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Sometimes I’m so goth and emo I astound myself!

Here’s one side of an IM conversation I had with an old friend last night, shortly before I went into the bathroom and started cutting. (note: I didn’t start cutting.)

ME: hello!
ME: so I clicked on Satisfaction’s page on myspace
and then I saw a Smile profile and clicked on that
and listened to a song
ME: and it reminded me so much of the old days and playing in a band and even before that, just being at shows where you guys were playing and hanging out with you and rob over ten years ago
ME: that it was like this poignancy balloon burst in my heart
I think I had a nostalgia aneurysm
it was fairly unpleasant
ME: sometimes I get hit so hard by old memories I feel like my heart is getting squeezed

While watching Next Food Network Star! I don’t know what’s wrong with me. That piece of crap Sex and the City movie didn’t pull any tears from me like it did everyone else with ovaries but this emotional roller coaster which, I might add, featured Martha Stewart tonight, did. “I don’t want to be annoying,” said Kelsey, through tears. And the thing is that she is annoying, but in that moment I felt for her. I, too, don’t want to be annoying. Is it her fault she’s really really really perky? I haven’t been this caught up in a show since… I don’t even know!

“Thanks for shopping at Duane Reade. You have a blessed day.” That’s what the check out person at Duane Reade said to me today after ringing up my purchase of band-aids and Aveeno Creamy Baby Wash. (I like to wash myself with creamy babies.) It was kind of jarring, for want of a better word. Then again, today is Sunday. Is this a special Sunday thing? Does she suit her salutation to the day of the week? Actually, I move that from now on clerks work the day of the week into their greeting because it can be hard to remember what day of the week it is. Also, they should say the time. They should basically just time-stamp their chatter. Like “Thanks for shopping at Duane Reade on Monday at 4:34.”

Usually when I watch awards show I think to myself, “my god, who writes this crap?”

This is no exception.

And Adam Duritz? With the dreadlocks? Still?

I just literally jumped from the thunder. Then I did a double axel, since I was already in the air, and I landed in the splits. I held it for a few extra seconds, breathing hard but making sure to smile at the judges, particularly that hard-hearted Olga who, well, let’s just put it this way, she’s… no, I’m just going to say it: She’s a bitch. I met her once at a cocktail party for the Seoul Olympics and she just gave off bad vibes. Like, get over yourself, Olga. You think you’re so fancy because you invented the figure skate? You think you’re all that because you survived a horrible cartwheel accident that left your partner in a coma? You think you’re so high and mighty because Oprah featured your book “Skating with God; My Life on the Rocks” on her show? Well I don’t think so, Olga. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have freezer burn on my legs.

I’m sorry, blog readers. I posed a question and then didn’t ever answer it. What kind of jerk am I? I’m a jerk who’s drunk on the power of you wanting to know the answer! Will I tell you? Well will I?

Yes. The answer is J. I do not make sun tea. But I’m touched that you would even think I might!

A weird thing happened to me at my local family-owned mom-and-pop coffeeshop, Starbucks. I ordered my usual drink, a skinny whipped mocha tazoberry blueberry chai fribble served in an ankle boot, and the guy who took my order asked my name. I told him. “I’m just going to tell them it’s for Alice,” he said. “Um, okay,” I responded because Alice is agreeable. “One grande iced coffee for Alice,” he yelled to a guy who was about four feet from him, making implausible the notion that perhaps wherever he was sending this drink order was so far away that the last syllable of my name would never survive the journey, falling off or somehow getting mangled on its little trip from idea to refreshing beverage. Maybe it would just sound like a touch tone. Like “iced grande for Alis#” So then my brain settled on the next logical explanation: he must have some kind of speech impediment which interferes with the word “son.” Obviously! But before I had a chance to test this theory by asking him a pointed question involving that very word, he handed me my receipt and said, “Here you go, Alison.” I never did find out but I bet it’s that someone in the drink making station had their heart broken by an Alison and thus the mere mention of that name—my name—is too painful. Or maybe in this heat three syllables is just pushing it?

Some delightful mayhem at the beginning.

Me on Fox & Friends on Sunday

Okay, folks! All the following are true except one. See if you can figure it out:

Things I Like to Do In The Heat (I suppose this could also be called 9 Truths and a Lie)

a) sleep
b) complain
c) nap
d) bitch
e) think about snow
f) watch TV
g) sigh
h) talk loudly about how I equate heat with death
i) talk loudly about how I equate walking around in heat like this to walking around in some kind of thick translucent soup—and not in a good way
j) make sun tea

…I think I would be more inclined to go. Then again maybe that’s like how people say that if there were a gym in their building they’d actually go. Or how my parents always said that people who have swimming pools in their backyard don’t actually use them. (I’d think they’d taken a scientific poll of themselves.)

Also, why must I make jokes when I’d be better off not? To wit:

me: got any assignments? [this wasn’t how I said it but it was the gist]
editor guy: stay tuned, might have one coming up
me: I shall don an adult diaper and sit at my computer!

I mean really. Sometimes I think I’m understimulated and so I do things to entertain myself which are ultimately kind of destructive. For example, I just shit in my sister’s shoes and ate her speakers. Now I’m jumping up on the couch.