Someone Broke Into My Apartment Last Night

I have been up half the night gripping my floor and crying so hard I can barely breathe. I got home around 1 AM last night only to discover that someone, or perhaps several people, broke into my apartment yesterday. I am guessing they disguised themselves as delivery people and fooled my landlord into letting them into my apartment. I am so overcome with emotion right now. I can't believe something like this could happen to me.

Here are some pictures of the aftermath.








The bandit(s) had plastered every single flat surface of my apartment with post-its. Here are some more detailed photos:








There was one of these for every member of my family.


I think Jemaine Clement is the most beautiful man alive.


Neither I nor google know what "snarflehazen" means. I'm gonna guess it's hungarian for the f word.


Even my cat was hit by this post-band-it.


They even left some graffiti on my keyboard and bookshelf.



The notes where everywhere. I have a feeling I will find more over the next couple of months. I have strong suspicions about the identity of the main culprit, and I have a feeling that she (err uh OR he) had some accomplices.

I was crying out of love. I was gripping the floor because my heart was filling with happiness as a balloon fills with helium. I was afraid that if I let go, I would float away. I have the best family and friends in the world. No doubt about it.

P.S.- In case you weren't aware, my intials are HBO.

The True Story I Made Up About Clementines

Once up a time there was very sweet little girl named Clementine. She lived in an orphanage in a very poor part of town. However, as empty as the pockets of the nurses and caretakers were, their hearts were as full. Everyone in the orphanage got along like a tight-knit family.

As loving as all the children and caretakers were, Clementine was the kindest of them all. She helped the cooks in the kitchen, she helped plant vegetables in the garden in the early spring, and she helped teach the younger children to read. Of all the jobs she took on, the one she loved the most was telling stories to the sick children in the medical ward. She was cheery all year round, but she was the most cheery during the holiday season, if only for one reason. Every year for Christmas, she received one sweet orange in her stocking. She loved sweet oranges more than any other food. She loved them more than candy. She would make each slice last as long as she could. Then she would save the seeds in a scrapbook she had made. The pages of the scrapbook were labeled by year, and she had saved each seed from every year for as long as she could remember.

One year there was a terrible frost. Many of the orange crops died. One of the caretakers presented Clementine with the bad news. "I’m sorry Clementine, it doesn’t look like there will be any oranges this year. This is most unfortunate because we have a lot of sick children this year, and they need them more than ever." Clementine was very saddened by this; not because she loved the oranges so much, but because she loved the sick children in the ward much more.

She ran back to her room and began to write a letter to Santa Claus. In the letter she asked Santa to help her orphanage this Christmas. She said she didn’t want any oranges for the rest of her life, if it meant that the sick children could have them. Along with the letter, she included a small packet. In the packet were all the orange seeds she had saved over the years. She left the letter on her windowsill and settled in for the night. The wind picked up the letter and delivered it straight to the North Pole. Santa read the letter the next morning. He was so moved by Clementine’s kindness that he decided to take action. He looked at the seeds she had sent and he noticed that most of them were very old. In fact, some of them looked like they had broken in half. He knew he could not plant these seeds because they would not grow.

That year, Santa traveled the world looking for any oranges that he might be able to take to this orphanage. Unfortunately, it looked like all the sweet orange crops had died around the world. He made his final stop in China, where he visited an old friend, a Buddhist monk. The monk ran a temple that devoted much of its time growing mandarin oranges. However, the harvest from that year had been thrown away by the other monks and village people. "I’m sorry Santa. Most of us are very old, and the skins of the mandarins were too tough. We are too weak to peel the tough skin. All we have left are these seeds from last year. Most of them are old. In fact, a lot of them have split in half."

Santa stood and pondered for a little bit. He knew that this temple was his last resort. All of a sudden he had an idea.

"Head Monk, do you have any bare land for planting?" asked Santa.

"Alas, we only have one acre of land, and it is surrounded by a dark, dead forest."

"It will have to do," said Santa. " I propose that we mix our seeds together and plant them in that acre. Whatever grows we will split in half."

The Monk, believing he had nothing to lose, went along with Santa’s plan. They planted all the seeds in the land. Then, Santa brought out some buckets of melted snow from the North Pole and used it to water the seeds. Some people say that the snow from the North Pole has a little touch of magic in it. They say that it’s what makes the reindeer fly.

Santa and the Monk woke up early the next morning to check on the seeds. What they saw baffled them both. The one-acre of land was full of life. Big trees had sprouted in every direction. It seemed that even the forest surrounding the acre had turned orange and green. Each of the trees was bursting with small ripe fruit. The fruit was smaller than a sweet orange, but bigger than a mandarin.

