This shit is gold. Or just shit. Whatever.

Still busy as fuck with moving and other insane life crap, but I thought I would share a glimpse with you of why you are glad you don't get emails from me. This is why:

[Actual email I sent on facebook yesterday. Except for the orange parts. I edited those. Because I can.]

Sorry. I suck at correspondance. It is on my list of things to work on about myself...but it hasn't made it to the top of the list yet. I am just a cad like that, I guess.

Thank you for the "no pressure" email. It's much better than a "put out or I'll never speak to you again" email. I've never gotten one of those, but I bet they're awkward as fuck.

I do not have an ANTI-tomfoolery policy. I am a big proponent of hanging out, having fun, and seeing what seems and feels right in the moment. In part that may be because when I make sweeping broad statements, I usually end up contradicting myself. (My god I am immature today: as I was just typing that, some part of my brain started snickering at "broad" "-dicting." Really brain? Penis jokes from that? Whatever.)

So why are you so all over the place lately? I gather it is for work, but I guess I did not realize you travel so much for work. Is this an abberation, or sort of the norm?

Do you guys know when you are coming down? No big deal, JSun and I just realized we didn't know.
Later, it was a seriously lack-luster conversation (on IM) with JSun:

1:10 PM me: Do we know when [innocent people who really shouldn't be subjected to my blog] are arriving/leaving?

1:14 PM JSun [who also probably shouldn't be subjected to my blog, but is not at all innocent]: nope

1:53 PM me: we should totally figure that out at some point...

2:10 PM JSun: yup.

So you can see, we are pretty up in arms about it. (What the skull fuck does that even mean? "Up in arms." It is weird how much shit we say that we have no idea what it means. Especially me. Or perhaps only me. I dunno. I find myself saying at least once, almost every day [in response to the question "what does that mean?" or, more often, "what in the hell does that mean?"] "how the hell should I know? I just say stuff." And it's true. And it almost bothers me/sounds like a bad idea...but not quite. It works for me. I just say shit and see what comes out. Like this message. Which is long and rambly and seriously tangential and rapidly approaching the "too long" point. It is probably already too long. But I'm not erasing it. This shit is gold. If gold were long rambly fb messages. I wish it was. I would be fucking rich. And this message would be an awesome gift. From me to you. So, in that awesome alternate universe where long, pointless email messagas are gold: You're welcome. And don't worry, I'm pretty gracious in that alternate universe too, so no need for a thank you note. BAM! Saving you time. And stationary. Point of fact: this is a run-on paragraph. Or, really a run-away paragraph. And all of it except for the first sentence is in parenthases. I bet you forgot. I didn't. Well, okay, I did. But then I remembered again. Because I am a bad ass mamma-jamma, and I don't forget close parentheses. Which is why I would make an excellent computer programmer. I am pretty sure that's all it takes.)

I think I am getting punchy and tired of being at work. Good thing I get to leave soon.

Yours until bacon strips,
Messy [How bad-ass is it that even my alter-egos have nicknames? Seriously bad-ass. Or seriously suggestive that this is turning into multiple personality disorder. Whatever. Potato, potato.]

And THAT, my imaginary friends, is why you are glad I don't email you. It's even worse if I've been drinking. Yeah...those people who contacted me on Craigslist about furniture I was selling probably didn't see that coming... 

Arson was a missed opportunity

I thought I might go ahead and make a lame-ass post explaining to my many imaginary friends, and the three real people, who read my blog why I have not been here. And why I am likely to be gone a bit longer. You see, I did a very stupid thing. I decided to move. I also decided to sell my house. (Of course buying the house was the first, and most, stupid thing--but that's another story. For that one I would have to explain that I have an ex-husband, and I bought the house to try and make him happy [shut-up, I know how stupid that sounds NOW], and he said he wanted out 2 months later, and honestly--the whole thing is just too fucking ridiculous. At least for today.)

Tirades about moving are ubiquitous, and no one runs around talking about the joys of cramming your belongings into boxes or finding mummified mini-marshmallows under furniture. (Of course they are under the furniture, mini-marshmallows are for throwing NOT eating.) I am nearing the end of my slog of misery, though. Everything is packed. Everything is painted. The heavy lifting is done. All I have left is some minor contract work to get some cleaning and painting done, and then it should be over. And this is bittersweet.

It is good because I can see the light at the end of the tunnel, but it is bad because I am so close I am beyond the point of no return. Arson is no longer an option. The time when it really might have been worth the hassle to set everything I own on fire and watch it burn while I toasted marshmallows has passed. (Again, toasted marshmallows are for setting on fire and launching like gooey, napalm blobs of sugary doom--NOT eating.) And while, ultimately, I am glad I took the non-felonious route--I still feel a little remorse. For one thing, I don't think immolating my possessions would have left me nearly as exhausted as I am now. (I literally had to call in sick to work the other morning because I could stay awake well enough to drive to work.) I also don't think it would have been as stressful. Sure, evading detection would be worrisome--but that is mostly passive stress. You can't do anything about it, you just have to wait and see what happens. As it stands now, I have this really annoying ache in my chest that I am 90% sure is just from stress. (Either that, or I am dying of heart attack brain cancer Ebola. One of the two.)

Besides, I think it could be fun to be a fugitive. AND! I have lots of insider knowledge that would help me out. For example, did you know that many jurisdictions will let you keep your own underwear in jail if it is plain white cotton? It's true. So if you ever think you are going to be arrested and booked, be sure you are wearing plain white cotton panties. That way you don't have to wear jail panties. And, really, are there any more terrifying panties than communal jail panties? No.

So there you have it. Your reward for listening to me whine is learning how to succeed in jail and what the scariest panties are. Edu-motherfucking-cational, bishes. I await your tuition check.

Britt, I Plead No Contest...to the Charge of Starting My Second Manhattan Before Dinner

Okay. I made up a new word. And I am really excited about it.

Dayrinking.

Drinking during the day. I fucking love it. The word AND the act. Kismet.

Okay, you may think it originated on Polka dot Clovers, but that's only because I uttered it there first. Granted, Britt deserves some credit because she gives me gigglegasms and is super-duper-splendorific and makes me want to say things like dayrinking--but it was all me. Incidentally, she also makes me wish she wasn't so far away--we could have fun. If she let me get smashy-squiffy with her, I would owe her a humongo favor--but not porn. I wouldn't do porn for her. I'm not that kind of girl.


(Okay, I might be that kind of girl...But I am also the kind of girl who would want to retain all royalty rights.)


Um. Shit. Conclusion: Brittacular no longer references Brittains. Britt has usurped it. Well played. Let's celebrate. You bring the fruit, I'll bring absurd amounts of liquor. And the gatorade. Because I care.














P.S. Blogged evidence of stalking love-letters besotted tributes mentions of you are cool, right Britt?

















P.P.S. My use of links to you doesn't taint my love of adoration of fixation with enthrallment with interest in you, does it? I just want to justify my love. (Holy shit. Point for Madonna reference. Totally accidental. Still--POINT!)