Eric and I started a movie review blog. Please check it out and follow us! Each week we are going to alternate choosing movies to review and we will each post our own review of it on the blog... it should be pretty hilarious because we don't agree on anything. Thanks guys!

:)

On 7/23/2008...

Eric asked me if I wanted to go on a walk. Sure, I say, as I change into my capris and flip flops in preparation for a leisurely summer stroll through the park. Fifteen minutes later, I open my front door to greet my date - who, by the way, is wearing gym shorts and running shoes - when my asshole dog decides to make a break. Pulling free from his collar he sprints out of the house, off the porch, to the corner and across the street. For the next five minutes we, along with several surrounding neighbors, chase Petey before he finally stops to let a woman pet him. Eric then unsucessfully attemps carry/drag him home as I run to get his collar from the house and bring the sucker home.

It's now when Eric takes notice of my ensemble. And not in the "oh you look adorable today" way. Apparently he's under the impression that we are going to go "walking" not going to for a "walk." Which I explain to him are totally different things - which he did not clarify correctly in his proposal to do. Then I try to explain that I felt chasing my dog around the neighborhood is sufficient exercise for the day. He does not agree. So, fine I say, let's walk. He says change your shoes. However, the stubborn little trooper I am said I would not. For two and a half miles I walked without complaining once.

Now don't tell Eric because I'm trying to act tough - but oh god, I am so sore today.

2 Years Old = Hilarious

"Anna always wants to be like Alex in every way imaginable. So I really shouldn't be surprised that she just cried when I told her she does NOT have a penis."
-Aunt Debbie

And we've been dating for HOW LONG?!

Amber: "I can't believe you forgot my middle name."
Eric: "I didn't!"
Amber: "Well, what is it?!"
Eric: (thinks) "Lesley?"
Amber: "No! It's Elyse!"
Eric: "Well, I knew it started with an L."

Big Bird

Regarding his awful yellow jacket:

"I am wearing this jacket for two reasons. The first is to see how many people mistake me for Big Bird and the second is so you can find me if we get separated. It's a survival tactic!"

Story coming soon!

I've seen my fair share of fights, but none of those can hold a candle to the biker bitch brawl I witnessed on Friday night. Men don't even fight that rough.

Happy Trails

It's nearing 2am on Easter morning and all the Easter Bunnies are out. The parking lot of the 24-hour super store is full and I am racing to the restroom. After relieving myself, I enter the store and start to move towards the candy aisle. Behind me three young douchebags are giggling like little girls. Instinct moves my hand to the back of my pants, checking for exposed butt crack. Nothing. I continue through the store and gather some last minute Easter basket items.

As she hands me my receipt, I thank the cashier, and move to the exit. It's then that I look down to the see stream of T.P. flowing from my All Stars. I am such a classy broad.

bloody knees

I just raced my dog up the stairs and lost.
Jello shots for breakfast are never a good idea.

Asphole.

I got the wind knocked out of me today in the grocery store parking lot. My shopping cart hit a pot hole and I'm pretty sure I shouted "Ugh!" followed by a few nastier words when I realized it was stuck. Then a nice man came and helped me out.

Only in Michigan, only to Amber Choike.

Skinny Jeans

My boyfriend called me early this morning, excited that our gym memberships were finally starting to pay off.

"My belt is on the last hole and my pants keep falling down!"

Only to discover this was because of the metal wrench he forgot was in his back pocket.

Ambushed. Or not.

Armed with a container of Vaseline, chocolate syrup and a Super Soaker full of spit, we plotted our attack in great detail. Dressed in all black, we were going to park in the dark curve of the street where we would sneak towards her car, lurking in the shadows without being noticed. Then the ambush would begin – no door handle, window, or side mirror would be spared!

Halfway to the car, I was stopped by my God-fearing, Honor Roll student alter ego.

“Fuck this,” I said turning around. “Let’s just get drunk instead.”

Can you hear me now?

