Will the real Steven Carrington please stand up?

FIRST THINGS FIRST! T.G.I. Hagman, bitchezzz!!!!1 T.G.I. Hagman.


As of 12:55pm on January 29, 2010, Larry Hagman is...alive! SCORE ONE FOR PLANET EARTH!

Moving on.

I think we can safely file the subject of today's post in the "Only Funny To Me" category, but it's gonna happen anyway. So just go with it. (Which seems to be the theme of this week's blog. First my...unpleasantness, then I introduce you to Aspie's Clip and Weekend Hair. God bless all of your tolerant hearts.)

So, Alex gchatted me this morning in a bit of a tizzy:

Alex: MEG

MEG

MEG

me: alex

Alex: I need you to hold me

me: OK!!!!

what's going on?

Alex: Meg

the actor who played Steven Carrington on Dynasty
me: don't

don't

don't you dare say it

Alex: plays Noah Bennet on Heroes

me: OH.

Alex: no he's not dead
I'm completely blown away

me: the original steven carrington? or post-oil-accident steven carrington?

Alex: original
how did I not know this?

I just

can't

ugh

how did this get by me?

So I did some research.



Considering my job is essentially to sit here alone (god willing) for eight hours, watching reruns of Dynasty while I fantasize about my Jack Daniel's pajama pants, I pointed out that that's actually post-oil-accident-baby-stealing Steven Carrington, played by Jack Coleman and not pre-oil-accident-flagrant-homosexual Steven Carrington, played by the great Al Corley.



(NOT)




This sent Alex further into an emotional tailspin, but it also got me doing some heavy Al Corley research. And let me just say: time well spent. Here's what I found:

1.) Al Corley isn't gay; he's married with three kids. That's shocking.
2.) His wife's name is Jessika Cardinahl, which is the most unnecessarily complicated spelling of Jessica Cardinal on the planet.
3.) Father Time was not good to Al Corley:

4.) Al Corley released a 1984 electro-pop single called "Square Rooms," which hit #1 in France, #6 in Switzerland, #12 in Italy, #13 in Germany and #15 in Italy (so you know it's good.)
5.) This was the cover:

...I would like to go back in time and instead of doing my favorite designer paper for Graphic Design History on Fred Woodward, do it on whoever the fuck designed that. Because oh my guh. It's such a simple image, and yet I can't pick which part is my favorite. I think it's a tie between the queer little pennant with AL CORLEY on it (ps: my only weekend plans are the following: go to Michael's; purchase felt; purchase rod; purchase puffy paint; make an AL CORLEY pennant; go to a sporting event; and wave that pennant with pride) or the god awful expression on Mr. Corley's face. Seriously? Of all the shots taken at the photo shoot, that's the one they went with? It looks like a still from a slightly homoerotic eye exam.
6.) THERE'S A MUSIC VIDEO. AND THAT MUSIC VIDEO IS ONLINE AND AVAILABLE FOR FOR YOU TO VIEW. And it is good. I've seriously been watching it on repeat for the past two hours and I honestly think I'm a better person for it. I'm praying to the sweet gods above that Square Rooms is available on iTunes because it would make a mean strut to work jam.

Fully aware that this is probably only funny to me (and Alex) (maybe. His interest seems to be dwindling,) I present to you the return of Drinking Game Friday: Al Corley Square Rooms Music Video Edition!

Al Corley - Square Rooms (80's)
Uploaded by bebepanda. - Music videos, artist interviews, concerts and more.

Rules:
Drink When:
- There's a shot of the eiffel tower
- Someone slides a modest taupe shoe on
- A shot is recycled to save money
- Paris is gay
- Al Corley sings while disinterestedly squinting into the sun
- Al Corley wears lip gloss (DRUNK.)
- Al Corley violently beats two drums while forcefully swaying his genitals back and forth
- DANCE SEQUENCE! DANCE SEQUENCE! DANCE SEQUENCE!
- Al old woman gets a patted on the bottom to the beat of said violent drum beating
- Al Corley robotically kisses a woman on the mouth because he knows in his heart of hearts Meg's right and he's gay
- You don't understand what the three disappearing bushes are supposed to symbolize
- Somebody looks like they're having a baby and/or an abortion while sitting in a chair. A chabortiony, if you will.
- A square room doesn't listen or care, if a man is in despair

Ok. Well that was fun. For me. As per usual, thanks for reading, following us on Twitter, joining our facebook page and such and such. Have yourself a great weekend and remember—for every friend that you recommend this blog to, Al Corley shoots up one more spot on the Italian pop charts. Buh-bye.

(PS: I leave you with a bonus video! Al Corley's follow up hit—Cold Dresses! And you're welcome.)

Al Corley - Cold Dresses
Uploaded by val6210. - Watch more music videos, in HD!

CRACKED OUT LIFE PLANS!

Almost getting fired last week turned my world upside down, but not in the way that you think it would. Instead of being like, "BAHHH, I almost got fired! Jobs are hard to come by! Money buys you pants and sandwiches! I should straighten up and fly right!" I just wish I had actually gotten fired. Because while anxiously waiting for The Talk last week, I really came to peace with the idea of not working here anymore and got excited at the thought of pursuing other life avenues. But as we all now know, that Talk never came and here I am, still stuck in this ghost ridden dump show. Perhaps last week was the wake up call I needed that I've become too complacent in this job and it's time for me to make moves. After all, this was origionally just supposed to be a "for now" job and I've already been here for over a year. Yep. It's time to bust a move.

But here's my question: if I quit my job...where exactly would I get this "money" that everyone speaks so highly of? Jäger isn't exactly cumming in their pants at the thought of sponsoring us, literary agents are like bicycles: I don't have one, and Lord knows you're just as broke as I am, so I'm not looking at you. This means that when push comes to shove, I actually can't make moves. Which is a fact that causes me a significant amount of stress and frustration. And that stress and frustration, coupled with how sick I've been recently, has turned me into one giant cracked out freakshow.

HOWEVER! When god closes one door, he opens a window and I think I've found my window! In my haze of complete cracked out...ness yesterday while talking to Co-Blogger Chris, I got an idea: I'm going to make a graphic novel and make a babillion dollars off of it. BAHAHA! Take that quarter-life crisis!

