Sometimes I'm tempted to become a street person, cut off from society. But then I wouldn't get to wear my outfits.

I tend to differentiate 'real life' in my descriptions of my behavior, and it's most certainly a way to avoid said life-type all together.

This 'real life' specification usually comes as a pretext for something raunchy I'm about to say, or an explanation for something vulgar and inappropriate I've already done. Lest I confuse the average reader (which is probably an overstatement of the few people who read this), I cite the following examples of some real-life utterances of my past:

Ex. #1: 'In real life I would NEVER have peed on the street, but I had a bunch of whiskey, so.'

Ex. #2: 'I'm not really attracted to him in real life, but when the whiskey's flowin..'

So I guess whiskey tends to be my other life.

On the other hand, I also feel like in real life people shouldn't get sick, families shouldn't go bankrupt and misunderstandings shouldn't result in the ends of friendships. People too young to get married shouldn't be getting divorced, and newlyweds shouldn't be scraping the barrel and not celebrating Christmas this year.

I have this thing, where I tend to cry more at TV and movies than I do at real life. It sounds sick and unhealthy and wrong, but it's sometimes easier to get touched by the problems and triumphs of people we don't even know than it is to face the reality that is surrounding us outside fictional narrative. Easier to watch Ally McBeal get her heart broken than feel my own break, and much more satisfying to soak in the inspirations of well-written films than risk writing one myself.

Real life can just be painful and unfair in ways I prefer to ignore, and somehow with all the happy there inevitably comes an equal amount of sad. Best friends are faced with challenges impossible to comfort, and children have to parent their parents through difficult times. The most secure lose their jobs, and the least deserving lose their loved ones.

But with each of these trials comes a silver lining, sometimes thick enough to turn the entire cloud platinum. Character is reborn and friendships are strengthened, and people come into our lives whom we'd never have met had we not been faced with unexpected adversities. True friends reveal themselves, which is more vital than many will credit; it is much easier to stick around for a wedding than it is for a funeral, to stand as a bridesmaid than it is to sit as a shoulder to cry on.

Mostly the good and the bad remind us that people are what matter most. Not the faults we find in others, but the joy we find in their faults. I often need to be reminded that needing to cry is not a sign of weakness, but a tribute to living in the present and learning from the past. It is essential to remember that everyone has issues, everyone is crazy in their own personal way, but just because being flawed is not unique does not mean we don't each have unique flaws to deal with. No one's problems are more important, and all deserve equal attention. When I am down you've picked me up, and when you're in the shitter I'm ready to carry you.
Ally McBeal is currently my main source of wisdom, so here's a piece I've bitten off:
'Imagine thinking when you go, it will have mattered that you lived. And then consider the alternative.'

Know that it mattered that you lived, and don't hesitate to remind those important to you that their lives have touched yours too. Even if the cheese of it all makes you vomit, it's worth a mention, yeah?

And while we're at it, let's remind some people who don't have an angel on their shoulder that their lives are worth something too. Tis the season, right bitches? Real life hurts, but it also heals.

Creepy.

Ho ho ho.

Congratulations, you're stupid in three languages.

I have absolutely no ability to maintain patience with idiots. I honestly don't think I'm even capable of it. And most certainly not in the workplace.

The fact that this acute intolerance causes irrepressible flare-ups of angry in me doesn't even make me feel ashamed, but rather justified. Here's the thing: Some people's voices make me want to commit murders and other heinous crimes as it is. When those voices ask me stupid questions or try to pawn their work off on me, I near the ragged edge of a catastrophic meltdown.

To add insult to my excessive injury, many hours of the day I also wish I had disc jockey headphones to block out the cerebellum-grating obnoxious laughter from choice idiots in my general work arena, and it quickly becomes the focal point of my concentration.

How the HELL am I supposed to get my work done in a positive fashion when all I can think about is how much I want to slam that guy's idiot face into his keyboard? You're a distraction, Idiot Face Guy. Fix it.

Mostly I think the genesis of my anger is the fact that most of these people not only perform the same job that I do, and make the same amount of peasants' wages, but many of them inhabit job titles above my own. And make more money. And don't get fired for being idiots.
I think I might be becoming caustic before my time. I always imagined that my senility wouldn't set in till I was wrinkley, decrepit and unable to get sex* - it was at this point that I'd be allowed to make inappropriate comments and exhibit senseless animosity while sipping on whiskey neats** on my porch. But working in an industry where 'the bigger the douchebag the higher the paycheck' is the mantra has shoved me 50 years into the future on the bullet train to Crabby Town.