Surprisingly to some (and unfortunately all too familiar to others) I have perhaps the worst temper of anyone in the free world. Thus, I used to think the durability of my old Nextel cell phone was its best feature; built tough to endure many a nights of drunken rampage. It had survived a drop down three flights of stairs, being thrown onto concrete, and even being run over by the rear wheel of my Ford Escort.

It was during one such rampage when I realized the repercussions of my hardcore phone. Ordinarily I am not a supporter of violence; however, certain people in the past have had the skills to push my buttons just beyond that breaking point. There was one person who was notorious for his ability to cause me to turn from sweet Amber into the Hulk. For his sake, we’ll call this person “Steve.”

It was an unusually heated argument, and as he turned to leave Steve mumbled something that really made my blood boil. Honestly, I can’t even recall what exactly was said, since I’ve chosen to repress the majority of these conversations that he and I had, but no matter, I can clearly remember when I threw my phone with all my might directly at his head.

Sorry to say, he was used to such outbursts and ducked, missing the blow by centimeters. He left and my phone was no where to be found, so I called it night and decided to hit the sheets. As I began to dose off, I thought I heard someone call my name. Then I heard it again, very clearly, coming from across the room. I shot up in bed, but no one was there.

If you remember, Nextel’s were most popular for their unique walkie-talkie feature, in which one user could talk to another user like they were truckers or something. And that is when I recognized Steve’s voice coming from the floor on the other side of my room. Having a large and messy room, I couldn’t decipher exactly where it was coming from.

You have to be kidding me, I thought, as I crawled around the floor reaching for the phone which had mysteriously disappeared. After a few minutes, Steve had stopped calling my name, so I decided to wait until morning to look again. But as I curled up in my bed, I once again heard the voice of the one person who I wanted to kill.

“Amber.” Two minute pause. “Amber. Stop ignoring me. Amber. Amber. Amber. Amber.”

This continued for a good two hours as I tore apart my room in search of the god-forsaken cell phone. Finally, I came upon it, underneath my futon amidst a two year old box o’ wine, seventeen dirty socks without matches, and at least six eight-legged creatures. I shut the phone off and finally went to sleep for the night.

The next morning, immediately after waking up, I purchased a new cell phone, with a new number – and you can bet your lucky stars, that the new phone did NOT support the walkie-talkie feature!

Poor Man's Prime Rib

Growing up, I didn’t always have the newest and coolest toys and my parents didn’t drive big SUVs. We didn’t take family vacations to exotic places and I never got the American Girl doll that looked like me. I was told I couldn’t join band because it was for nerds, but later discovered that my parents did not want to front the money for their musically retarded daughter who couldn’t carry a tune if her life depended on it.

Don’t get me wrong, I never went without. I always had clean clothes to wear, a warm bed to sleep, and food on the table to eat. But looking back, I have wondered one thing: What the hell was my mom thinking when she made me eat RING BALONEY for dinner?!

If you haven’t been lucky enough to have been served this delicacy, you’re really missing out. Straight out of the 1960’s, Ring Baloney rivals SPAM as the trashiest of all white trash foods. Cased like a sausage, the baloney is packed into a ring shaped wiener which the cooker than fries and serves with a hearty portion of ketchup. This dish is usually accompanied with a side of flavored rice or if you’re lucky fried potatoes with MORE ketchup.

Not that I didn’t enjoy a good portion of Ring Baloney, - as a child I loved any food that I could smother in ketchup – but I think it may have turned me off to the finer foods in life. Maybe one day I will order something other than a burger from a nice steakhouse and I might try something new without spitting it into my napkin and gagging uncontrollable. Until then, I will have to enroll in Food Appreciate 101.

Demon Pigs and Ghost Dogs

I was babysitting my three year old cousin, Alex, the other day when he told me there was a “dog-ghost with glowing red eyes” in his bedroom. My heart instantly stopped beating and my most terrifying childhood memory suddenly came flooding back to me. I demanded that he tell me he was just pretending but he was being so persistent about it, that I finally had to come with him into his bedroom.

“See, there’s nothing here, let’s go.”