CRACKED OUT GRAPHIC NOVEL BOOK IDEA:

I call it, The Adventures of Aspie's Clip and Weekend Hair. Aspie's Clip and Weekend Hair are two important characters in my life who you don't know about because up until now I've had a shred of dignity left. But you know what? Fuck it! I've got nothing left, so why not just let it all hang out, right? Let's start with Aspie's Clip. I have a Mac Powerbook that Alex got during his Junior year of college and I bought off him when I moved back from Brooklyn. It's a bit old and rickity, but it gets the job done. One day I was in bed with said laptop when I randomly found a paper clip. I started fiddling with the paper clip, as you do, and I realized that it is magnetically attracted to the latch on the front of my laptop. From then on, I kept the paper clip attached to the front latch so I have something to fiddle with while I'm working. I became oddly dependent on it. It became part of my creative process.

Flash forward to the weekend of Jäger Ball. Saturday morning Chris and I were snuggling in bed together when I pulled out my laptop to check my email. Chris, ever the curious little thing he is, reached over and grabbed the paper clip off my computer. Which is when I freaked the fuck out. I shot up, grabbed the paper clip back and shouted, "DON'T TOUCH THAT!!!!! DON'T TOUCH MY PAPER CLIP!!!!!!1 Now, the reason I did this is because I knew that if Chris got his grubby little talons on it, he'd probably unbend it or pocket it, or drop it or lose it or any number of things that result in me no longer being able to fiddle with it while working. (And I realize if that were to happen, I could easily just get another one, but bringing a paper clip home from work for the soul purpose of sticking it to my computer to fiddle with is a depth of odd that even I'm not willing to explore yet.) So, yes, I freaked out a little bit. "Wow...." he said as he handed the paper clip back to me with wide eyes. "Here's your paper clip back, Aspie." Embarrassed, I tried to explain why I was so attached to the paper clip in the first place, which of course only made the situation worse. From then on out, we began referring to it as my "Aspie's Clip". Throughout the weekend Chris would randomly be like, "WAIT! EVERYONE STOP! STOP EVERYTHING!...Where is Aspie's Clip??" and I'd point to him safely on my computer and be like, "He's right there! No worries!" (Also, I'd be lying if I said at one point during Jäger Ball, I didn't lean over to Chris and whisper, "God, I wish Aspie's Clip were here to see this.") (I'd also be lying if I said Chris didn't respond, "I know. He'd love this.") Aspie's Clip has taken on a life of it's own. In casual gchat conversations with Chris, he'll routinely be like, "Hey, how's Aspie Clip doing?" and I'll give him a full life update. He's a force to be reckon with. He's Aspie's Clip! How could you not love him?

Now, Weekend Hair. Ok. I'm not going to lie to you: I have an affinity for fake hair. I've had painfully fine hair my entire life and have always fantasized about what it would be like to have long, thick, luxurious locks. I've thought about getting extensions more times than you can imagine, but always Jew out in the end when I see the steep price tag. Thus, you can imagine how happy I was when I heard about the Ken Paves/Jessica Simpson line of clip in hair extensions called HairDo. One day in early 2008, I finally went into Ricky's in New York and got myself a 22-inch midnight brown HairDo clip-in hair piece. I was elated. It looked badass. I explained to Co-Blogger Chris (my then roommate) that I would only wear it on weekends because it would be too awkward to show up to work one day with mysteriously long and luxurious hair and my short little chemo hair the next. "It'll be my weekend hair!" I told him. And thus, we started referring to it exclusively as Weekend Hair.

I honestly think Weekend Hair was more popular with my friends than I was. While I'd get ready to go out for the night, Chris would pop his head into my room all, "IS WEEKEND HAIR COMING OUT TONIGHT?!" and if I said yes that meant it would be a good night. (It has been theorized that the Black Eyed Peas' I Gotta Feeling was origionally written about Weekend Hair.) When my friends from home came up to visit they'd all ask if weekend hair would be coming out with us and when I came home to visit them they'd remind me not to forget her. When I arrived at places, it was always, "WEEKEND HAIR'S HERE!.......And...Meg..." I think towards the end I was only invited places because Weekend Hair happened to be attached to my head.

One time I got cocky with it and wore Weekend Hair to work in an up-do. What a heinously embarrassing call that was. The evil whore-bags I worked with would be like, "Your hair looks...different today," and I'd have to be like, "HAHA...yeah. It's just a...it's a Ken Paves...it's...never mind I GOTTA GO I THINK I HEAR MY EMAIL!" Finally towards the end of the day an Editorial Assistant came in to give me something and was like, "What's different with your hair...?" and I completely lost it and yelled at her, "IT'S FAKE HAIR, OK?! YES, I AM WEARING FAKE HAIR. TO WORK. BECAUSE I AM RAGING WHITE TRASH. ARE YOU HAPPY?!" I don't think that really helped my dwindling office popularity...

Anyways, like all good things, Weekend Hair had to come to an end. The average lifespan of a HairDo peice is six months, and man did I stretch that out. One night Weekend Hair and I hooked up with a gentleman on a tarp under a beer pong table and when I woke up the next morning she was covered in Miller Lite knots, body fluids, broken dreams and god knows what else. Thus, I finally decided it might be time to retire her. (Sidenote: Jen Toppe, I know you've been mind-boggled by this before, but let me reiterate that you can hook up while wearing Weekend Hair and he won't know the difference. Because THAT'S how Ken Paves and Jessica Simpson roll. Although I will tell you that one time I was doin' it with a gentleman while wearing Weekend Hair in a low pony tail and in the heat of the moment he pulled on it and it 100% slid out. I was like, "Yyyyyyyeahhhhhh...just ignore that." Honestly, he didn't seem too fazed. Although anyone who's going to pull your hair that hard during sex probably deserves to have it be a clip-on.) (That was the most redneck sentence I've ever written and I'm not sure what to do about it...)

After I gave Weekend Hair her royal burial in a dumpster in Brooklyn (fitting burial or what?) I never bought another one again. It just seemed like it would be cheating or something. My mom did buy me a HairDo ponytail she saw on QVC in October ("Weekend Hair 2.0"), but it's not the same. Sometimes Chris and I have uncomfortably long gchat conversations about how much we miss Weekend Hair and wonder what she's doing right now. If she's staring at the same moon and thinking about us...? Yesterday, in my state of sheer cracked-out...ness, we began musing about who would win in a fight between Aspie's Clip and Weekend Hair. The thought of Aspie's Clip and Weekend Hair with little shivs in their hands, circling each other West Side Story style was almost too comical to imagine. Thus! I want to write a graphic novel about the Adventures of Aspie's Clip and Weekend Hair living together in my apartment and the shenanigans they get up to when I leave for work. I think it could make it big in an Arj and Poopy kind of way. And make a babillion dollars and never have to work again.