The Monk reached out and grabbed the first little orange he saw. He peeled back the skin, and noticed how easily it came off. He picked out a slice and ate it. The slice was so sweet and juicy. It was like honey had been poured on his tongue.

There was so much fruit that all the villagers had to help Santa and the monks harvest it all. There was so much fruit, in fact, that everyone in the world received one of these special oranges for Christmas. But Santa saved a special batch that he had picked himself for a special orphanage.

That year, Santa hand-delivered the special oranges to the children at the orphanage. He saved a very special orange for Clementine. He handed her the plumpest one he could find.

"Clementine," he said, " your kind letter inspired me so much that I traveled the world looking for oranges. But I did not find any. Instead, a friend and I used some of his seeds and some of your seeds to grow some oranges. Then, these miracle oranges grew overnight. They are perfect for children, because they are very sweet, juicy, and just the right size. Because they are so perfect, I’ve decided to name them after you. From this day forth they shall be known as Clementines."

And that is why we always have Clementines during the holiday season.

A Text Conversation With A Secret Admirer

Secret Admirer: Princess Heather. I think you are the most beautifulest of all the land. And the smartest. And funkiest (a good quality in my book). -A Secret Admirer

Me: You cant fool me Brad! When are you going to leave angelina for me?

SA: Dearest Heather. I KNEW you were the smartest ever. The Angelina thing is just for publicity. Shiloh & twins were made in test tubes. Soon, my love, soon. -BP

My Extremely Extensive and Intensive Review of New Moon

NATIVE AMERICAN WEREWOLVES ARE HOT.


Grade: B- (this was graded on the hotness curve)

A Project

Religion has always been a fascinating subject for me. People are often to too wrapped up in the controversies of religion and forget to step back from it. We forget that we can treat it as an object that is meant for observation, rather than something that envelopes our lives.

I often find that there are two major groups of people in this world: 1) people who are very religious, and 2) people who despise religion. There is a smaller group of people who consider themselves agnostic and an even smaller number of people are stuck in the middle of all three due to pure curiosity. I have found myself wandering in this smaller group.

I have decided that now is the best time to embark on a little project I’ve been thinking about for the past couple of years. I have built a very diverse network of friends, so I believe that this will work. I’ve decided that over the next couple of weeks, I would like to attend a service at all of the following, in no particular order:

1) A Hindu Temple
2) A Buddhist Temple
3) A Zoroastrian Service
4) A Mosque
5) A Baptist Church with one of those lively choirs
6) A Jewish Temple or Synagogue

This will mainly be an observational study from the perspective of someone who has faced her mortality.

I realize some of these places might have exclusion rules that might create barriers for me. This is where you guys come in. If you belong to one of these establishments, and you feel you can get me in, so to speak, I would love to attend a service with you. I would like to complete this project within before the middle of February, so we have lots of time. Please just leave a comment here with your name and I will get back to you.

A Postcard from My Head Hair to My Leg Hair

(Click for Bigger)

Juggling Acorns and Rainbows

So I've had my first chemo treatment, and thus far, thankfully, everything has been going fine. All the symptoms are very manageable, if they exist at all. So I must say that the mental trials have eclipsed the physical ones by one hundred fold. When I say mental, I mean more than just emotional.

Many of the resources available to cancer patients to help with deal with the physical and emotional pain, but there are very few resources to deal with the elements outside of those two realms, which I like to call the organizational pain. On top of my regular life, I have to organize many doctor's appointments, dozen of medications including dosages and times, preparations for chemo, including stocking up on food, medical supplies, books, filling out endless medical forms, making sure they get submitted to the right people, making sure everything is set up for working from home...the to-do list was endless and seem to grow not unlike the tumors in my boob.

I realized that the stress from the organizational pain could easily slip into emotional or physical pain, so I decided to change my perspective. I recalled a White Stripes song, Little Acorns, which has a intro speech by Mort Crim. Here is text from that speech:

"When problems overwhelm us and sadness smothers us, where do we find the will and the courage to continue? Well, the answer may come in the caring voice of a friend, a chance encounter with a book, or from a personal faith. For Janet help came from her faith, but it also from a squirrel. Shortly after her divorce, Janet lost her father, then she lost her job. She had mounting money problems. But Janet not only survived, she worked her way out of despondency and now she says, life is good again. How could this happen? She told me that late one Autumn day when she was at her lowest she watched a squirrel storing up nuts for the winter, one at a time he would take them to the nest. And she thought, if that squirrel can take care of himself with the harsh winter coming along, then so can I. Once I broke my problems into small pieces I was able to carry them, just like those acorns, one at a time."
For me, that's all there is to it. I didn't look at my whole list; I just looked at the next item and dealt with it on its own.