So no, I will not do your work for you. And no, I will not put on an air of sweetness when you're asking me the same stupid question for the fourth time.

Instead I'll put my headset in one ear and my earphone in the other, and catch up on some more Ally McBeal while I pretend not to hear you at all.

Choo choo!

*I'm already halfway there.

**Better make it two thirds.

Weight, 105. Yeah, in your bra!

I think I'm gonna have a boobie auction.

Because honestly, I have no business owning a pair as large as this one, and all they do is take up too much room. Too much room on my short upper body, and too much room in cute clothes for flat-chested women.

Here's the thing: I'm short. Shorter than average. Short enough that boys that are 5'8" are still tall to me, and short enough that my feet dangle from my desk chair. When a person inhibits such a squat amount of space, the need for bigger-than-B-cups drops drastically, though this is something the ta ta layman is seldom aware of.

I just for once would like to be able stretch my arms without popping a button. That's all I'm asking.

This was just a brief rambling of my current complaint. Peace out.

Hi. I'm a recovering crack head. This is my retarded sister that I take care of. I'd like some welfare, please.

I've developed an unnatural and certainly unhealthy obession with television.

I realize that I'm not the first person to make an assertion such as this one, but I can also say with great certainty that my issue has reached far beyond the normal human scope of HD entertainment.

While it's seen as a silly mania, I cannot overemphasize the span of emotions that tickle through my body with the simple act of watching characters develop week by week. As a result, the following instances are my greatest causes of concern:

• I cry hard enough when Fishers go Six Feet Under that they may as well have been real people I've known and loved who've died in my life.
• I find serial killers wildly attractive, and even the name Dexter brings a tingling to my unders.

• I've considered pushing more babies out my boom boom than previously intended, just to have more Brothers and Sisters around.
• Sleeping around and acting like a dick have become desired qualities in a man, and David Duchovny could probably put it in anytime and I'd weather the results of the impending diseases as long as Californicating took place.

All these things.....real problems.

As can be attested to by several of my friends, I've also become a dealer, pushing new shows I discover like they're precious rocks of crack. But instead of the monetary compensation most wholesalers and pimps require for the infectious drugs they force-feed into other people's veins, the shared addiction is more than enough satisfaction to make me drool at the misfortune of another fallen tube victim.

So my suggestion is to tourniquet that bicep and push in the fat DVR needle, because once it flows in your over-stimulated blood you can never go back. You start to obsess over fallen President Palmer, four shitheads owning a bar, and a 60s cheating husband that just can't go wrong because his hair is too good - it's really quite invigorating, and I suggest it especially for losers with no friends, or people who wish to become losers with no friends.

Now I think I'll settle in for some whiskey and a cigarette...perfect way to start the day.

I'm not too worried about it, really. I wouldn't worry about it. Don't worry about it. I'm not worried at all.

I have a situation.

An awkward, mildly uncomfortable pickle, inevitably involving my ass and a qualified professional.

Let me break it down for you.

BEFORE:
My good friend and mentor, Tina the Waxer, informed me approximately 2.4 years ago of a mole she discovered while waxing my backdoor area. (This is included in the price of a Brazilian. This is NOT something I ask for special.) She told me I should get it checked out, but not surprisingly, I've just lived with it since then. I've also forced a boyfriend to look at it, and he didn't seem concerned. So neither was I.

This looks like George W. Disturbing.

But now, here I am, waiting to go to a derma appointment at which I should probably bring up said skin tag. And I don't effing want to. I mostly feel awkward being tricky, and getting in that sterile room and going, 'Yeah, I just wanted to get a general skin check. Oh and also, I have something suspicious IN THE CRACK OF MY ASS.'

Now I'm sitting here, sweating at my desk, slaving over the embarassing moment that is sure to lie ahead when I (if I decide to) drop trou and bend over. I'm more than inclined to dial the receptionist on my way over there, and make sure that this MALE doctor is old and unattractive. If not, I might be more than willing to acquire an illness as a result of this unsightly mark, rather than show it to another human being.