My only trepidation is that I can't illustrate. And I don't know how interested people are in the adventures of my paper clip and slutty clip-on hair. And that I'm currently having this conversation with Chris via ghchat:

me: so i have an entire post about aspie's clip and weekend hair written, but i don't know if i'm brave enough to post it.

Sent at 12:08 PM on Thursday

Christopher: this is dicey.

what exactly are you saying?

like just outline it for me

i'm concerned a reader might have you committed.

Sent at 12:10 PM on Thursday

me: my life is in the shitter -> what should i do with myself? -> oh i have a cracked out idea! -> write a graphic novel about the adventures of aspie's clip and weekend hair! -> who are they, you ask? -> this is aspie's clip -> this is weekend hair -> this is a bad idea. lol. FIN.

Christopher: this worries me.

God damnit. Back to the drawing boards...

Dr. Reuben on VD

You asked for it...(for some ungodly reason, you asked for it.) So once again, it's time for the great Dr. Reuben's Q&A of the Day! Today I give you: The Best of Dr. Reuben on VD.

If these diseases are so terrible, why aren't they better known?
Unfortunately these conditions affect primarily two segments of society, neither of which carries much weight. Most victims are Negroes or homosexuals.

Ohhhhhhhhhhh, Dr. Reuben. Good morning to you.

(RE: the fact that VD will become widespread.) That sounds impossible. How could something like that happen?
The recipe goes something like this: Take a sexually vigorous young lady of twenty-two, add birth control pills and maybe a little marijuana. Stir in some false confidence, a dash of hippie philosophy, and a lot of immaturity.
Put all ingredients into a snappy new car that goes into some swinging neighborhoods, and mix thoroughly. Incubate for ten days and the infection that results will be astounding.

...According to that recipe I'm two years, ten days and a snappy car away from having a scorching case of gonorrhea. And I'd be lying if I said I didn't appreciate the fair warning.

What about the mayor's daughter or the black call girl?
A variation of the same recipe. Let's say the call girl has a white customer, maybe a shoe store manager whose wife doesn't understand him. (About twenty percent of the customers of black prostitutes are white anyway.) He gets one of the underground diseases from her. A month later he spends the night in a motel with one of his customers, the young wife of a law student whose husband doesn't understand her. Now she comes down with it. Obviously her quest from understanding doesn't stop with the gent from the shoe store. Six weeks later at a party she pairs off with one of her husband's friends from school, a nice boy who's just had too much to drink. Guess whom he is engaged to?
Two months after the party the mayor's nineteen-year-old daughter notices a vaginal discharge and a lump in her groin. With a few detours, it only took six months for the infection to get from the vagina of a call girl to the vagina of a debutante. Where else it has gone in the meantime is anybody's guess.

I swear to god, I sat down at my desk this morning, opened my book, pointed to this question and then, out loud, said, "You had me at black call girl." Here's my first question about this answer: how emo was everyone in 1969 that they ran around town being unfaithful because their spouses "didn't understand them"? What was going on there? I imagine husbands running up to their Robert Pattinson poster covered bedrooms, slamming the door in their wives faces and shouting, "You just don't understand me! NOBODY UNDERSTANDS ME!!!!!1" as they angrily shove a bunch of Greenday t-shirts into a Jansport backpack, climb out the window and promptly go fuck a black call girl. 1969. The year of love. Perhaps people would understand their spouses a little better if they weren't getting married at 19-fucking-years-old (mayor's daughter―I'm lookin' at you.) The thought of getting married at 24 is enough to give me a panic attack, nevertheless 19. What was I doing at 19? Wearing velour track pants and Von Dutch t-shirts. Of course nobody understood me. I looked like I got my clothes at Goodwill directly after Ashton Kutcher and the costume department at Desperate Housewives made donations. That's not marriage material. That's drive into a swingin' neighborhood all hopped up on marijuana and false confidence material. (And I was and I did.)

Isn't it possible to get syphilis without having sex, like say from a toilet seat?
Certainly, if you're an acrobat.

BEST. MEDICAL. ANSWER. EVER.

[The sores start at the] site of infection? What does that mean?
Depending on who you are, it may mean a lot. Just as Sherlock Holmes could tell a man's occupation by the calluses on his hands, the doctor can tell the patient's sexual inclinations by the location of his syphilitic sore.
In the average man a syphilitic ulcer occurs on the penis. In the average woman, it can be found on the labia minora. In those with an inquiring mind, the sore can appear on the fingertip. The female breast is also a common location. Lips come in for their share of infection. In homosexuals, the sore can be found on the mucous membranes of the anus. Once in a while an adventurous gentleman turns up with syphilis of the tonsils.

"In those with an inquiring mind, the sore can appear on the fingertip."
That has to be my favorite sentence in the history of the English language. I'm not 100% sure I know what it means, I'm just 100% sure I like it.

Also, Dr. Reuben, in regards to the "adventurous gentleman," Webster's dictionary defines as a "gentleman" as the following:
1.) A man of noble, or gentle birth
2.) A man belonging to the landed gentry
3.) A man who combines gentle birth or rank with chivalrous qualities
4.) A man whose conduct conforms to a high standard of propriety or correct behavior

Nowhere on that list do I see ball gargling as a very "gentlemanly" activity.

Does that still happen?
Fortunately about the time that men's hats went out of fashion, so did catheters.

Best out-out-context question and answer ever?

How can sterility not be bad?
If you're talking about a prostitute, it's not bad. Gonorrhea is sometimes known among professionals as "the hooker's friend." To a lady of the evening pregnancy is embarrassing, inconvenient, and expensive. Before birth control pills, the risk was much higher. Gonorrhea helped bring down the odds.

Ok, ok, ok, so let me get this straight: adventurous ball garglers are "gentleman" and hookers are "ladies of the evening," whereas black people are "Negroes" and homosexuals are "fags?" Sir, do you play croquet with flamingos? Have you swum in a river of tears? Because this is some ass-backwards Alice in Wonderland shit and I don't recall ingesting any mercury this morning.

Why are these infections common among homosexuals?
Homosexuals are capable of prodigious promiscuity. Simply by the laws of probability, sooner or later a wide-ranging white homosexual will come in contact with a similarly inclined black homosexual. The infection then passes to both their partners and their partner's partners and their partner's partner's partners and so on.

Dr. David Reuben: crazy old coot...or soothsayer?

Toeing the line between casually observant and out and out racist

Can someone do me a favor and call the police, because I'm currently being raped by my job. It's like I'm getting Eiffel Towered with work on a day to day basis, and I don't think I can take much more of this. My job goes through periods of complete inactivity and then utter insanity. So kind of like a meth addict. And right now, I'm fucked six ways to Sunday with paperwork and assorted random tasks. And frankly, I'm overwhelmed. Being 100% mature, when I get overwhelmed, I do what any young professional does in that situation, I close my eyes, put my fingers and my ears and sing "Kookaburra" out loud to myself, because if I can't see or hear the work, then it's not there.