In related news, I was hypnotized on Saturday. I have a severe aversion to needles, which is a cruel phobia to give a cancer patient, and my friend's mother used hypnosis on me to help ease my anxiety. I must say, when I came to, I felt amazingly relaxed. A rush of endorphins came over me, and I was at peace. During the session, the hypnotist had me conjure an image/word that would be my "tool" for overcoming anxiety. The first word that came to mind was "rainbows", and I just went with it. I didn't really think about my choice, except that I feel color is an amazing source of energy for me. When I told my friend what my word was, she said something very wise. She said "Rainbows are made by mixing a storm with radiant light. Your sickness is like the storm, but you are the light, and together you make something beautiful."

I couldn't agree with her more. While this disease is horrible, and I wouldn't wish it on Stalin and Hitler's love child, it has brought me very close to some amazing people. I now see the miracles that reside in the hearts of everyone.

Well Fuck

Most of you who read this blog already know what I am about to say. For those of you who don't, I'm very sorry, but my life has just been way too chaotic right now to call everyone individually. Plus my phone is acting stupid.

I have been diagnosed with invasive ductal carcinoma, the most common form of breast cancer. It is unusual for someone my age to have this, but my oncologist is very optimistic. It is at stage three, so the cancer has not spread.

Here are a few things you need to know if I have regular real life contact with you:

1) Please don't call me just yet. My phone is ringing off the hook from doctors at the moment. Don’t worry, I am smothered with love at the moment. You can leave comments here.
2) I will be undergoing chemo very soon. This means I will be wearing a wide variety of interesting hats and wigs.
3) If you are sick, you can’t come near me. My white blood cell count will be very low and I will be susceptible to infection.
4) Go to your doctor if you are sick. Like, now. In fact, if you are related to me, please just go and explain my situation to them.
4) Dolphins have prehensile penises.
5) Are you crying? Well then you are a pussy. That’s ok, I’ve had my pussified moments in the past.
6) I’m very upbeat and positive right now. I’m going to kick this fucking cancer’s ass.
7) Some of my family members do not know yet. They don’t read this blog or facebook. I plan on telling the rest by Sunday. Please keep mum to ALL of my family them until then.
I love you all. Take care of yourselves. And when I’m done with this shit, you should all come to Italy with me.

Quotes from the Journey

I haven’t written in awhile, but that’s because I’ve been traveling quite a bit. I’ve been to Delaware, West Virginia, San Francisco and Alaska. I could write books on my journey to Alaska, but I figured the story could be best summed up in the quotes that were said or heard throughout the journey.

Here’s one that my friend Gina, my travel mate, overheard:

Elderly Woman with Thick Midwestern Accent: I heard there is a 24-hour boooooofay.
Elderly Man with Thicker Midwestern Accent: I need to go back to der room.
EWWTMA: Why?
EMWTMA: I forgot mah teef.
EWWTMA: Oh Cecil!

Here’s one exchange between Gina and Me:

Me: What time is it?
(Gina hits her chest repeatedly looking for her cell phone)
Me: Is it retard time?

A few others that are totally clear and do not need any context:

“I need to quote that quote in my quotebook.”
“Check out that DILF!”
“I know how to turn things on.”
“I don’t want to shake your penis.”

Some funny mispronunciations:

“Cleeeeeeeeeemate”
“Ackckckkohol” (said after having a lot of it)

And the coup d'état:

John: You’re wrong!
Gina: You’re gay!
John: I’m married!
Gina: You’re still wrong, dumbshit!
John: Booyah!

A Deeply Philosophical Rant

As of late (and by late, I mean the past couple of years) I’ve had a bit of a problem meeting eligible members of the opposite sex. I’d like to attribute some of my problem to my shyness around non-personable people, which happens to be the majority of the male population. However, I do not think my shyness is the real root cause of my singleness. I have a theory about my problem, which can only be accurately described using pictures. Note: I was drinking scotch when I was drawing these, so you may see a decrease in quality throughout this entry.

This is me:

IQ: 130+
Occupation: Graphics/Editorial Associate
Age: Mid-to-late 20s

This is the type of man that would normally hit on me:

IQ: 79
Occupation: N/A
Age: 50s

I believe the reason why so many men of this type hit on me is because of American and Spanish sitcoms. Many of these shit shows feature a ridiculous fat ass married to a Maxim cover model. For example:

The hambeast has watched so many of the shitcoms that he thinks he deserves a woman that is way further up the food chain. Also, his real fantasy woman:

Doesn’t exist.