Back in the living room, all I could think about was Jodie, the demonic pig, from the Amityville Horror. There is a scene where the mother looks out of her daughter’s bedroom window and she’s face to face with two red, glowing evil eyes. Growing up, that movie – specifically that scene - had scared me so much and my family did everything they could to make my life miserable. I refused to spend the night with my aunt for months after discovering two red eyes that she had taped to the window shade.

A little while later, Alex insisted that we go back into his bedroom to play.

“The ghost-dog’s still in my room.”

I wanted to scream, “There is NO GHOST DOG!” But from my extensive experience with horror movies I knew that by saying such a thing, I would only be setting myself up for the appearance of an actual ghost-dog. So instead, I changed the topic.

“Where did Anna go?”

Alex pointed to his little sister who was standing in next to the rocking chair, staring at something behind it. I figured there was a toy or something out of her reach behind the chair, so I walked across the room to help her. When she saw me next to her she started pointing at the ground behind the chair.

“What do you want? There’s nothing there,” I told her.

“Maybe that’s where the ghost is?” Alex offered.

And that’s when I lost it.

I grabbed both kids and spent the rest of the evening as far from the bedroom as possible.

I don’t know if there really are ghosts, let alone ghost-dogs with glowing red eyes, but for now, I’m staying the hell away from that rocking chair.

Swindler

Tonight I was robbed by a man in a pick-up truck.

While I was at the gas pump, he pulled up next to me and asked if I could spare a little cash. He told me he was out of gas and that he had "three kiddies in back." I don't usually support the needy because it's my experience that Detroit's disadvantaged prefer to buy crack over food, but this guy looked pretty legit.

I give the man a dollar, he thanks me, and then do you know what he did?

He drove away.

He did NOT put any gas into car. He just took off.

It was as he pulled away that I realized he was driving a truck – a two passenger truck.

I sure hope he didn’t really have three kids in the back… But you never know.

Coca-Cola Breakfast

I wait in the drive-thru for 20 minutes before I can finally order. The closing-time bar crowd has all headed to McDonald’s to satisfy their late night cravings. My stomach starts to churn and I have to cover my eyes when I order. Thanks to an incident involving an Egg McMuffin and tire swing, I can’t even look at the breakfast menu without throwing up in my mouth a little bit. I, however, am here not for food, but for one Super Sized Coca-Cola.

The lady at the window makes some snide remark when I tell her I want to put $1.98 on my MasterCard. I don’t know what it is about this place, but I always get into fights with the idiots who work here. And really, I’m a peaceful panda, I don’t start shit with strangers – but these bitches always pick a fight with me. For now, I decide to let it slide; I tell her I would hate my life if I worked at McDonald’s too. After shoving my drink at me, she walks away from the window without giving me a receipt. Too annoyed to demand one, I drive away, making a mental note to check my online statement tomorrow for a $50 McDonald’s charge.

I don’t know if it’s because I’m drunk or if they lace their soda with cocaine, but something about a coke from Mickey D’s at two in the morning makes my heart melt. The soda to ice ratio is perfect and I love the burn of the sugary goodness as it strips the enamel off my teeth. Just one sip from the oversized straw and I could die a happy woman.

Once I get home, I leave the half-full cup next to my bed and pass out. (It’s half-full because I’m an optimist.) When I wake up on Sunday afternoon, before I get out of bed to take my morning pee, I pick up my soda cup. It was so syrupy that even though the ice has melted it still tastes delicious. McDonald’s coke, how I love thee; a drunken fix, a cure for a hangover, and a gift from God that keeps on giving.

Taco-Break

I broke my leg while loitering in the Taco Bell parking lot when I was seventeen. Too afraid to tell my dad that I was seriously injured, I hysterically called my mom (who was staying the night with her sisters being a drunken idiot) to come to my rescue. Twenty minutes later my mom, aunts Debbie and Diane, two of my girlfriends, and me were crammed into the car and on our way to the emergency room.