Thank the good lord on high for the internet. I put the massive amounts of paperwork on the edges of my desk so it's out of my periph and I tool around online until my Irish guilt kicks in and I get back to work. Normally, I will watch the puppycam for about 10 minutes, or look up a couple videos on Youtube. Since my attention span rivals that of a goldfish, I'm back to work in under a half hour. But one thing that I can never get sick of, and only allow myself to do once I know I'm not planning on getting back to work, is Twitter.

Everyone who reads this and follows me on Twitter is probably confused because I've updated my Twitter maybe twice in the past two weeks [Editor's Note: @2birds1blog updates frequently! So you should follow us! It's written by this super smokin', sexy girl who's not awkward at all and never makes grammatical errors! And now you have a boner! AND YOU'RE WELCOME!] I could not be less interesting right now if I tried, and I don't want to bore you all with my thoughts on the rain or burnt toast. If I had been updating regularly, my Twitter feed would read like a bored Midwestern housewife's would. "Got groceries today. $2.99/lb of chicken! What a rip off!" "Oh shucks, I burnt the casserole." "Vacuuming." It's just sad how boring my life is right now.

No, I have recently become obsessed with Twitter Trending Topics. In the past, my experience with trending topics had been minimal at best. More often than not, they just confused me. Because sometimes I'm elderly when it comes to new technology. I mean, I only joined Twitter a couple months ago and it took me about 6 months to figure out what RT meant. But I digress. So yea, previously I'd click on a trending topic out of curiosity, like what people are saying about Google Wave. Not because I cared about Google Wave, but because I had no idea what it meant. But recently, I found that the best Trending Topics to follow are the random hashtag topics. Things like #3wordsyoucantsay or #randomthoughts or #thatswhatshesaid. A lot of the responses you'll find are not all that funny, mainly because people are trying too hard to be funny. There is only one reason why I keep coming back to Trending Topics and one reason only. And that reason is: ghetto people on Twitter.

Before you call the NAACP on me, I just want to say that these people are the majority of respondents to trending hashtags. So much so, that often the same person will have three or four different responses to the same topic. They are just full of ideas for #songsyouplayduringsex and #moviesthatshouldbemade. And I love it so much. Yesterday, I spent a full hour watching the ideas come through for #idothat2, which was things that you do that you know other people do also. Some of the responses scandalized little old me. But they were also hilarious. And I don't mean that in a minstrel show kind of way. I mean they are genuinely the funnier responses.

Currently, the best two examples of what I'm talking about, are the trending topic #thoughtsonthetoilet and #letsbehonest. I'm going to give you a couple of examples of both ghetto and non-ghetto responses, and you'll see what I mean. (I'm not going to tell you which ones are which, you'll have to guess on your own.)

1. "#thoughtsonthetoilet I should turn my company badge the other way so people in the next stall don't know my biz!"
2. "#thoughtsonthetoilet.... Damn water splash on my nutts....lmao"
3. "#thoughtsonthetoilet damn dat burned"
4. "#thoughtsonthetoilet glad my bf isn't here, cuz if he smelled this, I'd be single!"
5. "#thoughtsonthetoilet LAST MUTHAFUCKING TIME I'LL LET DAT NIGGA COOK!!!!"

1. "#letsbehonest April can't come soon enough! (Amen)"
2. "#letsbehonest just because u bag 100 ugly girls it still doesnt make u a G!"
3. "#letsbehonest u no dam well dat aint yo real hair dattz a lace front wig lol"
4. "#letbehonest 85% of my mind thinks that I should just sleep now and regret it tomorrow. So tired!? I just reached home. Just. JUST."
5. "letsbehonest" most of the subjects we learn at school -we don't need them when we become so-called adults"
6. "#letsbehonest the money in your profile pic is the money your mama bout to use to pay the mortgage"

Let the evidence speak for itself. Ghetto people on Twitter are just genuinely funnier when it comes to responding to hashtag topics. I rest my case.

So. How was your weekend?

FAIR WARNING!!!! Today's blog post contains material of a frank and graphic nature that you in no way want to know about. Like, in a Boss #1 kind of way. Trust me, you just really don't want to know. Which sucks for you, because I'm about to tell you. Because Saturday was one of the more painful and mortifying experiences of my life and if I don't talk about it here and exorcise those demons...well, I'm going to have to go back to therapy. And that shit's expensive. So here we go.

(You've been warned.)

As I've been talking about more and more on the old blog, I haven't been feeling well recently. I've been having "tummy problems," shall we say. At first I thought I had food poisoning, then I thought I had an ulcer and Saturday morning I thought I had the devil in me. I woke up at 9am, saw what time it was, laughed out loud, and immediately went back to bed. A few hours later, I woke up at 11 in the worst pain of my entire life. It felt like gas pains, plus period cramps, divided by a roundhouse kick to the womb by Chuck Norris and then just shoot yourself in the face because you're still nowhere close. I ran to the bathroom expecting to have an..."explosive bathroom situation"...but nothing happened. I just sat there doubled-over in pain wishing to god that something, anything would happen to make it go away. I had never felt pain like this in my entire life. It hurt so badly I felt like I was going to throw up. I was hot and cold and seeing stars and was scared I was going to pass out. Yet, nothing was happening. Where had I seen this before...? And then it struck me: Oh my fucking lord―did I not know I was pregnant?! This situation could not have been more textbook IDKIWP if I was a 21-year-old TGI Friday's hostess slash psych major at the local JC. A surge of fear shot through me, the likes of which I can not describe. And it wasn't fear for the child's safety (although let's not lie, had I been pregnant, it would have come out wearing cowboy boots, a fringe dress and sitting on a crescent moon because that thing would have been pure Miller High Life) and it wasn't for my own safety; I was scared because when you get right down to it, I am far too lazy to deliver my own child. I had really been looking forward to lazing around my apartment that day and the thought of having to call 911 and go through labor and push the damn thing out and deal with it and the after birth and cutting the umbilical cord and going to the hospital and all of the emotional brouhaha all sounded really...well, time consuming to me. Luckily a few seconds later the...explosive bathroom situation...I was waiting for finally came.