Now let’s take a look at the type of man I am attracted to:

IQ: 115+
Occupation: Anything legal that allows him to live outside his parents' house
Age: Early 20s to Early 30s

Unfortunately, this type of man is usually attracted to the following types of people:

Stick thin super models,

Body builders, or

Unlike most women, I am not willing to settle for fat, unemployed bastards. So if I don’t end up with someone like

or better, I’ll probably end up spending my life with

(this table with a head attached to it is supposed to be my cat).

My Extremely Extensive and Intensive Review of Star Trek

GODDAMN.

Grade: A+++++++++++

Technology: The Future is *ERROR*

About two hours ago, I was in the process of writing a great entry about how amazing it is that I was able to update this thing from the Cosi in Old Town Alexandria thanks to the Blogwriter Lite app for the iPhone/touch. But when I switched to a dictionary app mid-entry, the goddamn app lost my whole freaking entry.

And just now I had to switch from my Touch to my laptop because one of my fat fingers hit "Send" and Blogwriter Lite doesn't have an edit function. The only real good thing about this app is that it is free. There is a non-free version that probably has a zillion more features, but money is too expensive to spend.

I'm currently working on a "short" story that was inspired by a story my Uncle Kevin once told me. I put short in quotation marks because as I'm writing it I'm feeling my inspiration snowball out of control. It's handwritten too, so it may take awhile to get on here.

I experienced something the other week that I hadn't experienced in a couple of years: I filled up a journal. Granted at least 20 percent of the pages were filled up with doodles and random notes. Also, at least one of the notes was not written by me ("I like balls") but the note directly beneath it ("I don't think I wrote this.") was. However, the last note in the journal was definitely written by me. It was note I had written and shown to my friend Jason as we were listening to a talk about volcanoes at the Geological Society of D.C.:
"I am pretty sure the guy three rows in front of me is my ex from the ninth grade."
Jason looked around and then looked at me questioningly, as if he can't see him. I then wrote "BALD SPOT."

Catch up on the F*&%ing Old, Looking Forward to Sh*tty the New

It's a new year, a new dawn, a new blah blah blah.

My new resolution is to not say/do cliché things, like making resolutions.

As I look over this blog, I realize there are many stories I've left untold. Some funny, some moving. I've decided to continue with telling my stories, because everyone's story deserves to be told.

As I was driving around my old neighborhood during the holidays, I passed by the house of one my school friends. Her name was Andrea. I met her when I was in the fourth grade.

I was a tender child back then, and I was proud of this. I remember bragging to my friends that I had yet to "ever say a cuss word in my entire life." My mom and dad fought a lot, and I always thought curse words were only for times when you were angry. I didn't like feeling angry. I was pretty happy, and I found things that continued to make me happy, like the split-level bars on the playground during recess.

I used to hump the hell out of those things, not realizing that I was experimenting with masturbation at a very young age. Naturally I thought that there was nothing wrong with this experiment. After all, it made me feel good, like ice cream, Disney movies, and running real fast made me feel good. Then one day one of my male classmates caught me in my hot metal love affair and all was lost. By the next day, word had spread of my wanton ways, and I was a total outcast. My classmates were not only cruel, they were stupid. Kids would unabashedly spread whispers about me, right in my presence.

One day I just couldn't take it anymore. It was the day two new girls had just joined our class, and we were in the middle of watching a movie. One of the new girls decided to take the spot next to me. As she sat down, Jenny Smith, the biggest bitch in our class, looked at me, and then bent down towards the new girl and began whisper something in her ear. I’d had enough.

"Jenny, for pete’s sake, I know what you are going to whisper to her. You might as well just say it out loud."
"Wha, I wasn't gonna say anything."
"Your pants are so on fire. Listen, new girl, she was going to tell you that I humped one of the poles on the playground. She was going to warn you that you were sitting next to a pole-humper. There, it's out there. Now shutup Jenny and leave me alone."

Jenny sat back down. I don't think I saw her whisper again for the rest of the year. The new girl, whose name I have forgotten, stared straightforward during the rest of the day, determined not to make eye contact with either of us. I don't remember her saying more than two words that year.

The next day I remember seeing that the whispers had died down, but the looks of resentment and disgust remained. All of my classmates looked down on me, except for one. It was the other new girl. I saw her quietly playing by herself underneath one of the big trees that just bordered a wooded area behind our school. The wooded area was one of my favorite places to play. I decided that as I passed by, I would say hello to her and introduce myself.

She was a thicker girl, but not fat. She seemed to be very strong, as I saw her split pretty thick pieces of branch in two with her bare hands. Her face was moon shaped, and her eyes were big and brown. As I walked towards her she smiled, and I thought that, besides her strength, she looked to be very sweet and gentle.