My aunts entertained my friends in the waiting room by playing a game called “Guess What Page I’m On.” Someone would open a magazine to a random page and the other three would shout out page numbers until someone guessed correctly. Sounds stupid, right? But apparently it was the most exciting game in the world; they still talk about it today. I, however, was not having quite as much. Waiting for the doctor, my leg hurt, my mom was annoying the hell out of me, and the nurse wouldn’t give me any fucking morphine.

“Do you think the cast will fit under my pants? Can I just roll the leg up?” I asked.

“What’s your problem? Just take off your damn pants!” my mom yelled.

“But mom… I can’t,” I whined. “I don’t have any underwear on.”

“Oh my God!” my mom screamed. “She’s not wearing underwear! Amber’s not wearing any underwear!”

And they all heard - aunts Debbie and Diane, both of my girlfriends, everyone in the waiting room, the doctors and nurses and receptionists and janitors…

Thankfully, my pant legs were wide enough and the doctor managed to cast me without needing me to remove my pants. But that day will forever live at the top of my most-embarrassing-moments list.

Growing up, I’m sure you’ve heard your parents say, “Always wear clean underwear in case you get in an accident.” In my family, they only ask that I wear underwear, any kind of, in case I decide to break my other leg at Burger King or something. After that night, I always do. And it’s usually clean.

[Note: After reading some comments - more details of this night just came back to me and I will definately be expanding on this soon. (Like the reason I broke my leg in the first place involving a parking block, high heels, me trying to sting someone with my butt... like a bee, and a giant rock...)]

Only Wanna Be With You

When I was eight years old, I went to my first concert – Hootie and the Blowfish. None of my friends had ever gone to a real concert before and I was pleased to announce that not only had I gone, but I was now familiar with lesbians and the smell of pot.


To be continuted...

Disgusting!

My uncle makes squirrel soup.
He calls it chicken of the tree.

Really.

Mummy-Mia!

I decided on the afternoon of Halloween that I was going to dress up as mummy. For three hours, Kristi and I tied, duct-taped, and stapled my ass into a homemade costume. My entire body from above the knees was bound together by a khaki colored tablecloth that we had shredded into resemble gauze. Once I was finally satisfied with the product, we decided it was time to get drunk.

Though it was a great idea in theory, the execution was much tougher than I had expected. The moment I tried to walk out of my house I sensed that getting to the bar was not going to be an easy feat; completely restricted, I couldn’t bend my middle at all. But that wouldn't stop me. I hopped down the steps of my porch, waddled to my car, and gave Kristi the keys before I laid across the back seat.

Inside the bar, much Halloween drinking ensued. It seemed the more I drank, the more my half-assed costume became uncooperative. With every drunken stumble a piece of my costume came loose. Kristi, being the good friend, followed me all night, re-tying and taping me back into place. Not much else about that night was noteworthy, other than we drank a lot and somehow I ended up at home.

Once I got home, however, I discovered one thing I hadn’t taken into consideration earlier in the night: How was I going to get out of this fucking costume? Imagine trying to untie your shoes after they had been triple-knotted. Now, imagine trying to do that 50 times, all over your body, while intoxicated. After a twenty minute struggle and a fight with a pair of scissors, I passed out on my bedroom floor – tied up like a hostage.

I still think it’s a miracle I didn’t die of strangulation that night.

The Vanilla Frosty

After trying to order it for ten years, Wendy’s finally decided to start making the Vanilla Frosty. I was seriously flabbergasted when I discovered that it was a “new” item on the menu. For half of my life I was lead to believe that every Wendy’s restaurant I went to had a broken vanilla Frosty machine. Unbeknownst to me, every time the clerk said “we don’t have vanilla” she actually meant, “we don’t MAKE vanilla.”

I need to talk my lawyers because I think I should be getting some kind of royalties for this.

9-1-Ew!

I just spent the last fifteen minutes sniffing the house for a gas leak, only to discover it was a poopy diaper.

Picture this: I'm running around the house, baby in my arms, deciding if we should call for help - and the smell just keeps following me.

Enter baby's 3 year old brother: "Change her butt! She stinks!"