I was relieved, to say the least, until I turned around and saw the aftermath. I looked in the bowl and saw (and I'm so sorry for this) a large a mount of blood. "Hm..." I thought to myself, "That's...not...right." But, frankly, not wanting to deal with it, I adopted a "go with god" attitude, flushed and crawled back into my bed to recover. Unfortunately, the pain didn't subside and neither did the...explosive bathroom situation. From the hours of 12-6, I alternated writhing around my bed in pain and running to the bathroom to take something that rhymes with "schmoody schmiaherra." Unfortunately during the sixth hour, it stopped being schmiaherra and was just schmood, so I finally gave in and recognized that perhaps something was wrong. Then I did the only thing I know how to do in moments like that; I called my mom.

My mom told me to go to the clinic and see if they could fit me in, to which I informed her that walking anywhere that wasn't to my bathroom or directly to the Pearly Gates was not an option. Canceling family dinner plans (sorry Bec!) they hopped in the car and took me to the clinic. (If I'm going to shit my pants in anybody's car, it's going to be my parent's and not a cabbie's. Don't judge me.) Unfortunately the clinic was closed for renovations and seeing how much pain I was in, they decided to take me to the ER. Now, being in Dupont, there was a cornucopia of ERs to choose from. We could have gone to Georgetown, GW, Sibley, Holy Cross...the world was our oyster. However my parents, bless their hearts, decided to drive me back to Olney and take me to Montgomery General, that way I could spend the night at home after I was released and be under their watchful eye. (Yes, I realize I will be 25-years-old in April. No, I am not ashamed of myself.)

I was admitted to the ER rather quickly, got hooked up to an IV of fluids and was treated by an extremely nice and soothing PA who introduced me to my new best friend: Mr. Intravenous Morphine. God I miss him. He made me feel like candy was flowing through my veins and after seven hours of poor man's labor pains, it was much appreciated. Mrs. Lovely PA then informed me that she was reeeeeeeally sorry, but she had to do a rectal exam. Honestly, she could have told me she had to do a nationally televised breast exam and I wouldn't have given two shits at that point. "Just roll me over," I told her. And she did. And pulled down my underoos. And went to town. When she was done she walked away to look at the results, came back in and with her back towards me said, "Well you don't have any hemorrhoids or fissures, but there is quite a bit of blood there and that's―" she turned around and saw me laying on my side, bare ass still out to the world. "Oh. Ms. McBlogger, you...you can put your pants back on now." "CAN YOU DO IT FOR MEEEEE??" I slurred while pointing to my butt. She then proceeded to pull up my underwear and roll me back onto my back for me like I was a newborn and she was changing my diaper. "THANK YOUUUU!!!!!" I cooed with a big smile on my face.

After that she called my parents back in the room, told them we needed to wait for the blood results before taking any further steps and left. It was then that I noticed a male nurse staring at me from across the way. "Shit. He's hot," I thought to myself. Now let me tell you something about how I looked at that moment―not well. I hadn't showered since Friday morning, I didn't have AN stitch of makeup on, I was cracked out on morphine and I had a giant zit directly in the center of my forehead. But like, directly in the middle. It couldn't have been more perfect if you had a compass and a level. The male nurse and I locked eyes and it struck me, man he looks familiar. Where had I seen―oh my god. I know him. I know him because I used to hook up with him. You know him because I wrote about him last New Year's Eve. And there he was. A nurse in the hospital―of allllll the hospitals we could have gone to―where we ended up. I couldn't tell you the last time I saw this kid but I did not want him to see me now. I closed my eyes and my face turned bright red. He saw me. There was no way of getting out of this.

"Oh my god," I muttered. "What's wrong?" my mom asked. "I'm...having a situation." I said through clenched teeth. "What kind of situation? Do you need the bathroom? Should I call the nurse?" "Nope...Just let it burn. Just let this moment continue to burn." My parents looked at each other in confusion. "What do you mean burn? What's burning?" "I need someone who will understand the weight of this moment. Give me my phone. I need to call Teresa." "You can't make a call! What's going on??" I then (loosely) told my parents what was going on and they, rightfully, got quite a kick out of it. "Oh who cares Meghan, it was a million years ago." Which is true. And I really shouldn't have cared. I think he's still dating that chick but I have zero interest in him and I'm completely over it. But intrinsically, when you see someone you used to hook up with (especially if not hooking up anymore wasn't your idea) you want to have just lost 20 pounds and be feeding your hot bike messenger boyfriend olives off of your Academy Award because that's an average day-in-the-life when you run into him again. You do not want to be in the hospital with a case of explosive, infectious diarrhea looking like a Proactiv before. That does not communicate, "You know you miss this."

If it weren't for Mr. Intravenous Morphine giving me a vein massage at that moment, I would ripped that shit out and run for the hills. All I could do was lay there and wait for him to come over and say something. "You should throw the blanket over your head, maybe he'll think you're dead and move on," my mom suggested. Best call of the night. I pulled out my pony-tail and started to re-do it. "Oh honey," my mom said, "I don't think trying to fix your hair is going to do anything at this point." Second best call of the night.

A few minutes later, he came in and said hello. It was pretty much your standard awkward-catching-up-with-someone-you-haven't-seen-since-they-were-fingerblasting-you-on-a-couch conversation, except, you know, I was in the hospital with a case of explosive, infectious diarrhea and my parents were watching. So just think about how awkward and horrifying that would be and it was exactly like that.

"So you're not in New York anymore?"
"Nope." My explosive diarrhea and I moved back to DC.
"So what are you up to?"
"Uhh, living in Dupont. Designing. Writing. Same old." Shitting my brains out, not washing my face, clearly only shaving my legs every other week.
"Well, we should hang out some time."
"Definitely!" When I'm not having a butt abortion.
"Facebook me, haha."
"I'll do that." Please don't tell anyone...

After he left my mom looked at me and gushed, "Oh Meghan, he's cute!" IS HE MOM?! IS HE?! Well why don't you just slap some rouge on me, hike up my hospital gown and tell him he has your blessing to administer my next rectal exam, huh?!? Look at what a tasty dish I am; how could he resist?!

After that the PA came back in and explained that I indeed had a severe case of infectious schmiarreha. Given how I'd been feeling the past few weeks, this could be an episode of a bigger problem like Chrone's or Ulcerative colitis, but for the time being I'd be fine with fluids and antibiotics. Fine that is, except for my pride. For which I'd need another round of liquid morphine that, thank god, I got. Right before I was about to be discharged, my mom remembered that I never gave a stool sample and was about to say something to the PA when I turned to her and under my breath manically hissed―"SHUT UP DIANE! JUST SHUT UP." Knowing me and my luck, I would obviously have to give ex-hook up my stool sample, or he'd pass me coming out of the bathroom or any number of mortifying scenarios that I can't even think of. And as much as I understood that my mom was worried and just wanted all of our bases to be covered, that stool sample could have held the cure to fucking AIDS and I wouldn't have given it up. Thankfully, I think I adequately conveyed a look of "IM'MA CUT YOU" to my mom and she piped down and I was finally released. Sans stool sample.

