won’t ever be a sequel to ‘Labyrinth’,” he added somberly.

This feels like one of those universal deaths, the kinds that suck so hard and touch people on such a worldwide level, that we all kind of come together for a moment. It’s comforting. Especially when I open Facebook and see people mourning the same loss as me, when I didn’t really think we had much in common. David Bowie is the glittery, otherworldly, sonic thread that connects us. And there will never be another like him.

Thank you, David Bowie.

Today was way less full of mental-lava, but these are things that I hate no matter what mood I’m in.

• Getting calls from the vice-principal. I don’t even answer anymore. I wait until there’s a voicemail, listen to that, and then I text Henry in all capital letters and made him call the school back because NO don’t bother me at work. I know my kid is a fucking menace. Please put me on the do not call list, thanks.
  • This time it was actually Chooch’s buddy that did the bad thing but they both suffered the consequences and had to serve lunch detention, lol. MAYBE NEXT TIME THEY WILL WALK TO SCHOOL LIKE NORMAL HUMANS AND NOT FUCK AROUND NEAR RUSH HOUR TRAFFIC.
• Being a parent to a preteen boy. Can’t wait for it to get worse.
• That one cemetery we drive past every time we go to the craft store. It’s just plain and boring and I hate it. It makes me feel sterile every time we drive past. Fuck off, plain cemetery. Get an obelisk or GTFO.
• Eye doctor. I had to go back yesterday for a contact follow-up. I had a different doctor this time and I liked him a lot better. I told him I was really struggling with my right eye and he looked at my chart and said, “Yeah, I don’t know why a toric lens was only ordered for your left eye. You need one for the right, too.” I KNOW RIGHT!? I have no idea why the other doctor decided that I’m only a one-eyed astigmatism.
• Grilled cheese made with the wrong cheese. Henry ruined my Saturday by putting provolone on my grilled cheese and I refused to eat it all. (I mean, I ate SOME because I was hungry.)
• Wendy’s gross nail. She did something dumb to it and now the nail is all black and coming up and she kept trying to thrust it at me because she knows I hate gross body things like whoa. She even popped out from behind a cabinet door when I was trying to file away Redwells on Friday and I was so angry. Then she went back to her office and texted me a picture of it!? I found out later that GLENN gave her that idea for free.  I’d post the picture but then I’d have to see it again. As if that wasn’t enough, she sent me a video, too. :(
• Lunch lady (Debbie the Bitch) at Chooch’s school who apparently yelled at him for “getting [name withheld] in trouble” when it was actually the other way around?! (Seriously, the vice-principal told us this so I believe it; if it was coming from Chooch, I’d have doubts.) Maybe get a new hairnet, Debbie, because it sounds like yours is too tight.
• Eyelids. They are literally lids for eyes & then I can’t fall asleep because I can’t stop imagining if eyelids were removable like other lids. #lids
• When Henry gets cocky and deviates from recipes and then I’m the only one who suffers. Just follow the recipe…?
• Geocaching. Full post on that later in the week.
• Winter.
• Henry’s inability to paint walls as fast as I need him to.
• The fact that it’s January and Bled Fest and Warped Tour won’t start making announcements until March.
• Not being rich enough to buy every record I want right at this very moment.
• This blog.

Just so I’m not a total killjoy, I’ll end this dumb post with a synthpop masterpiece; every time I hear it, it boosts my mood and makes me desperately want to go roller skating, so maybe next weekend? It’s been like, a year. So add that to the Things I Hate list.

• Not rollerskating enough.

I was just trying to enjoy the beautiful notes of Pentimento wafting from my bedroom speakers when Chooch started watching some hideous Geocaching video in his room and then HENRY started playing something on his phone and I was like ARE YOU FUCKING IDIOTS DEAF TO THE FACT THAT I AM TRYING TO ENJOY MUSIC WHILE I AM CURLING MY HAIR IN THE BATHROOM?!

So I stormed into my bedroom and glared at Henry, all casually lounged out in bed staring at whatever pointless thing was playing on his phone, and started screaming about audacious audio takeovers and he just stared back at me because apparently this is Typical Behavior.