Why I will never breed: Reason #374

Who's Big Bob?

It’s the coldest day of the year and I’m trying to drive to work with a blanket wrapped around me, wearing three sweaters and two pairs of socks. Today, of all days, the heater in my car decided it no longer wanted to work. My breath is fogging the windows and turning to ice before I can wipe it off. I’m trying to see through a 3 inch circle of window that I’m constantly rubbing with my mittens. I give up, I’m going home. I hate this fucking car.

I bought my car from a man named Big Bob. If ever you learn one thing from me, let it be this: DO NOT buy a car from anyone named Big Bob. In fact, do not buy a car from anyone who adds any sort of adjective in front of their name. If there is an honest car dealer in the world, I assure you his name is not going to Big Bob.

After overcharging me by three-thousand dollars and telling me that 14% is a low interest rate, Big Bob gave me two sets of keys for my non-certified used vehicle. As soon as I shifted the car into gear I realized I had made a big mistake. The car made a terrible clunking noise that I hadn’t heard earlier, since BB had conveniently turned the radio on during our test drive.

Within the next three days I manage to break the radio, cigarette lighter, and dome light. I also discovered that before signing the paperwork I had neglected to notice the vinyl on the dashboard that was peeling away or the horrible dent on the hood that someone tried to camouflage nail polish. And finally, as if I wasn’t unhappy enough, the icing on the cake – the Service Engine, Service Vehicle, ABS, and Traction lights all turned on. I tried to contact Big Bob, but surprise, surprise; he had vanished without a trace.

Negativity isn’t my style, so I try to look on the bright side of bad situations. If you stand far away, spin around ten times and squint – it looks like a pretty nice car. The windows need to be rolled down manually (which is only a problem when it rains because I can’t reach the passenger side) but I still consider it a plus because power windows are just another part to break. When the turn signals stopped blinking I found that flashing the hazard lights would make them work again. (This worked only for a while; the hazard button later fell into the dashboard, disappearing forever.) I can live without a driver’s side mirror. I can handle adding an extra quart of oil every few weeks. I’ve even gotten used to the Service Engine light.

Today, however, I’m all negative. There is nothing positive about my hypothermia car. Once I thawed out enough to call my mechanic, he tells me to bring the car to his place, it should be a simple repair. He says to leave the car in the driveway with the keys and he look at it as soon as he gets home. So I dropped my car off. And I left the key inside like he asked. The problem is, the keys got stuck inside the ignition while the car was still on and I accidentally locked the doors. Was I really stupid enough to believe that anything about my car was going to be a simple fix?

I wonder if Big Bob believes in karma.

Witch!

I like to think I have the memory of a witch, assuming they have really great memories – though I can’t be sure, since I’ve yet to actually meet a witch. Names, faces, dates, and events embed themselves into my mind with such precision that it usually makes people nervous.

I often counter a “nice to meet with you” with an “Actually, we met last spring on the Thursday before Easter; you had just gotten your hair cut short. You don’t remember?” And they typically respond with a confused blank stare.

Though the perks of retaining an infinite amount of useless information is usually beneficial, I’ve found that sometimes it isn’t such a blessing. No matter how much I’d like to forget certain moments of my life (like my Bruce Bogtrotter haircut!) I just can’t do it.

One day I hope to be able to harness my witch-power and control what memories I remember. For now I am going to try to avoid the internet, specifically YouTube. I’ll never forget singing Rage Against the Machine to a crowd of angry lesbians if I have to see that video again.

Drive-Thru-Thru

I paid the man and forgot to take my food.
Circling around a second time I said, "Thanks I'm an idiot!"
And he mechanically replied, "You too!"

A/S/L?

I’ve always felt that measuring age in terms of a number was silly. What does fifteen really mean? Or forty-five? All my life I’ve considered my age in terms of what I am old enough to do. For instance, age seventeen meant I was old enough to drive but not old enough to vote. When I was eighteen I was able to purchase a lottery ticket, but I couldn’t buy a beer.