As I sat in the car waiting for my dad to get me bananas, rice, applesauce and toast from the Giant, I called Teresa. She picked up, "If you're calling to let me know Mr. Whiteford from middle school is on Facebook, I already know," (Third best call of the night.) No, that was not why I was calling. Instead I told her what had just happened and as I'd needed her to, she laughed and laughed and laughed at my misfortune. "The thing is," she said, "of all the people this would ever happen to, of course it's you." That's also what I needed to hear. Feeling better, my parents took me home where I lethargically oozed around the house with glassy eyes, repeatedly asking my dad for "hugsies."

All in all, not a horrible weekend.

This used to be my playground.

EMOTIONS, YOU GUYS. Emotions. I got a lot of them. Which is a completely new and foreign concept to me. Normally I'm so hopped up on anti-depressants and mood stabilizers you could break up with me on the JumboTron at Madison Square Garden and I'd be like "Meh, that's fair" and go back my crossword puzzle without batting an eye, but this week everything is making me emotional. For so many reasons:

1.) Oh, you know, I got the fear of Christ put in me when I thought I was getting fired. My bosses never had that TALK with me yesterday, by the way. It was so anti-climactic. They were in meetings all day and every time they'd come out, I'd tense up and prepare for the Dynasty-style cat fight that never came. (And this has nothing to do with anything, but remember last August when I said I wanted to bring back Dynasty inspired nude pumps? Well according to Piperlime they're the hottest thing since sliced J-Woww. And WTF? This is like the time in 10th grade when I wore a long, powder blue sweater coat to the homecoming football game and everyone shamelessly made fun of me because it "looked like I was wearing a bath robe" and then six months later you couldn't swing a dead cat without hittin' a bitch wearing one. Looking back, they might have been making fun of me because it was powder blue, but still! If stick pins and narwhals blow up, Imma be rull pissed. But in the mean time, sexy can I?:

August's mission: accomplished. Crystal Carrington would be proud. Those puppies are just neutral and bland enough to match any flashy pattered shirt dress appropriate for lunch at the St. Dennis club.)

Anyways, what was I talking about before that obnoxiously cocky little fashion rant? Oh, yes my obnoxiously dramatic little emotions. (God you want to have sex with me.) So I'm not fired, but this entire ordeal has sent me into this huge tailspin about the direction of my life and what I should be doing with it right now. Which I completely don't appreciate. I feel like last summer (when I wasn't busy predicting Spring '10 shoe trends) I was having the same freak out but managed to cool my jets for a while. Now after this week, I'm feeling all Antwerpy again and I don't know what the fuck I'm doing and I just want to run away, learn Dutch and not have to make a decision ever again ever. But not in that order. Logistically speaking, it would probably make more sense to learn Dutch first. Unless it's hard. Which I hear it is. In which case I plan on getting by with my big boobs and American Canadian sass.

2.) The Jersey Shore ended last night. And it was the WORST. EPISODE. EVER. I honestly don't even know if it's worth recapping. It felt like one of those Golden Girls midnight clip shows where the girls pour into the kitchen one by one (—"Sophia! You can't sleep either?"—), break out the cheesecake and reminisce about all of the shitty men they've dated. Except last night's episode was 90% less interesting and 100% more redundant. I expected more from you, Jersey Shore, I really did. I'm not mad at you, I'm just dissapointed. Now go to your room without dinner or a recap and think about what you did. (Lolz. Just kidding. I'll half ass a recap later.)

3.) I am slightly weirded out by my own emotions regarding tonight being Conan O'Brien's last Tonight Show. I'm just taking the situation entirely too hard for someone not related to Conan or one of his staff. I don't really know what else to say besides I just really love him. He's a bit of a hero of mine and I've been watching his show since the (somewhat turbulent) beginning of Late Night. Teresa and I used to have sleepovers every Friday night and get hopped up on Pepsi and pixie sticks so we could stay up until 12:30 and watch. Because even at the somewhat innapropriate age of eight years old, we still knew that man was the tits. I have also spent many a restless and anxious night in middle and high school falling asleep to Late Night and I took extreme comfort knowing that Conan, my little self-deprecating electric blanket, was always there to comfort me. In 2003, the Late Night tickets we requested finally arrived and Teresa and I were fully prepared to skip the first day of our senior year of high school to drive to New York and see a taping. We even had the bright idea of making t-shirts that said "Bonin' 4 Conan" to wear in the audience. Unfortunately, not only were our tickets for the first day of school, they also overlapped with some Republican convention that had recieved numerous bomb threats, and in a very post 9/11 New York, this hadn't become old hat yet. In the end we (and by we, I mean our parents) decided that two 17 year-old girls probably shouldn't drive into New York City alone with t-shirts ensinuating we hooked our way there when terrorists and Republicans are running around wild. Looking back, I just have this to say: pussies. We should have gone. T-shirts and all. Because now we'll never get the chance again and it fucking breaks my heart. Seriously, everytime I think about tonight being the last show my throat closes and my eyes well up with tears; a fact so disturbingly embarassing, I'm not quite sure what to do about it. My plan for tonight is this: meet Helena and Alex at Little Miss Whiskey's after work -> drink to the point of being good and emotionally drunk, but not sloppy. "Wedding Toast Drunk," if you will. -> Go to Andrew's apartment with eye makeup remover and a box of tissues -> Watch the show and cry. And cry and cry. Overall, pretty par for the course for a Friday night in the world of Meghan McBlogger.

But even on sad, sad days like this, there's always something to be grateful for. And today, I'm grateful for our last Jersey Shore recap. But, of course, mostly...I'm grateful it's T.G.I. Hagman.


As of 1:38pm on January 22, Larry Hagman is...alive! Thank god for small favors.

And now, our final Jersey Shore recap— Episode 9: That's How The Shore Goes. (Sticking to last week's resolution, Laura and Andrew joined me as my spotters this week and I felt 100% better having them there. Also, per my notes, Andrew looked "amazing" last night and I need to apologize to Laura for physically assaulting her when I got overly emotional at the thought of Snooki and The Situation falling in love. We seriously had to put a pillow on her thigh because I couldn't stop slapping it when I got emotional. Completely normal things that happen in a friendship.)