**I'd also like to note that upon consulting my mother regarding this difficult matter, she instructed me not to 'show him the first time you meet him. Wait till you know him a little better, and then do it.' I in turn reminded her that this is not a man I'm trying to get into a relationship with, but rather a professional skin doctor.

AFTER:
I did it. After a full body scan, during which the little bugger stayed hidden, I went balls out: 'Well...there's a really embarassing one I could show you. If you want.'

Aaaaand...he LOPPED IT OFF. That's right folks. Mole-Be-Gone. And it is.

I was instructed to lie on my side, ala Rose in Titanic, and spread my own butt cheeks apart. (In reviewing this again, I suppose I'm grateful I was asked to spread them myself, rather than someone doing it for me.) The next part was fun - getting a SHOT in the ASS. As pleasant as this may sound to the laymen, turns out it's surprisingly painful and unappealing. I, most likely, will not ask to have it done again in the future.

My experience was decidedly less sexy than this one.

Finally, this unwanted piece of body was scraped from said ass, and I'm now mole free. There's an actual bandage in the crease of my buttocks, which is quite possibly what I find to be the the most amusing part of this entire episode.

Thank God the doctor was old. Thank God he was old, named Millard, and all business.

Because now I have a sore ass, without the foul play.

It's hardly worth it.


***How I've ever had a boyfriend is beyond me.

I didn't see where it started I saw where it ended.

Fair warning, this entire entry is dedicated to the biggest donkey ding dong I've ever seen, and hope I will ever see.

Over this lovely Fourth of July weekend, I had the privelege of going to a little place called 'Hippy Hallow' in Austin, TX. This is at one of the more beautiful lakes I've seen in the states, that looks more like the Mediterranean than the middle of the Lonestar State. And along with that Euro feel comes a little something special about this part of the lake: naked gays and fatties.

Why is it that at nude beaches, the ONLY people who will take off their clothes are the fat-asses and women who could sweep the floor with their ta tas? Doesn't ANYONE with a semi-decent body want to show it off? Or are we forever stuck with tummies that resemble a Shar-Pei's face and saggy balls that should never see the light of day? It's almost not worth frequenting nude beaches at all.

Wait a minute - that's entirely untrue.

After nursing a hangover with more beer and sunshine, the faux B.D.D.D. (Biggest Donkey Ding Dong - try to keep up.) arrived with his lady friend directly across from our sunning area. Now this guy had something going for him - a little too much something if you ask me, but to each his/her own. He sat perfectly bare-assed and spread-legged on the cliff, and his little-big friend LAYED on the rock with him. How that shit didn't third degree burn immediately is beyond me - but the tan complexion of Mr. Big Even Flacid suggested that this wasn't his first day in the sun.

The day carried on, vaginas and nutsacks came and went. After packing up our things and hiking back up the cliff on the way to the car, the Official B.D.D.D. was finally unveiled - and there is hardly any way to describe this sight. First off, I want to note that its owner was not a particularly tall man. Granted, he was definitely more...urban than our first contestant, but most certainly shorter. This was a sight so unbelievable that I made the mental note to mark in my mind where this thing ended - and I'll tell you right now, it was the better part of the length of his quad.

I'm sorry - if I were to see this monster in a bedroom situation, I might actually scream out loud. Pee my pants a little, and run for cover, mother fucker. If he's that big loosey goosey, I don't even want to KNOW what he looks like all dolled up.

And this is the moment where I decided he was cursed rather than blessed, and sign of the cross-ed the wang in sympathy for his poor fortune. As Eric so aptly suggested, 'I bet he's a show-er, not a grower.' My God I hope so.

I guess everything really IS bigger in Texas.

Angela, I thought that was your sexy ass..

I have made the informed decision that 'So You Think You Can Dance' is the best foreplay out there on the market today.

I mean, think about it - you have all the elements necessary for a good time: hot writhing bodies that can dance much better than you can or ever will, and the free entertainment of watching them girate against each other to the exact rythym of your rapidly burning loins. The doctor couldn't prescribe a better antecdote to an otherwise boring Wednesday nite.

There really is something to be said for this kind of carnal on-screen stimulus - even though some of the modern moves are classics that I perform in my own bedroom when no one (or everyone's) watching, there are also hot little numbers that make me want to grab the nearest man and never let go.