"Hi, my name is Heather. What's yours?"
"I'm Andrea. I just moved here. My dad's in the army and he was just transferred here."
"Oh really? That's cool. Say, there's this tree in the woods there that I throw sticks at while pretending their ninja stars. Wanna come join?"
"Fuck'n A! Let's wreck that shit, bitch!"
"...Um...scuse me?"
"We'll tear that tree a new asshole!"
"Good GOD."

I stared at here with admiration, as if she had just turned into the Holy Grail. My mind had been opened. She made me realize that cuss words not made for just anger, but they were meant weave a tapestry of the whole spectrum of human emotion. I was enlightened.

"Where...did...you learn to talk like that?"

"Uh, my dad's in the army, duh!"

And that was it. We gathered as many "ninja stars" as we could hold in our arms, and cursed the shit out of that motherfucking tree.

I wouldn't want to say that Andrea was a bad influence by any means. She helped me learn to speak my mind in new ways. Ways that made me feel uplifted and unashamed. I wasn't stupid though; I knew my parents were not as enlightened as me, and so I held off on unleashing my proverbial palette of profanity upon them.

Andrea and I became good friends over the coming months, until one fateful slumber party. She had invited me to spend a Friday night at her place, and I was at the age where nothing, absolutely nothing, was better than a slumber party. My sentiment completely changed after that Friday night.

Andrea's home life was, for lack of a better term, completely fucked up. To start the night off, Andrea's father asked me if I were allowed to watch movies with "women’s chests." Thinking he meant a beach movie with women in bikinis (perhaps "Weekend at Bernie's") I unwittingly said yes. We then began to watch what I would come to know in the future as a softcore porno. I should also mention that Andrea had a mentally challenged sister who would shout "Tits! Tits! Tits!" every time the movie showed boobs.

Then dinnertime came. Andrea was passing out some rice and she accidentally spilled some on the table. Her dad began to whip her viciously with a belt for her mistake. At that point I sort of mentally checked out. I felt helpless and bewildered, and everything seemed surreal. I wanted to rush into bed so that the morning would come sooner. Once dinner was over, Andrea bounced out of her chair (apparently recovered from her lashing) and shouted "Bath time, bitch!!" She grabbed my hand and dragged me upstairs. She threw a towel in my face and said, "You can take your bath first! Bathroom is down the hall."

I ran into the bathroom and closed the door. My mind was ablaze with the insanity that had occurred in the past few hours. I decided a bath would be the best thing to calm me, so I disrobed and hopped in the tub. Just as I was about to immerse my head, I received the shock of a lifetime.

"Surprise! Slumber Bathtime!" Andrea screamed as she burst through the bathroom door completely naked and holding a can of Coca Cola. She ran into the bathtub and screamed, "You look dirty! Time for your Coke bath!" And she proceeded to empty out the can of Coke on my head. And this is where I snapped.

I jumped out of the bathtub and ran my head under the sink, all the while shouting the most colorful of curse words in her general direction. I put my clothes on as fast as I could and ran out of the bathroom into one of the bedrooms. I searched the second floor for a phone in total desperation, but there was none to be found. I knew there was a phone in the kitchen, but I heard screaming noises coming from there. I wanted to crawl out the window and run home, but I didn't know the way. I stopped myself at the top of the stairs, dumbfounded was to what I should do. Then I felt a tap on my shoulder.

I turned around and Andrea stood there in a pink robe.

"I'm sorry I freaked you out, bitch. Let's just get some fucking shuteye."

I walked cautiously back to her room. She let me have the bottom bunk of her bed, and I was grateful, because I knew that would allow for easier escape. I don't think I slept a wink that night.

The next morning was weirdly quiet. I waited near the garage door, eager to hear my mom’s car engine. When she did arrive, I did something I hadn't done in a long time. I ran to her and I hugged her, I was determined not to let her go.

"Oh hi there, Mrs. Borra!" said Andrea's father. "We loved having Heather over last night. In fact, she's welcome to stay tonight as well if she wants!"

My mom took a quick glance of Andrea's family and then she looked down at me. She could see the tears beginning to wellup in my eyes.

"I'm sorry sir, but we've got a family event planned for this evening. It was nice meeting you all!"

I hugged her all the way back to the car.

After that, Andrea's and my friendship was on eggshells at best. Eventually we stopped hanging out all together. The weird thing is, I didn't really realize how seriously disturbed Andrea's home life was until much later. This is probably why a lot of abuse goes unreported. Kids just think it is normal because adults are causing the abuse and what adults do is always right. Each time I passed her house in recent years, I wished I could go back and save Andrea from her wretched home life, rather than just running away from it. But now I'm smarter and stronger. However, I still curse a goddamned motherfucking blue streak.