Approaching his twenty-sixth birthday, I've tried to encourage my boyfriend to have a more positive attitude about his old age. Don’t be upset, I tell him, your car insurance is going to lower – but unfortunately you can’t run for senate yet. Hopefully that will put things into perspective for him.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to go – I need a drink.
I’m old enough to do that now, but I still can’t rent a car.

P.O.W.

Today I saw what appeared to be a hostage at the local Sports Bar and Grille.

As my boyfriend intensely watched large men tackling each other on the big screen, I was accessing the age difference between myself and the other patrons of the bar. I was just about to declare myself the youngest, by at least twenty years, when I saw her. Among the leather clad bikers and the bleach blondes in their old Poison t-shirts, she sat sipping uncomfortably on a long island iced tea.

There was no way this pretty, young thing was here by her own free will. I considered calling the police, but I was bored and decided that I must save her myself. First, I tried to make eye contact to communicate, the way girls do – you know, wink once if you’ve been kidnapped and twice if you’re into dating men three times your age and weight. No response. Next I faked a bladder infection, walking to the restroom every five minutes. Each time I passed, I stared her down, waiting for her to reach out to me. Nothing.

Just as I was about to send up smoke signals, I saw her lean forward. This is it, I thought, she’s going to send me a sign. It was then I noticed the burly man standing next to her. His eyes filled with lust and desire as he bent towards her. My instinct was to dive over the table and whisk her away to safety but all I could do was watch, frozen in horror. Then the unthinkable happened. Her head tilted up towards his and their lips met in a revolting, slobbery kiss.

I quickly finished my drink in disgust.

“Let’s get out of here. This place is creeping me out!”

Coney Pee

The urinals in the men’s restroom at Coney Island had miniature bibles inside them. They were the kind that would get passed into car windows at the exit my high school parking lot by anti-abortionists and Jehovah’s Witnesses.

“Why are you peeing on a bible?” I asked.

“Why are you in the men’s room?” Ricky countered.

“I’m not sure,” I answered.

“Neither am I,” said Ricky.

Not much in my life makes sense - but that night, nothing did.

Text You

I might be the only person in the world who has been both dumped and fired via text message. Surprisingly, this doesn’t bother me. I'm hoping from now that all bad news will come to me in less than 160 characters on my mobile phone.

Gotta Go Right Now

I had to go so bad, that my belt was already unbuckled and my hands were fiddling with the zipper on my jeans as I ran into the bar. The bar was less than one minute away from home, but my body did not have sixty seconds to spare.

“It’s on the left, when you first walk in!” Eric called after me as I sprinted from the car.

The bartender was shouting as I ran passed. It must be trivia night, I thought as I heard her telling someone that they were wrong. It wasn’t until I was midstream that I realized she was talking to me.

I quickly finished my business and high-tailed it out of there.

“Did everything come out okay?” Eric teased.

“…The first door on the left is the Men’s Room, asshole.”

Seventy-Five Hundredths

Apparently all Logan needed to get off was 45 seconds and the back of a Jeep. Fortunately for him, he drove a Jeep and I had a spare 45 seconds.

Noisy

“Hey, Am?”
“Yeah, Dad.”
“You know we’re buddies right?”
“Yeah, sure.”
“I mean, I’m your dad, but I think we’re buddies.”
“Yeah.”
“So do me a favor, okay?”
“You want ten bucks or something?”
“No, no. Not that.”
“So what?”
“Just next time you have someone over… can you be a little quieter?”
“What?!”
“I mean, turn the TV up or something. I don’t want to hear that.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“No, don’t be sorry. Don’t be embarrassed. It happens.”
“Oh my god.”
“It’s okay, you’re old enough, I understand. I’m just your dad.”
“I’ve got to go to work now.”
“Alright, have a good day.”

Right. Like any day would ever be good again.

Shit.

My father spanked my once when I was eight years old and later felt so bad he swore he would never do it again. And there I was, sixteen years old, running out of my house 100% positive that I had dodged a spanking by seconds.