Such is life.

I really do believe that shows like this one are sneaky pornos in disguise, set forth to spread horny into unsuspecting living rooms across the nation. Granted, many of the pieces are also as moving as they are lusty. I'd be lying if I said I haven't teared up. But oftentimes the innate hunger for lovin' that comes with watching this show overrules my tear ducts, and I'm okay with it.

Though I deeply enjoy the strange sensation I get watching these powerful dances on stage, there is also something to be said for the fact that they in turn make me loathe my pitiful non-dancing existence. My body will never move the way theirs do, and I'm pretty sure I won't be allowed to wear a half-dress and frolic onstage in front of millions of viewers any time soon. (Though the world would undoubtedly be a much more scary place if I did.)

So for now I'll continue to blush from the couch, and cross my legs tighter than I thought possible while I live vicariously through the life of an artistic wonder I'll never be.

And wonder bashfully if anyone else has the secret fantasy that a sexy dancing man will suddenly and accidentally appear in their living room.

Yes please.

I'm petrified of nipple chafing. Once it starts, it's a vicious circle.

or, The Weekend of Mexico and a Marathon.

And what a weekend it was.

That's right bros and hoes, I FINISHED the San Diego Rock and Roll Marathon. And don't ask me if I ran the whole thing, most people don't. So piss off. I finished.

But this epic and equally tragic event cannot fully be appreciated without reiterating the events that occured on the eve of the marathon, because these proceedings will go down in history (I hope) as the stupidest thing I will ever do.

One thing that this evening proved to me, is that talking on the phone using a wireless headset is in no way less distracting than holding the phone in your goddamn hand. Because regardless of where my actual telephone was while I was gabbing to my NY running guru on the 5 freeway, I STILL took the 5 south from downtown, and STILL didn't notice until it was too late. Much too late.

That's right, people. I ended up in motherfuckingmexico. MEXICO. Accidentally. I ACCIDENTALLY DROVE TO MEXICO. What?!

The best part of this momentous occasion was the fact that when I phoned my friends, naturally, hysterical about the fact that I was LOST in motherfuckingmexico, without ANY GAS IN MY TANK, mind you, they most definitely did not believe me. How could you be in Mexico? 'Well guys, there's only Mexicans here and all the signs are in Spanish. Oh and there's lots of Raiders gear. So...boom.'

After asking a cab driver how to get back to 'Saaan Diiiiieeeegooooo,' turning the wrong way down a one-way pot-holed street, finally finding the endless line of wonder that is border control, and waiting 50 effing minutes to cross back into the land of fake-but-just-as-good-when-you're-scared-of-pumping-gas-in-real-Mexico Mexican food, I eventually arrived at the blessed window of freedom.

'I accidentally came here.'

'You "accidentally" came here?'

'Yes.'

'Didn't you see the HUGE sign?'

Blank pitiful stare.

Sweet lord almighty.

And somehow, I ran a marathon the next day. A motherfuckingmarathon, after being in motherfuckingmexico just 7 hours before. So no, I didn't run the whole thing. And yes, the last 6 miles felt like a slow and painful death in the Desert of Pain and Misfortune, but it was hands-down one of the coolest things I've done or will do in my life.

I may have walked like a Mexican over-laid hooker for the next three days in an attempt to avoid actually using my obliterated muscles, but it was all worth it.

Olé.

If it wasn't this, it'd be something else.

Brace yourselves - there MIGHT be a serious tone to our lil blogosphere this evening. Uh oh. The day has come.

I read a story today about the ways people deal with struggle - and what a fitting moment to read it. A wise old woman (isn't there always a wise old woman?) told the token naive young girl to boil three pots of water, and to put carrots into one, an egg into another, and coffee in the third. After all cooking had commenced, they were left with soggy soft carrots, a hard-boiled egg, and delicious coffee. The carrots appeared strong in the beginning, but when faced with the hot water, softened and couldn't take the heat. The fragile egg was timid at first, and after being boiled, became hardened inside. The coffee, however, when faced with the strongest adversity and proposed damage, changed for the better because of it.

We all deal with struggles differently, and none of us is better or worse because of it. But how great it would be to use hard times as a fuel for a bolder flavor and more fierce personality. Instead of becoming hard and cold to the outside world because of the things we've faced, it might actually be possible to - dare I say it - grow because of them.

