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A commenter made a comment about Chelsea Handler being potential BFF material for me, which of course would be awesome except she’s on the other coast, but then I started thinking that you know, it’s been a really long time since I’ve had a BFF! With my tendency to undermine, backstab, publicly humiliate, sleep around and steal cars, I have trouble being half of a girl-on-girl platonic friendship. But I could use a BFF! Ladies, do you think you have what it takes? Do you read my blog and think that we should be BFFs? Let me know. I think I still have some best friend necklaces around here somewhere.

Note: I don’t actually do any of that stuff although I did once steal a car.

Except: thank you for making this video (posted on The Activity Pit)! I liked the shots of Pomona and Jet Blue and stuff. And Tobey! Is that a satellite shot of Orange County? My sense of direction is so bad that whatever angle/distance I’m seeing something from, I still have no idea what it is. UPDATE: Okay, so obviously that isn’t “Orange County.” Remember when I asked if it was Orange County? Totally was just making a far out joke because clearly that’s either my college or my high school. I think it’s my high school. I think I recognize my locker. Where am I?

If you know me then you know I simply live for when people say their faces hurt so I can jump in with “it’s killing me!” In fact, that was the only upside to having my wisdom teeth out—the chance to be repeatedly zinged by my sister when I’d stupidly announce, through my vicodin haze, that my face hurt. (Even though I was the butt of the joke that time, I still appreciated it in the Platonic sense and respected the way my sister took advantage of my weakened state. I would have done the same.) Now my face hurts again for some reason and my dumb sister is on the way to Delaware and there’s no one to appreciate the way I keep accidentally setting myself up for the joke. I am so alone humorwise right now! If my face hurts and no one says it’s killing them, does it even really hurt at all?

Here’s a deep thought I had this morning which I thought you might also like to have:

If I were a man and not just a man but one who wore a toupee, would it be a good or bad one?

UPDATE: I think I have confused you guys with this question. I don’t mean it like if I were a man and my current hair was a toupee. That is crazy! I mean like this, and I realize at this point I’m somewhere between English and the weird language I speak to myself in my head which is understandable only by me, hence, oh well:

In a parallel universe, if I were not me, but instead a man, and one day I had to get a toupee, would I end up being the kind of person who sports a good one or bad one? Would I be that dude walking around with what appears to be an inverted scrub brush plopped on my head? Or would I be more of a Ted Danson type guy? That’s what I’m saying. I’m not talking at all about my real life hair which is lustrous and very much attached to my scalp.

And now I’m suggesting that you, also, think about what type of toupee-wearing older gentleman you would be.

“maybe you really should do stand-up… because you tell so many stories about the retarded little things that happen to you.”

which I just sprayed in my apartment because I’m embracing spring? Now my whole apartment smells like a bathroom, not just the bathroom!

I woke up this morning thinking that I should get a pet bird. This was after this really long horrible epic of a nightmare that culminated in my crying over a pet rat I’d fallen in love with named Daniel. Poor Daniel went tits up and got rigor mortis, along with two other sickly hamsters that flipped over and kind of instantly calcified into frogs, which is interesting in a reverse fairy tale kind of way. There was also an infant, danger and a fleet of EMTs. And a bank of people on telephones, telethon style. I mean, frankly it was hard to move around in an apartment stuffed with all these people which is why my beloved Daniel nibbled at the poison which I only discovered after I retrieved him from under the refrigerator.

And they say dreams are only interesting to the people who have them!

Off to the gym my lovelies.

But one more thing about this dream: if I think about it even now, about how I felt when I realized Daniel was gone because I hadn’t acted fast enough, tears still spring to my eyes.

Sometimes I like to check my own blog… to see if I’ve posted anything new.

I haven’t had a drink since over a month ago, which is likely hard to believe since I’m a total lush who’s been known to teetotal for stretches, but somehow an appletini was purchased by Michelle Collins with my name on it tonight after Red Eye and I actually drank that fruity bullshit. I know I will regret this tomorrow if not sooner.

This just in! Breaking! Um, other words that mean stuff like that!