“You’re so bossy,” he had the nerve to say. 

“WELL I WAS HERE FIRST!” I screeched. 

“No actually, I was up here first,” he back-talked. 

“No, I mean, I was HERE first,” I reiterated, swirling my hands around to encompass the whole house. “Since 1999!”

“Oh my god, are you STILL doing that?” Henry sighed in disbelief. 

Uh, yeah. And I will continue to do so until the day we move out.

I FEEL LIKE A VOLCANO ON THE VERGE OF ERUPTING LATELY. I am so frustrated with everything! 

SOMEONE KIDNAP ME. 

OH YEAH AND I HAVE TO GO BACK TO THE EYE DOCTOR TODAY UGH. Everything is awful. 

Hi guys I’m into things. Here are some of those things.

1.Not giving blood. Amber² gave blood today at work and then tried to thrust her vamp-wound in my face and I thought I was going to pass out. Then I made the mistake of telling her, Glenn and Todd that I donated blood ONCE in high school and honestly did pass out. “Someone had to help me walk to the nurse’s room. It was like a big scene,” I said. “Wow, that’s hard to believe,” Todd said and I think he was being sarcastic. Glenn tried to get me to donate blood by saying, “They brought their best leeches.” That was the second time in two days I almost puked at work. The other time was the day before because it was the first day I was wearing my new, non-trial pair of contacts and I had such a headache from my eyes struggling to adjust,  that I had to bury my head in my arms for a few minutes in the afternoon because I really thought I was in for an unfortunate lunch reunion at my desk.

2. KpopX. Yes, I’m still kpopping. I kpopped so fucking hard tonight too, you have no idea, and my goddamn gums are tingling somehow. I kpopped something in my neck the other day so that wasn’t good. Here is my current favorite KpopX routine, because hello, apples:

3. Making a Murderer. Yes, I’m basic. I’m obsessed just like everyone else. I mean, I’m already done watching it but that doesn’t mean I don’t spend every free minute reading Reddit and hounding my co-workers to watch it. (I heard that Lou has watched it but I try not to speak to Lou, so…)

4. The Law Firm Zine. I think I already mentioned this but I’m making a zine for the department at work and I am really pouring my heart into it. For literally no reason whatsover. I have two pages done so far with three more in the works. It’s going to be a real fucking stunner when it’s finished. I CAN’T WAIT TO SHOW EVERYONE.

5. Anticipating the new Basement album. They were on hiatus for some time and now they’re back and I’m excited. Did I say enough? You should watch this video and let the sounds enter you in whichever way you see fit.

6. Making plans to stay alive this winter. New year, same drill: keep busy so the winter depression doesn’t kill me. So far, there are several shows on tap, Corey and I have a pb&j and Mattress Factory trip planned for next month (and Kara too if she’s interested—KARA??), and some lame YouTuber has taught Chooch about geocaching so I’m apparently doing that with him this weekend while Henry hangs back and reupholsters the bar stools with fun fur, because I’ve projects for days, you guys. PROJECTS.FOR.DAYS. (That’s inaccurate. Projects for years.) Last night, I could hear Chooch in his room, cracking the fuck up, so I assumed he was watching one of his idiot YouTubers, but later I found out he was reading the blog post I sent him about the time we went geocaching (LETTERBOXING—I’m a purist; get that GPS jizz out of my face) when he was three. FLATTERED.

Um, other than all of that, I’m just sitting here, making Henry watch music videos with me on YouTube because I’m 16.

I guess that’s all. I’m always the lamest version of myself in January.

Fuck you, January.

  
Remember how sometimes I would ask you guys to submit questions for Henry and then I would force him to answer then, interview-style and he would proceed to not speak to me for several days? That was so much fun! And I want to start doing that again more regularly, maybe like twice a month, but with VIDEOS too. So like, for example, HENRY REVIEWING VARIOUS FAYGO FLAVORS. Like who wouldn’t want to see a closeup of Faygo-drops glistening on his mouth-fur?