It seems that it's often easier to thrive on being angry at people we care most about purely because we'd rather do that than actually figure out what the fuck is wrong with ourselves. There comes a point when bitching about what everyone else is doing to make YOU feel bad is merely a means of filling time and conversation, and nothing productive at all. Yes we all hurt each other, and yes in the moment, we think we can never recover. But once the steam blows over, if it's something worth it, you're left with a stronger brew than you had in the beginning. (Forgive the pun. I couldn't help myself, my fingers typed it against my will.)

Relationships of all kinds can be such beautiful disasters - that effin' Kelly Clarkson really knows what she's talking about. We fall in love with our friends and lovers, seeing something in them that reminds us of ourselves. And the moment certain barriers are broken, certain colors are shown that we don't want to see, we'd rather clam up at the struggle than let it envelope us and teach us something.

How CREEPY is this??

Ladies and gents, all I've loved, liked, laughed with and fought with, try your best to be rich, bold and hearty coffee. You might actually learn something, you lazy assholes.

'Who can say if we've been changed for the better, but because I knew you, I have been changed for good.'

Peace out. A town.

Why don't I strap on my job helmet, and squeeze into a job cannon, and fire off to jobland, where jobs grow on jobbies?

Here's the thing.

The fact the the guy at El Pollo Loco recognizes me when I go in now...that makes me sad. There is also the tidbit of info involving the sorrowful truth that BUYING El Pollo Loco has become a luxury, due to the miniscule number of dollars that grace my checking account each month.

Don't worry. It gets better.

I get to work for 12 hours a day, every other of which I have to run 5 miles afterwards, only to be right back in the beginning where I not only realize the cashier at The Crazy Chicken knows where I live, but he also knows I'm scraping by this week to dump out enough change for a BRC burrito. And you know what's the WORST? Finishing my looooong day, and realizing that the beautful crimson and gold chicken haven is CLOSED by the time I have the 2 minutes necessary to get over there and get my share of slow-roasted goodness.

And all of this, becuase of what? MY JOB. My little jobby, that pays me shit and shits on me at the same time. How could I be so lucky?

But I do like my job. What, I do! I'm in a creative enviornment, even if that means getting creative while lying on the phone, or creatively figuring out Ron Jeremy's number for a client's 'special request.'

I wouldn't like my job. No I wouldn't. If not for my boss, who recently stated: "You can't throw a glass in my family (usually a glass filled with bourbon) without hitting a person with Down's Syndrome." So eloquently said. His tasty antecdotal delights get me through the day, along with the boys to my left that keep me laughing more than I should at a talent agency. I mean - talent is SERIOUS BUSINESS. This is entertainment, folks, it's nothing to laugh about.

So what I'm saying is, I GUESS I could think of worse places to spend 12 hours a day, just not that many.

It's just a little bit disheartening to yearn for a time when my name can be in my email at work, and I can answer my own phone and not someone else's. Maybe a time where I'm not planning trips for rich people who bitch about other rich people not footing the bill for them, but planning trips for myself instead.

Basically, when all is said and done, jobs don't grow on jobbies. So until I pay my many dues and end up somewhere I can't wait to get to, I guess I'll have to hold out for now and get someone somewhere water or coffee - and try desperately not to break my job helmet in the process.

You have a freak flag, you just don't fly it.

People do weird shit at the gym.

Like, stuff that should be reserved for the privacy of their own homes. Or a padded room. The Santa Monica 24 Hour Fitness already has a plethora of questionable inhabitants based purely on it's location: 50% bleached blonde and fake-boobed, 50% beach bum and khaki-wearing, and 10% normal. That's right - my gym exists in a vortex where 110% really is possible. It helps you give it your all.

So people are either trying not to pop their implants on the eliptical, or exercising in the clothes they wore to work that day. Either that, or staring at and being bothered by all the bizarre specimens putting themselves on display - like me.

It turns out that the gym on Valentine's Day is one of the most entertaining places you can be on the most pointless day of the year. While others are ditching their fitness regimine and paying for overpriced food and chocolate that won't get eaten, the rest of us are at the gym thinking about how pathetic everyone else there is. Who goes to the gym on Valentine's Day? I'll tell you who - Biker Without A Cycle, Sings-Out-Loud-Like-No-One's-Listening, and Asian Aerobic Superstar.