Watermelon

To be fair, I’ll say she was pretty. Pretty in the way that watermelon bubble gum tastes like watermelon. It tastes good, you’ll chew it. But in no way does that juicy little piece of bubblegum taste a damn thing like watermelon does.

Addict.

I think people often confuse commitment for addiction. For instance, last month I discovered I liked Mexican food. For three weeks all I ate was Taco Bell, El Charro, and frozen chimichangas from Wal-Mart. If that’s not commitment, I don’t know what is.

unfinished.

I had been bartending for nearly a year when we were shut down. As my co-workers said teary goodbyes and exchanged phone numbers, I exchanged my grease stained apron for a giant pair of Jackie O sunglasses and ran out the door. By some act of God, or the Health Department, I had been given a chance to live a glamorous new life. For the next three months I planned to lounge around the house in expensive lingerie, eating bonbons, and waiting for the hot, exotic pool boy to fall in love with me.

Of course, I didn’t have a pool and the closest I ever got an exotic pool boy a 300 pound plumber who showed up the day our toilet clogged. There I stood in a pair of American flag boxer shorts with a bologna sandwich as I listened to Ralph explain to me how my I shouldn’t flush my tampons down the toilet anymore. Clearly, I was not destined for the unemployed life.

It was time to get my ass off the sofa, leave day-time television behind, and find a new job. I started working at a trendy new café downtown that served only organic breakfast foods and sandwiches to homosexuals and the rich old women who hated them. I could neither pronounce nor could I describe anything on the menu. However, the hours were great, the pay was even better, and finally I had a glimpse of hope that I might find the man, not plumber, of my dreams.

It's a Hardknock Life

Do you remember the scene in musical Annie, where the little girl falls asleep after going to the movies? Daddy Warbucks and Grace Farrell carry her up to bed and change her into her pajamas – as she continues to sleep unknowingly.

It was a thunderstorm that woke me one August morning. Normally I’m a fan of a good storm - I like to lie in bed and listen to the thunder and rain against my window. However on this particular morning it was not the rain against my window, but the rain against my face that sent me into hysteria.

A fence in front of me separated me from a house that I didn’t recognize; stepping back I fell over a trash can. I had two questions: Where the fuck am I? And why do I smell like garbage?

Now flash forward two years. I’m going to broadcast school and run into a friend of a friend of a friend. We do the don‘t-you-know-so-and-so? thing and the next thing I know he’s showing me pictures of my ass passed out behind a garage taken from his cell phone camera.

Apparently I don’t keep as good of company as Orphan Annie did.

0.6

It's been calculated that the average American has sex with 10.6 people in their lifetime. Point six?! Really, I don't know who comes up with this stuff.

Bratface.

While riffling through the bathroom today, I was flooded with childhood memories when I found a hairbrush that a friend had left at my house. It was the big, square kind I had used when I was growing up. Only mine never had the handles on them. I remember sitting on the floor in front of my my mother as she pulled through the tangles, tears pouring down my face - not because of my ratty hair, but because of the welt on my ass where she had cracked me so hard that the handle broke off the brush. Dozens of hairbrushes later, you would think that I would have learned. But no. I'm still a snotty-mouthed, sassy, little brat. I hope I never have a daughter.

The War On Shoes

I usually try to be really seductive when I bring a guy home at night - keeping the lights off and leading him through the dark to my bed as I throw off my clothes. This is actually a cheap trick that I use to fix two problems. For one, I feel everyone looks better naked in the dark. And two, I avoid having to explain my personal organizational methods - which can only be described as how Gettysburg must have looked if the war were fought by the contents of my closets.

Oh Baby!

He made the mistake of calling me baby. I made the mistake of correcting him.

“Listen Larry,” I said. “Call me what you want, but don’t call me baby.”

Two hours later I was sneaking out of a 7-11 seeking shelter in my 1993 Ford Tempo.

“Yo, Sweetie-Hot-Ass! What kind of slurpee do you want?!”

Pictures of Success

I’ve been told that success is measured by failure - taking chances and learning from our mistakes is what life is all about. If that’s the truth then I just might be the most successful woman in the dating world.