I’m just trying to come up with some new shit to plaster on this site for 2016 because I’m getting bored, and if I’m getting bored, you’ve probably done BEEN bored. So, hopefully I will find things to freshen up this stinky dump. 

So anyway, if you have something you would like to see review or if you have some burning desire to know more about his wardrobe of nondescript cotton sheaths, fire away. 

***Henry is 100% not going to be OK with this, but you just let me worry about that. 

Chooch and I decided to be such cool, very West Elm by posting a tour of his room, you know, like all the trendy bloggers do. Haha. So please, step inside the tiny box we generously call “Chooch’s bedroom,” WON’T YOU?

Freak.

A video posted by Erin Appledale (@ohhonestlyerin) on Jan 5, 2016 at 4:49pm PST

I am Riley, as you may know as The Internet Kid, because I am beautiful. Here is my room. Yeah. Sure.

This lamp is a lamp that my “ma-ma” got from the attic.

(Ed.note: I got it from some creepy lady at the flea market.)

It’s in the third corner on top of my bookshelf and it’s cree-PEE.

This is me reading a book that I just took out from my bookshelf because “ma-MA” told me to.

This is my tv I got for Christmas. I’m watching Shane Dawson because I like his videos. He swears but…I don’t care. He does challenges and taste tests.

This is me playing the piano because I like piano and…uh. I was playing nothing on it because it wasn’t plugged in.

This is me holding a lightsaber and pointing at my cat pictures made by Chuck Hodi. They all have odd eyes.

Um this is some pictureframe I made when I was in kindergarten. I’m so young and they made me do it and it’s all Catholic. I don’t know what’s Catholic about the hippo. This is a picture

This is a picture of an eyeball and peppermint bush forest. Because I was obsessed with eyeballs when I was a baby.  I got that cat thing at goodwill.

This is Goodnight Mommy, I saw it in September. It’s a horror movie. You might have already read the blog post I wrote about it. So maybe go check it out after this obviously.

As you can see, this is my gallery wall where I have seven pictures. My favorite one is not the demon on the wall (Ed.note that’s what he calls the portrait I did of him lol), but the catstronaut one. It came from Riot Fest 2015 when ma-MA and pa-PA went.

This me doing my beautiful face, as always. Ma-MA likes it, DONT YOU.

THIS IS MY SUCCULENTS! I wanted the cactus because it was fluffy. And I also wanted the other non-sharp cactus because it was cute and it has a cute little flower. (Ed.note: he’s reciting this in the dumbest voice, I hate my life. Lawl j/k I love it.)

Things on a windowsill.

This Is me, my beautiful self, hanging from my ladder with some of my beautiful Never Shout Never gear on.

This is RileCena signing off! Peace out!
Don’t jump in front of trains!

Taking a break from KpopX and Run For Cover YouTube videos to jot down some thoughts using nothing but a keyboard and my fingertips. Shit is so advanced in 2016.

• HUGE NEWS: I finally repotted that stupid spider plant that was dumped on me two years ago at work. I still don’t really like it because SUCCULENTS ONLY, but…I’m trying to be nice to it. So I bought it a stupid hanging planter thing at Ikea and then made Henry hang it for me in my “painter’s nook” and I guess it’s OK. Maybe someday it’ll get a name. Like Burden or Waste of Space.
  • But the upside to this is that now I can buy a succulent to put in Spider Plant’s old pot, which was actually a really pretty coffee cup that Gina and Elissa got me a few years ago for my birthday, but then it chipped so I’ve been using it as a pot ever since.
    • Speaking of the pink wall (wait, we weren’t?) I think I have Henry on board to paint the rest of the bedroom a deep hunter green. He doesn’t seem thrilled but when is he ever. It’s going to be dope.

• My Top 9 Instagram posts, apparently.
• Check out this great clown book my friends Kevin and Lizzy sent me! The inscription is from 1948! I just love it. I love clown stuff so much!