NaNoWriMo Begins

This year I've decided to participate in NaNoWriMo. I have to write about 1700 words a day for the entire month of November. Today I wrote 3000 words. I purposely did not go out tonight, which is really saying something being that I'm a desperately single female.

To assist me in my literary journey, I bought an iPod touch. It is much cheaper than a laptop or an iPhone, and I need to replace my old iPod anyway. It has almost changed my life. When I went to sleep on the first night I had it, I cuddled with it. For the first time in nearly two years I did not feel the intense yearning for human companionship as this little miracle device had satisfied that need.

Those last two sentences are completely fictional.

I don't know why NaNoWriMo chose November. It's the beginning of the holiday season, so people are naturally immensely busy. I foresee this being a very stressful month, being that I have numerous projects at work, several social events, several family events (including a Thanksgiving/birthday party in which there will be 87 attendees), and several other little personal projects to attend to (like getting my first date in nearly two years).

All that said, I think I can do it. I perform very well under stress. There has only been a few times when I nearly fall off the edge, but then something miraculous happens, and I'm pulled back into the true wonders of reality. Something like this happened just the other day.

I walk the same route to work every morning. I enjoy walking to work because it gives me time to listen to music and think about my life, though they may not be the most pleasant of thoughts. Each day I walk across the same bridge, and on this same bridge is always the same homeless man. Most homeless people in this area are very transient, but not this one. Everyday he lifts his cup of change in my direction, and everyday I ignore him. At first, I ignored him because I never had any change on me. Now I ignore him no matter what is in my pocket.

Lately I've been seeing a shriveled old homeless woman walking around this same area. At first I didn't know she was homeless, she just looked slightly disheveled. Then as days passed I noticed that she never changed clothes and she was always in hanging around the same general area. Also, she always wore a thick, dirty winter coat, no matter what the weather was like. The coat was similar to one I had back in the 80s, when I was nine. I never see this woman beg, but I have seen her foraging through trash.

On Friday morning I was in a particular funk. I hadn't been feeling well lately, and I was thinking about the utter misery that is my nonexistent love life. I was really feeling horrible, and as I came upon the bridge I secretly wished that the homeless man weren't there so I wouldn't have to deal with him. As I started crossing the bridge, I noticed that homeless woman was standing in front of the seated homeless man and bending down towards him. She was talking to him, and he was stoically listening. Then something astounding happened.

As the woman was talking, the man reached into a cup, pulled out a fistful of change and handed it to her. Her body still bent, she shoved the money into her coat pocket. Just before she straightened, I saw a single but large tear drop from her eye.

I felt sick with myself. I just saw and extreme act of pure human kindness, and only moments before I was wallowing in self pity. I wanted to pour everything out of my pockets and shower it on these people. I wanted to buy them a feast every day for the rest of their lives. I wanted to put them a castle in the sky, with huge fireplaces and silky soft beds so that they may never sleep in the cold or lie on the pavement ever again. But my pockets were empty and I had not a scrap of food on me. I also felt that this was a private moment, something that neither one wanted anyone to witness. But I felt I was meant to witness this. I felt some force had propelled me to this occurrence so I could see that even most degraded person has goodness within them.

Next time I see either one of them, I will buy them some food, maybe give the some money. I will ask them their names. I will say hello each time I see them.

The Purging

Now that I no longer have a car, I find myself fiddling with my phone a lot more. This is because I often find myself bored at a bus stop or train station, or I fiddle with it to avoid eye contact with homeless people as I walk to work. The other day I noticed that my photo memory was nearly full, so I realized I need to cull some of the photos. Before I do that, however, I would like to immortalize some of them on this blog.

I had about four billion pictures of my cat, but this one was the cutest:
















I found this note stuck in a bible at church on Christmas Eve last year:
















This what my car looked like after the accident:
















These next two pictures are from my indoor garden (an eggplant and a strawberry, respectively):





























Because I have a really juvenile sense of humor, I had to take these next two photos. The first one I took at metro station and the second one at a grocery store:




























Ladies and gentlemen, I give you the world's gayest doughnut:
















Now this following picture represents the pinnacle of assholery:
















I posted this picture on craiglist, along with his license plate number and a short description of how I saw the driver rape a nun while giving the finger to the American flag.