Fear

I closed my car door when I first heard it - the unmistakable crunching of dry leaves and sticks that only four paws can make. The October sun sets early and the only light comes from a small window on my house which, at the moment, seems fives miles away. My instinct is to run, however I’m paralyzed by fear as tears begin to pour down my face.

I curse quietly as I drop my bags to the cold autumn ground. Though I’m unable to see it, I sense the beast has spotted me. It’s steps quicken and so does my pounding heart. My shaking body is pressed hard against the side of my car and its heavy pants are moving closing to me.

A nose appears near my feet, sniffing at my grungy tennis shoes. The door to my house is only a sprint away, but my legs aren’t responding to pleading messages from my brain. My throat tightens and despite the cool evening breeze, my body temperature is rising rapidly.

Suddenly two lights round the corner, stealing the monster’s attention from my sneakers. My savior. As the car passes, my attacker trails it, its tail swatting my leg as it leaves.

With a shaky hand I pick up my bags and slowly walk away - half relieved, half embarrassed.

I fucking hate stray dogs.

Everybody Poops

Being a girl is tough. We’re restricted when it comes the grosser, unmentionable things in life. Like sweating. I spend more time at the gym with a towel on my face, smelling my armpits then I do pumping iron. Or peeing - It’s no big deal for the guys to whip it out when they get the urge, but I’m some sort of freak if I pop a squat behind a tree when I’m too drunk to find a restroom. But probably the most indomitable of these topics is the infamous bowel movement.

Women do not poop. Ask a man. It’s true. I vowed never to go number two in public at the age of thirteen after watching the humiliation of one poor girl during sleep-away camp, who was brave enough to do her business in a community bathroom shared by twenty girls. No one else dared to go after that. Though no one said anything about it at the time, 8th Grade Camp later became known as “The Week We Didn’t Shit.”

Marji had no shame. She took a shit everyday at lunch. And really, good for her, my doctor is always telling me that I should do it more regularly. And that girl was as regular as they get. A regular clock.

“What time is it?”
“I don’t know, but it must be around noon, Marji is stinking up the john again.”

Normal Conversations

“Are we seriously talking about masturbation? We are so weird.”

“That’s not weird for us. Talking about the weather is weird for us.”

“Like when you told me about school, and I was like ‘You go to school?’”

“Exactly.”

Merry-Go-Pee

Today I fell off of a merry-go-round and pissed my pants.

What am I? Five years old?

I mean, seriously. What the fuck?

From the Mouth of Bryons

“I hate this jingle-bell bullshit.”

“You’re a crabby old man.”

“And you’re a rotten lady. I wouldn’t touch you with a ten foot pole.”

* * *

“My girlfriend gave me a ring like that once.”

“You have a girlfriend?”

“Yep. She’s fat, but I love her!”

* * *


“My mom got a cake with ice cream inside and bicycle on top of it.”

“Does your mom like riding bikes?”

“No, god-dammit! She likes cake!”

Hell in a Dog Basket

Two loud thuds on the front door sent Petey on a rampage. His first stop, my lap. The lap that had a hot bowl of soup resting in it.

“God dammit!” I screamed at the dog, as I marched my burnt legs across the living room and threw open the door.

“Good afternoon,” a nervous young man greeted me, bible shaking in his hands.

“Oh, hi.” I realized my legs weren’t the only part of me on fire, as my hand met my burning face.

Petey threw himself at the man and barked feverishly.

I held the dog by its collar and tried to apologize. “I’m sorry, he’s really gentle. He’s part lab.”

“Part lab, part giant!” he squeaked. Then quickly the young Jehovah’s Witness took off leaving behind a paper that read: What are two things God cannot do?

I starred at the paper for a moment before turning inside the house, dog at my feet.

“Good going, asshole. Now we’ll never know.”

Face-Sucker

He’s funny. Charming. Nice.

And he’s touching me.

Oh my god. He’s eating my face.

Stop eating my mother-fucking face.