• Last summer when I was visiting Octavia, I had coffee at her house and commented on how much I loved her coffee cups and then for Christmas, she sent me one along with one of her succulents! I seriously cried because it meant so much and I miss her.  I asked her to name him and she chose Baron Stash. <3 #insidejokes4l
• Thinking about making a zine about my department at work. Like old school zine, yo. Glenn’s life is about to get even worse.
  • Yeah, speaking of Glenn, Todd told me last week that before he really knew me, all he knew was that I did all these fucked up things to Glenn and he actually thought I was a bully. He told me this after I giddily told him about how Corey and I constantly try to spread rumors that Janna has a Robitussin problem and he told me that I’m a bully.
    • I think I might be a bully.

• Chris and Monica brought me back the bottom mask from their honeymoon and he has become fast friends with Clown Mask.
• So today I arrived at work at 9 and quickly learned that I was supposed to work late shift today because Amber2 asked to switch with me, but I thought she meant next Monday. “Maybe you need to get a planner,” Wendy sneered, to which I snapped, “I PUT IT IN MY PHONE PLANNER, BUT THAT DOESN’T REALLY MATTER WHEN I HAVE THE DATE WRONG, WENDY.” Ugh! So everyone was like, “Hahaha, good job” and it wouldn’t benefit me to turn around and go home, because I took the stupid trolley today so by the time I got home, I would have to turn around and come right back, ugh. Instead, I sat here for a few minutes and annoyed everyone, and then I decided to try my luck out in the wilderness, i.e. snowy downtown. Chooch took my idiot gloves to school with him this morning because he “couldn’t find his” which means this was the first time this winter he needed to wear gloves and couldn’t be bothered to look for them, so I had to borrow Wendy’s gloves when I went outside. She tried to get me to borrow her scarf  too but I stubbornly said I was fine.
  • First, I went to Nicholas Coffee and bought a pound of coffee because what else am I going to do? Then I walked to the Exchange to look for records but they only have ultra deluxe hipster bullshit and like, Led Zeppelin; nothing that I was looking for, needed, or would have gladly bought on a whim. So I was like steaming mad and started to storm out because that’s what I do, and that’s also what I did on Sunday when I was at the Culture Shop and some bitch was visiting her friend who was working there, and she was blocking THE ONE CASE that I wanted to look at. “Why wouldn’t you just ask her to move?” Henry had the nerve to question after I huffed and puffed my way down Carson Street. I shot him A Look and screamed, “BECAUSE I SHOULDN’T HAVE TO! SHE SHOULD WAIT UNTIL AFTER HER FRIEND IS DONE WORKING AND THEN THEY CAN GO AND GET A FUCKING FRAPPUCINO TOGETHER UGH.” Anyway, that’s a thing that happened. But back today: as I was stomping out of the store with a scowl on my face, one of the girls said, “Have a nice day, miss” and the other girl said, “I really love your purse!” So then I calmed down. Being called “miss” was good enough, but the extra compliment about my fabulous taste in accessories really dulled my ire.

• I stripped Trudy down over the weekend and I have to say, I’m not sad about it. LOOK AT THAT BODY. Henry put the new(-to-us) wig on her and looked so proud about it. I love that he was so annoyed about buying her at Macy’s but now he has totally warmed up to her. She’s an Appledale, Michael. My own Trudy, a goddamned, shit-sucking Appledale. OH YOU WAIT TIL MOM FINDS OUT BUDDY.
  • Sorry. I was having a Lost Boys moment.

• Here is a photo of a disgusting man who performs snot gymnastics every morning while waiting for the trolley, instead of just blowing his fucking nose, and I’m like “Bro, use a KLEENEX, it probably requires less effort than whatever phlegm lassoing you’re doing right now.” Sometimes, he is also known to burp with wanton abandon. I hate him so much and literally glare at him.
• I’m eating Müller greek yogurt and I can’t get over how much it tastes like paste, which alarms me because I’ve never eaten paste. And trust me, I would admit it if I did. I’ve admitted to far worse on the Internet!
  • I’m totally gagging on this but still, I keep spooning it in. Mmm, Elmers-y.