This picture of an incredibly useful and insightful poster was taken at a warehouse bathroom:












Once upon a time I got really bored at a meeting, so I drew a picture of my cat with a black belt in karate, nunchucks, and a beer:















This is what my cat looks like in real life:

Not Dead, Just Sleeping

So much for lazy summers. In case you are wondering where I've been, here's a list of what I've been up to this summer:

-working on a proposal
-vacationing in a place with no Internet access
-gardening
-working on another proposal (almost nonstop for three weeks)
-traveling to deliver said proposal
-getting into a car accident
-taking vacation to recover from said car accident, again in a place with no Internet access
-finding out that muscle relaxers cause me to drool profusely while sleeping
-taking more vacation, again in a place with no Internet access, sharing said muscle relaxers with friends

I've been planning to write an entry that was about my text messaging habits, but my phone (which I would need for reference) is currently dead. So instead I've decided to write a list of things that have not, and never will, live up to the hype that the general public gives them:

1) Moulin Rouge. If you take away the hackneyed covers and the cliche story, you'd find that this movie is nothing but a turd with some pink glitter on it.
2) Tofu. People say you can make tofu taste like anything. This is because tofu has no taste. You may be able to change the taste, but it will always have the texture of wet boogers.
3) Chipotle. Seriously folks? Seriously?
4) Robaxin. This is the muscle relaxer my doctor prescribed me. It sucks ass.
5) Cars. Mine was just totaled. Now that I don't have one, I realized what a life-sucking money pit it was.
6) Quentin Tarantino movies. All of them.
7) The Da Vinci Code.
8) Revenge of the Sith. This movie got 80 percent on rottentomatoes.com. For shame.
9) Jack Black. The art of making fat + manic= funny died with Chris Farley.
10) Most anime.
11) Humus.

I HAVE A FAN!

An "unknown" assailant has been commenting up a storm on my blog....and I love it! Also, this assailant has said that they are running out of posts to read on my blog, so I will post more. Soon. I promise.

To entertain you in the meantime, here is a series of random Garfield frames that I spliced together:

My extremely intensive and extensive review of Indiana Jones 4

Shia Lebouf is kinda hot in a leather jacket. But not 10-dollars-for-a-ticket hot.


Grade: F--

Pissing In The Woods

“I was almost shot once.”

Sometimes I find myself saying this phrase aloud at times when I find the current conversation boring. Most of the time the lifeless communal “dialog” is due to only one person. Everyone knows this type of person. This is the friend that everyone has; the person who absorbs conversations so that it wraps completely around them. It’s the friend that gushes about every meaningless detail of his or her existence. You are only friends with the person because you have no reason to truly hate them. They just bore you. They’ll trail on about the new socks they found at the Gap. They’ll deliver manifestos about how much they love bagels. They’ll present an oral thesis on how good their gas mileage is. The other people that might be “engaged” in this conversation are either too bored or not creative enough to protest the wasted words. They are just awake enough to feign interest.

When I utter these five words, a ripple effect quickly spreads throughout the room. It’s as if every person has just received his or her first breath of air while simultaneously receiving an electric shock. These brightening expressions give me a brief feeling of self-satisfaction. Even more so, I always find the expression from the brainless babbler supremely arousing. Call it petty, but I believe the energy-sucking prattler should be put in his or her place. I see it as a public service. I’m not saying that I’m a terribly interesting person. However, I do know what is and isn’t interesting. I know this story is supremely interesting for one simple reason: it is, unabashedly, true.

It is next impossible to tell this story without first explaining some my family dynamics. My mother is an incredibly successful businesswoman. She is fantastically smart, sharply organized, and shrewdly ambitious. What is so off-kilter is that, thanks to these attributes, she has overcome one major flaw. My mother has a secret, but powerful handicap: she is the world’s worst decision-maker.

“Heather, don’t you think it would be a fun idea to visit Ocean City next month?”

“You mean during Christmas? Mom, you want to spend Christmas at a summer resort?”

“Well, yes indeedy! I think it would be fun! There will be plenty of stuff to do!”

“But mom, everything there is closed in the winter.”

“DON’T ARGUE WITH ME YOUNG LADY!”

Every year we would leave early due to mind-boggling boredom.

She repeated this mistake for several years, until finally her mind was set straight when she got into a car accident (in my car) and the local police officer treated her like a bowl of seagull shit. I have inherited a diminished version of this flaw. Instead of trips to the beach, my mistakes involve trips to the grocery store. About once a year I will buy soy-based mayonnaise and try to convince myself it will taste just like the real thing. Someday, hopefully, I will learn that I can’t outwit my taste buds.

One of the pinnacles of my mother’s lack of decision-making prowess was reached on a brisk August night. We were driving home from our family’s timeshare on Bryce Mountain in the Shenandoah Valley. My mother as looking at the map, and she noticed that we were very close to the location of her company’s team building event that was to be held the following week. It was to be held in wooded plot of land in the middle of Fredericksburg; a town whose human population is very closely rivaled by its cattle population. So my mother decided that the best thing to do at 10 o’clock at night was to drive into the uncharted territory of Nowheresville, USA.