So! As we recall from last week, Ronnie got arrested for punching some schmo in the face with his mighty crab claw and scuttling away and back into the sea. (How many hits does it take to the get to the center of a Guido Pop? JUST ONE HIT BRO, JUST ONE HIT!) Unfortunately for Ronnie, he can't get bailed out of jail until 6:30 the next morning, which means he has to spend a brutal three hours in Ocean County jail, which I imagine to be something like Beach Blanket Bingo except gayer. Which is neither here nor there. The next morning the Sammi begrudgingly hauls her ass out of bed and goes to pick up Ronnie from the clink. They have an emotional reunion because, you know, this is the first time she's had to sleep alone without Ronnie by her side since getting there. 27 days ago. And Haiti thought they had it rough...Overall I'm impressed with Ronnie's post-jail look. His faux-hawk is still perfectly in place, he looks well-rested and doesn't even need to take a shower. Whereas I come home from sitting on my ass watching Hulu at work all day and look like I've just pulled a truck eight miles with my teeth in the hot sun. So, well played Ronald. Well played.

It being Labor Day weekend, the gang wants to go out with a big bang. Which is a great idea, except they all stink like AIDS and nobody will touch 'em with a 10-foot pole. Sucks. I'd say the only interesting part of this episode was when Snooki has a very B. Spears-esque emotional breakdown after being blown off by Cowboy O'Hoolihan and her ex-boyfriend, whom she's still in love with, in the same day. The ex-boyfriend thing was rough, I'm not going to lie. She sees him on a balcony, blows him a kiss and he flat-out looks down and says, "No." Snookers can not catch a break. At a certain point, you just gotta assume that god must just really hate that girl. (Am I right or am I right??) Snooki then does what I think we'd all do in that situation and freak-dances by herself on the boardwalk, attracting the likes of old men, skeptical grandmas, hobos and drifters. It was like Intervention: The Dance Remix and I was in no way mad. Shockingly, when this doesn't make her feel any better, she goes home to cry on the roof like some kind of emo blogger, where The Situation gives her a nice little pep talk.

That night the boys go to the boardwalk to play arcade games, which I mention only because Andrew, feeling inspired, decided that his new pick up line from now on is going to be "Wanna play with my skee balls?" and I feel like that's worth mentioning. After that, the boys go home and decide to stay in for the night and cheer up old Snooks. (A gesture that is so touching I punch Laura in the face and stab her in the kidney. At this point I also drunkenly shouted, "I LOVE YOU GUYS!" to which Andrew asked, "Are you talking to us or the TV show?" and I genuinely didn't know the answer.)

The gang then reminisces about the past "summer" (read: past 27 days) for the next 30 minutes and it's boring as fuck all because they each just repeat the same thing over and over again in 90 different ways. It was the most bizarre thing. Thank god The Situation and Snooki make out in the hot tub for a few minutes and break up the RemFest. Which can be summarized as:

- I can't believe this is our last night.
- It was a crazy summer.
- I don't regret anything.
- I didn't expect to fall in love at the Jersey Shore.
- I hope we stay friends.
- We are like a family.
- I can't believe we made it.
- We did it.
- We made it through it.
- We did it without not not making it through it.
- Man, I got so much pussy.
- Remember when part of the plot was we had to work at the boardwalk?
- No.
- Me neither.
- I like summer.
- We should do this next year.
- Ok, see you then. And at promo work. And paid appearances. And in the real world.
- Ok, bye.
- Bye.

Our season ends with The Situation standing on the roof, wistfully looking out across the boardwalk as he dramatically raises his arms in the air like a prize fighter and proclaims, "I DID IT!"

...Did what, asshole? You just got paid to party at the beach for a few weeks; you didn't survive 'Nam. Maybe be a little less dramatic next time, [scoff] am I right? Aaaaaaaaand with that, I'm going to go watch Late Night clips on youtube and cry hysterically into an Italian flag because good television as we know it is over and thus life is not worth living. I leave you with one of my favorite Late Night sketches of all time. It's been a pleasure to recap the J.S. for you, thanks for dealing with my drama this week, have a great weekend and we'll see you back here on the blog Monday morning. Buh-bye.

UPDATE ON THE DRAMZ!!~

Remember yesterday when my bosses were like, "Hey fuck up! We're coming in this afternoon to have A TALK with you, so start shitting your pants now!"? Welp, THEY DIDN'T SHOW UP! That's right. I sat here all day on pins and needles, stomach dropping to butt every single time the elevator doors opened, for nothing. That being said, I know for a fact that Boss #1 is coming in today because she has a meeting from 3:30-4:30. So I guess THE TALK will come after that? Ugh, I don't know. My stomach is killing me. I feel like I'm a little kid who's done something wrong and I'm waiting for my dad to come home and punish me. I wonder what Boss #1 will think when she comes in and finds me in a onesie holding a belt with hot tears streaming down my face?

So, this TALK can go one of two ways: they're either going to straight-up fire me or they're going to chew me out for what happened yesterday. And the thing is, I'm going to have a very hard time not telling them exactly where they can shove their wood samples if it's the latter. Because what happened yesterday was genuinely not my fault to the point where it's almost comical. Almost. Here's the deal: we have this random old table in our backroom that's on wheels. Boss #2's mom (who shares the same first name as Boss #2, which I think is slightly odd) came in yesterday to pick up the table. She came in, I said ¡hola!, pointed to the table, said ¡gracias! and went back to my desk. Unfortunately, old Boss #2 Senior didn't unlock the wheels before rolling the table out and scuffed up the floor pretty badly as a result. But for the sweet love of Hay-Zeus Christo, I only just found out that we even had that table, nevertheless that it had locked wheels! Shouldn't Boss #2's mom have noticed the wheels weren't moving and, oh I don't know, unlocked them? Or said something to me? In the words of my mother: "Meghan, you've got a mouth; use it." (That's what...she...said? Shudder, shudder. No. Not when it involves my mom and my mouth.) So that's why I'm in trouble. Because "I" ruined the floors. I seriously felt like I was on glue when Boss #2 yelled at me yesterday. All I wanted to do was break down and scream, "BUT YOUR MOM DID IT!" Unfortunately it's way harder than one would think to pass the blame onto your boss' rickity old mom.

What I'm chalking all this mishegoss up to is it's just one more time when I have to shoulder the blame for something that's not my fault because I'm the office's whipping boy. Or girl. And that shit's gettin' old rull fast. Yes I need a paycheck, but I also need to not have an ulcer anymore. So if I don't get fired today, I'm going to quit. That's a lie. Well, I don't know. Maybe. Oh my god. Zantac and Puppy Cam are the only things keeping my shit together at this moment.