• My Cure tickets and Carly Rae Jepsen tickets came on the same day and I ran around like a child after drinking a whole case of red Squeezits! So many good shows are happening in 2016: Hail the Sun is this month, Never Shout Never is next month, Basement is coming up, Silverstein and EMAROSA in Lancaster…I’m excited to start filling up the 2016 calendar that I snagged thanks to Gayle’s mom donating to charities and getting a shit ton of calendars that no one wants so Gayle brought them all into work. I got an Easter Seals one that features crappy pictures made by children. My other option was Peaceful Solitude, which is chock full of like, pictures of churches and birds. I don’t like children, but I also don’t like churches and birds, so I grabbed the one that had more colors on it that I enjoyed. Which was the kid one. And that concludes this year’s Calendar Klatch. Stop by next year and we’ll talk again.
  • Don’t worry, I’ve repainted my nails since this picture was taken.
    • Except now they need redone again. I’m just not as into my nails anymore, guys!

• Henry finally scrubbed the tattoo off Chooch’s neck and you would have thought he was being murdered by tickles.
• Fun fact about me: ever since I was a kid, I heard the Full House theme song as “Whatever happened to addict to be a teen, the milkman, the paperboy, the evening Tv?” I mean, no, it never made sense to me– “addict to be a teen”– but I still sang it because it was either that or “a dick to Billy Tee” and that made even less sense to me…? Anyway, I finally decided to look up the words recently and wow. Just wow. “Predictability.” Who knew!? (Other than everyone.)
• In case anyone was keeping score, Henry has leveled up to “Bae Lord” and I have leveled down to “Bae.” We were having a hard time keeping track of who was who and finally Henry screamed, “JUST CALL US MOM AND DAD FOR FUCK’S SAKE!!!”
  • Maybe I screamed that.
• Yeah so I hate to be That Guy, but winter, you guys. Man, fuck a winter. And it has literally only just begun.
• I went back outside when I was on my actual lunch break and not my “fuck, I’m two hours early for work” break and this time I took Wendy’s scarf, too. It was fucking brutal out there, man.
  • Actually, it wasn’t even THAT cold but we were so spoiled with a mild December and there was no gradual descent into winter digits. Just an overnight plunge.

• Henry does not approve of my mustache.
• Man, I had a really crappy weekend for no tangible reason other than I allowed a thing to get the best of me and it set the ball in motion to rack up millions of points in the psychopathic pinball game inside my brain. Emotions are the worst. I started approximately 87 fights with Henry on Saturday and Sunday and then tried to kick him out which backfired on me (it always does) and then finally he was like, “Hey, what’s the real issue here?” and then I was like “WAHHHHHHHH!!!!” and cried and he took me to Tillie’s for dinner on Sunday because I said, “I WANT TO GO TO TILLIE’S” so that’s what we did and then I was fine.

Mmm, bloody.

• One of my oldest dreams was to start my own record label. I’ve been thinking about it a lot lately because I feel like each day spent at a job that has zero to do with music is killing me, but I don’t know where to start. All I know is that I want Chooch to be the face of it because everyone loves Chooch and I have the personality of a frozen corpse.
• Put all this effort into quietly crawling up the steps on Friday night so that I could burst into Chooch’s room and scare him, but wound up scaring myself because I didn’t consider the effect of screaming while wearing a pig mask. My ears are still ringing. Henry didn’t even bother to ask me if I was OK!?
• And now I will leave you with a song by Mindsideout. Did you know that the beginning of my relationship with Henry revolved around synthpop? He used to burn me synthpop mix CDs because I was All Synthpop All the Time back then and even considered changing my name to my synthpop super princess alias, Saffron. Anyway, I had a synthpop compilation with this Mindsideout song on it but not even Eide’s, my official Industrial and Synthpop dealer, had the entire Mindsideout record for sale. Henry ended up finding some overpriced import CD somewhere and I just thought he was the greatest guy ever. Well, for about 30 minutes. Come on now.

Going back to my emo hole with my sadboy music and Bledfest dreams. Someone put this blog out of its misery.