I don't know why she doesn't have feet.

Biker man is well-equipped for a day of riding up steep hills and through rough terrain, only he doesn't realize that the gym is, in fact, not outside. He still has his racing sunglasses on to shield him from the fluorescents, and his skin-tight neon outfit to outline his ba donka donk and monkey business like no other short can. Lost without his two-wheeled friend by his side, he resorts to the stationary bike - and does interpretive dance with graceful arm-circles while he's at it.

Rockstar jams along out loud to her ipod like she's the only one in the effing gym - what if I don't want to listen to to Whitney? (Who am I kidding, I always do.) But my favorite is A.A.S. - she does 80s-style aerobics EVERY DAY I'm there while she's pumping away on the eliptical. I think if she keeps it up she'll soon whither away and be nothing but negative space. But at least I won't have to wait as long for a tready. But really, can you stop distracting me from my run, because all I can focus on is how annoying your showcase of flamboyant exercising is. It's really unfair to ME.

There is just a really abnormal amount of weirdo in Los Angeles.

For instance, I can't help but discuss the amount of freakazoid currently taking over the patio of this Coffee Bean. I don't care if it has nothing to do with the gym, it still has to do with freaks, so this remains a cohesive entry. Boom.

The patio: Do I have a sign on my forehead that says, 'talk to me, I feel lonely'? Do I look like I'm aching for someone to discuss wireless internet and phone companies with? I think I need to start doing my hair differently, or wearing more unapproachable clothes (jeans and sweatshirt is apparently an invitation to interrupt my peaceful evening and blabber to me about your own bullshit, even though we've never met and never will again). Also, thank you to the lady who said she'd watch my computer when I went to pee, and left before I came back. Real classy.

Also, go to the gym.

Frankly, I love living in a land where people don't care how the outside world perceives them. Not only so I can relentlessly make fun of them, but also so that I can write about it and put it all over the internet. So I invite you to fly your freak flag loud and proud.

Lord knows everyone else does.

Merry Christmas...Holy shit! Where's the Tylenol.

Yes I do realize that it is no longer the holiday season, but let me pretend for the sake of the quote.

In so many ways, the holidays are that time where the true character of all your friends and family is given permission to be unleashed upon the world, and for some reason promptly forgiven - tis the season. And by that I mean this, and by this I mean the following: There are two kinds of people in life - the ones who give shit gifts and the ones who don't.

I was granted the gift of extra FAT this year, HAPPY 2008!, as well as the haunting realization that alcohol and tacos are in fact NOT diet foods. This is the first I've learned of this fact.


And it is now that I formally announce, in all my muffin-topped glory, that I will be running the 2008 San Diego Rock and Roll Marathon in June. And by running I mean jogging, and by jogging I mean rolling.

It seems only fitting.

The first day of my marathon training really began last nite. Upon trying to doze off early for a change, I was faced with the daunting task of drowning out the Wicca meeting taking place next door. That's right, people - witch lady has only gotten stranger and louder, and I think offered up her home for regular midnite gatherings. And said gatherings are gaining more of a following, I might add, because the caucophony of voices is growing. Thank God.

When I finally reached a state of somewhat-slumber, I was greeted with a dream that can only be described as a bad TNT crime drama. I and another faceless friend were in a park on a typical backdrop-sunny day, when we discovered two bloody dead bodies in the bathroom. I knew this was a dream immediately, because I generally don't go in rec park bathrooms, nor do I have any faceless friends. But my mind decided to go for a ride and stay sleeping anyway. As the dream became progressively more scary and weird, me and my fake comrade were being chased by two crooked cops, after us to cover up their ugly mistake of dumping their murder victims in the park we dream-frequented so often.


Thank you retarded imagination.

Due to this seemingly frightening dream, I woke up yet again at 4:30AM. But don't worry, I was immediately thoroughly entertained by my next-door sorceress, with her eerie singing and too-loud television.

But somehow, I still managed to drag my ass out of bed and half run / half almost-vomit out my 2 miles for the day. But not without forgetting to use my inhaler and getting stuck in 25 minutes of 1.5 mile traffic on the way home from the gym, which is longer than my actual workout.

I'm pretty sure the next training day will be a better one.