We got off the highway and ended up on an unlit back-country road whose asphalt paving was the only sign that it had been visited in the past fifty years. After twenty miles or so, my mother, brother, and I were all hit by the exact same urge at the exact same time. We all had to, at that very moment, take the biggest leaks of our lives. It was as if the urine fairy gave us all a tap at the same time with her three yellow wands. My mother pulled off on to a tiny dirt road, and she and my brother shot off into the dark woods. I, however, was way more timid, and decided I would try to hold it until we got back to civilization. My mother, with her aforementioned flaw, came to a different conclusion.

“Get your ass out of the car,” she exclaimed while zipping up her trousers.

“It may be a helluva long time before you get to piss again, so get out and pop a squat!”

“But moooooom, we have no idea where we are. I could be pissing in some guy’s rose garden for all I know. I can’t see my hand in front of my face!” My logic seemed lost on her.

“Get out of the goddamned car right now! If it’s too dark for you, just piss somewhere in the light of the headlights.”

Most mothers seem to have no concept of privacy when it comes to their children. My mother is not exempt from this. When we are shopping for clothes, she opens the door to my dressing room without knocking, and often leaves the door wide-open.

“I’m not pissing in front of you and Chris! Fine, I’ll just find a spot in those things that look like bushes.”

I walked deeper into the woods to where I could not be heard or seen by my mother. As I walked through the brush I debated whether or not I should fake taking a leak and hold it until we reached a fast food restaurant.

What happened in the next few seconds totally negated any decision that I was about to make.

As I reached for my belt buckle, I heard a very loud pop. I dismissed it immediately as someone’s tire blowing out in the distance. But then I heard it again. And again. And again, again, again. Then I felt a sharp gust of wind and heard a sound that can only be described as a ptwang. I heard the ptwang sound again, and a leaf just above my head exploded. I realized that someone was firing bullets at me.

I crouched to the ground and ran as fast as I could (not very fast when you are crouching). As I scuffled over the car, my mother rolled down the window, and asked (in a very matter-of-factly tone) “Heather, are you being shot at?”

“FUCKING YES I AM, FUCK, SHIT, AHHHHHHHHHH!”

And then my mother proceeded to drive off. Without me.

I was running at full speed now. I caught up to the car and banged wildly on the windows. My mother slowed the car down, but did not come to a full stop. I tried to open the door. It. Was. Locked. My mother took a moment or two to unlock the door. I half-expected the handle to come off in my hand. Finally, the door was open and I dove into the car.

“DRIVE WOMAN! DRIVE!” And we took off into the night.

My mother laughed the whole way home.

How to Throw a Kick-Ass Make-up Bachelorette Party

A good bachelorette party requires little more than dancing, alcohol, good friends, and just a hint of kinkiness. But for "make-up" bachelorette parties, a little extra spice is required. Not many have heard of make-up bachelorette parties, probably because not many people have participated in one. A make-up bachelorette party, as opposed to its more widely accepted counterpart, takes place after the wedding, either because the original party sucked or didn't take place. Therefore, the now married bride requires a little extra pick-me-up.

My friend Holly's initial bachelorette party took place on a weekend when almost everyone was out of town. Her turnout was so low that she had to combine her party with her soon-to-be husband's bachelor party. They went to dinner at the Melting Pot, a restaurant where you pay through the nose to cook your own food. Afterwards they went to a lame bar or two, got tired, and went home early. She's a good friend, and she's in a good marriage where no jealousy issues are involved, so I knew throwing a make-up bachelorette party was in order. The event occurred this past Saturday, and with this experience I've compiled a list of must-haves for the ultimate make-up bachelorette party.

1) Human excrement. Try to find a steaming pile about the size of a small mountain outside one of D.C.'s finer nightclubs. Bonus points if you save one of your intoxicated friends from slipping in it.
2) Enough alcohol to kill a bison. Split between six small women, of course.
3) Lots of public sex. Don't know where to find this? I suggest some of D.C.'s "higher-end" (pun intended) clubs, mostly because at these clubs, you will find that many of the women are...
4) Prostitutes. Preferably a spectrum of them, from the high-class call girl to the crack-smoking junkie whore. Some of the lower end ones could even qualify for...
5) World's Ugliest Transvestite. Make sure some of your very drunk friends dance with this shemale, not knowing she is sporting a raging hard-on. Also, make sure the transvestite's dancing style resembles the motions of a dummy in a slow-motion crash test video.
6) Pizza.