OH AND BTDUBBS! This is my Washington Post horoscope for today:

Aries March 21 - April 19

For Thursday, January 21 -Testy? Cranky? Who, you? Just because the planet in charge of your sign just so happens to be Mars, the ancient god of war? No way. It's not that you're irritable. It's just that 'the opponents' -- those of us who happen to inhabit the extra space in your world -- are just so darned uncooperative. Don't take any guff from these intruders. Put 'em right in their place.

OH. SHIT. The Cliffs Notes for that horoscope would simply say: Bitches better ACKRITE. From your mouth to God's ears, Washington Post. However, I sort of want to hold onto this job a liiiiittle bit longer for one reason and one reason only: Russell the Homophobic Co-Worker. Shocking, I know, considering we've been on the outs recently, but we had the most bizarre and intriguing conversation yesterday. I haven't had a non-work related conversation with Russell in a month of Sundays, but suddenly yesterday he walked over to my desk and said, "You know, my birthday is at the end of the month, I accept gift cards." I managed to cough out a courtesy laugh and said that was "exciting" for him. "Yeah, well this birthday is a big one for me. A really, really important one." "Do you mind if I ask how old you're turning?" I asked, thinking it must be 35 or 40. "37," he answered. Huh. 37. I wouldn't really define 37 as a "big" birthday in people's lives. It's not really a milestone. That's actually the most random age I can possibly think of. These thoughts in my head were reflected in the "HUWHHH?!" look on my face. "I made myself a promise a lot time ago that I would do something by the time I'm 37," he explained. "I said, 'I gotta do this. And Imma do it when I'm 37. [Slams fist on table] That's my deadline.' Gotta do it. And I'm ready to do it." He stopped talking. I stared at him with an "—AND??" look on my face but he just looked down and continued organizing his papers. "So.........what are you going to do?" I asked. "Oh I don't think it's appropriate to tell you," he answered and walked away. AND WALKED. AWAY. Are you fucking kidding me?!?!?! How evil is that?? Why would you bring it up if you didn't want to talk about it?! Wouldn't it just be easier to just not say anything at all? It's like when people tell you that somebody told them a secret, and you're like "Oh man! What is it?" and they get a smug look on their face and are like, "Oh I can't tell you." THEN WHY DID YOU BRING IT UP?! Christ. However, the wheels in my head started turning later that afternoon and now I'm wondering...what if, at 37 years young, Russell the Homophobic Co-Worker is going to come out of the closet?? I mean, the man is outrageously homophobic and once said he doesn't eat cream cheese because it "tastes like sperm." I don't think it's that far of a reach. I've always suspected he might be a Down Low Brotha. The thing is, if I get fired today or quit before the end of the month, I'll never know! The curiosity would drive me insane! Is it worth staying in a job I despise just to find out if Russell is indeed a big 'ole homo?

Gah. Boss #1 just walked in. Guess we'll find out...

I poofed my hair for this?

Today is going to be a grab bag of a post. Because I'm so fucking hungover. Probably going to vomit. Hope nobody's in the bathroom when I do. Hurts to make sentence structure. Want hug. But not too hard. Or will vomit.

- First things first: remember last Friday when I jokingly asked somebody to make me a ringtone of The Situation whispering "That's a lot of pickles" from Jersey Shore? Well reader Candace M. actually did. BOOM! So, thank you Candace. Give me your address and I'll send you my first born child.

- Re: my job—I got an email this morning from Boss #1 and #2 saying that we need to sit down and have "a talk" this afternoon. This does not bode well for me. I'd go into how I called my mom crying and how my stomach feels like a 300-pound man is breakdancing inside of it, but where's the humor in that?

- Instead let's talk about what a bust J-Woww and Pauly D's appearance at McFadden's last night was. What the fuck was up with that, you guys? Dan, Andrew V (not Andrew of The Great Juno Debate fame) and I got Gudio/Guidetted up (seriously, check out Andrew's Pauly D hair. It was a work of art,) drained my Jäger tap and headed over to the bar at about 10:30ish. First of all, there was a line to get in. STEEERIKE ONE! I have a theory that any establishment with a line, cover charge, or raffled happy hours is probably about as cool as a pair of Bugle Boy jean shorts. So, basically speaking, my theory is that McFadden's is probably about as cool as a pair of Bugle Boy jean shorts. HOWEVER! You don't get the opportunity to fist pump with J-Woww and Pauly D everyday and I'd do just about anything for a good story (or a free t-shirt,) so we got in line. Then we found out that the cover charge was $40. STEEERIKE TWO! 40 fucking dollars?! Are you kidding me?! I was ambivalent when I thought it was five! I don't think I'd pay 40 dollars to get into a burning house to pull a family member out, nevertheless gawk at two reality TV stars across a crowded Bro bar. We briefly considered pulling a "I'm somewhat-borderline-almost-kind-of-just-a-little-bit-of-a bloglebrity. Wanna knock a zero off for me?" but I think the only person impressed by that is my mom ("impressed"..."upsest"...semantics) and it probably wouldn't pull that much weight with the bouncer. Plus he point-blank told us we were asking him too many questions and to go away. That was also a nice little clue. Suddenly cameras started going off in front of the entrance, as J-Woww and Pauly D had shown up and were doing a TV interview with Christ only knows who on the saddest little cat fashion show of a red carpet I have ever seen. I took a picture with my digital camera but it wasn't nearly interesting enough to justify searching through my closet to find the USB cord to upload it onto here. Sorry about that. After a few minutes the dynamic duo went inside and we decided to take advantage of the line of people and promote the blog. And when I say "we" promoted the blog, I mean Andrew V and Dan promoted the blog while I awkwardly lurked by the trashcans playing with my hair because self promotion makes me heinously uncomfortable. And then we ran out of stickers. And started sobering up. STEEERIKE THREE! We were outta there. We hopped in a cab and went over to Big Hunt (where our ironic Guido outfits were no longer obviously ironic) and drank our dissapointment away.

Final summation: Jersey Shore night at McFadden's was a total bust and in no way worth the 10 dollars I spent on the powder blue cheetah print hoodie and matching bra strap headband I wore to it.


(Turn up sound!)

Welp! Off to go have my meeting with The Axis of Evil. I'm going to channel my idol, Kelly Cutrone, and utilize some of her many words of wisdom: "Be brave and always tell the truth. And don't take any shit" and considering what's probably about to happen, I will specifically be utilizing: "If you have to cry, go outside." Will do Ms. Cutrone. Will do.