I made you a painting. I call it "Celebration." It's sexual and violent. I thought you might like it.

I have obtained a not-so-secret admirerer to a creepy extreme. His name is Erik With A 'K,' and I have recently become certain that he is not well.

For months and months I have been getting random texts and late nite phone calls from a number I don't know. The first time I asked for his identity, I discovered it was a black guy from South Carolina who I gave my number to in Vegas. And frankly, the only reason I GAVE him my number, was because my goal was to make out with a black guy in Vegas that weekend. (You wish that was a joke, but you know that it's not.)

I thought it was weird that he had any desire to contact me when he lived in a state I'll never visit and can't name the capital of, but I let it slide.

More recently, I've received incessant texts and some calls (with only heavy breathing on the voicemail) from what I thought was the same number, and JUST discovered that this freak is not from South Carolina, not black, and not sane. In reality, the kid is a creepo from a bar in Austin who I gave MY number, in an attempt to get him to stop bugging another girl for HERS.

There isn't an ounce of logic in this story. I'm well aware.

And that pretty much sums up the writing I'll do for this post, because below, you're about to see a succession of the favorite text messages that would make my balls crawl up into my stomach cavity if I had any. (Balls that is. Was that clear?)

ENJOY.

Note: Pretty much NONE of these original texts were sent with ANY response from ME...they just...kept...coming.....

"This is me and my cat Sam. Short for Samson."

("He goes under furniture sometimes. He thinks he's a cave cat.")

"I took this pic myself. Is good yes?"

"I own a Dodge Neon..and the road."

"This is my other cat Darto. Long for Dart. He is fast!"

And finally....












"Apainting I did of Adam and Eve."




Now...raise your hand if you're scared for me!

Fill it up again! Fill it up again! Once it hits your lips, it's so good!

So I've started a little something my dear gay likes to refer to as 'The Dub Dub.'

That's right folks - Kelly's on WEIGHT WATCHERS! It sounds much worse than it is.....it sounds like a bunch of overweight old people sitting around discussing how they walked 5 more minutes around the office today rather than eating a donut, for which they in turn receive a reward star sticker from the WW teacher. Oh wait - that's exactly what it is.

But in all fairness, The Dub Dub has treated me quite well thusfar. In the three weeks I've been point-counting, I'm already halfway to the goal I set myself to accomplish by the end of April. Not bad, brothas and sistas! Of course I'd appreciate SEEING where the weight was leaving my body, preferably in the fatty fat tum tum and boobity boob areas. But for now I can deal with a slightly less-tipped scale, and yearn longingly for the day I can see past the ladies to my feet.

Besides my daily point allowance, I also get flexy points to use any time during the week, which are generally reserved for cocktails and chips and salsa. (I know what you're thinking: you want my life. I'm sorry, but it's mine, and you just can't have it.) And truthfully, the Lean Cuisines for dinner are totally worth it for the whiskey diets I get afterwards. (I KNOW, I'm sorry, I'll stop teasing you with the culinary delights and lonely binge drinking that fill my life.)

This picture made me uncomfortable. How 'bout you?

The best part about this program is that exercise gets you more points. More points equals more food, or in my case, more BEER. For example, a one-hour yoga class earns me about one beer, but snowboarding for 3 hours gets me FOUR! Hot DAMN! Get me on the SLOPES! I'm earning sips of frosty bevs while I kick it to the iPodular tunes of Lykke Li and Lisa Loeb! I mean...Kelly Clarkson. I mean...

But it is kind of exciting knowing that while I'm lifting my lil hand weights and crunching my stomach, not only am I (hopefully) sculpting the hottest body on this side of..my desk, but I'm also ensuring that one more round of beer circuits this weekend won't kick me off the proverbial wagon. Hey, at least I'm at the gym, right?

So essentially...I'm working out for beer. And I've never been more motivated.

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.