WTF, Kevin.

No weekly wrap-up today because my head is full of stuffing and walnuts but I had to share this with you because this is exactly why we need to be prepared for the robot revolution.  Because Kevin is a real douche-canoe.

PS. It strikes me that “douche-canoe” is still fun to say but it might be time for something new.  Cock nugget, maybe?  I don’t know.  I’m open for suggestions.

These lemurs need us.

Someone just sent me this video and it’s supposedly the way that lemurs sunbathe because it feels so good that they lean back and spread their junk out so they can soak it all up everywhere and not get tan lines.

But personally, I think these lemurs just want hugs.  They’re all “Get in here, lady!  Ignore thosee signs that say you’re not allowed in the lemur pit.  LET’S GET OUR SNUGGLES ON” but then we just take pictures of them being ignored because we’re assholes who don’t understand basic body language and also because I can’t pick the locks at the door of the lemur pits.

Also, on second viewing it’s possible that they are trying to catch birds, because that’s how I’d do it if I was a lemur.  Just lean back and wait until they fly into your arms.  Or maybe they want you to throw food at them.  Next time you see a lemur you should have a coconut with you and you can be like, “GO LONG, LEMUR” and then spiral it right at him.  But not super hard because they aren’t used to catching shit and they’ll probably get hurt.  Just softly lob it in there, granny-style.  Or maybe throw something softer, like a decorative pillow filled with shredded cheese.  Or maybe throw a bird at them because then we test the bird theory and that’s two-birds-one-stone.  Except don’t throw two birds or one stone because first of all no one can catch two birds at one time and if you’re throwing stones at lemurs you’re going to get arrested because that’s kind of a dick move.  They don’t want your stones.  They want your cheese.  Or your loving.  Or maybe the sun.  I don’t know.  I’m not a lemurologist.

Random bits of awesome and broken.

This morning I had a rough time and was stuck in my messed-up head. On the way to my shrink I saw this and knew things would somehow be okay. Maybe you need it too so I’m leaving it here.

Today is my sister’s birthday. She is 18. Or at least that’s how old she is in my head. And that makes me 21. Drinks for everyone! Here is a picture of me sharing my stash with her:

I'm the blonde. That lasted 5 years until my body remembered it was slavic.

I’m the blonde. That lasted 5 years until my body remembered it was Slavic.  Also, I think it’s a totally legal cigar I’m giving her, but all bets are off because we lived in Austin then and Austin is weird.

You’re welcome, Lisa. Also, thank you too, because Lisa is often the person who says, “I can’t believe you didn’t write about Jenkins” and I’d be like “Huh.  It honestly never occurred to me that having a vicious pet turkey terrorize you isn’t a normal early childhood experience.” So lots of chapters and stories end up in my books because of her. Also, Lisa has my same fucked up sense of humor and is just like me if I wasn’t broken in the head, so if I ever die she could take this shit over and you’d never know it. Except suddenly “I’d” be taking circus lessons and homeschooling a pack of kids and welding and sewing 1950’s clothing and running miles in tough mudder marathons. Which is sort of a sign of being a bit fucked in the head too, now that I think about it.  My craziness makes me hide at home and hers makes her run through miles of swamps and barbed-wire carrying sandbags for a free t-shirt. And now I sort of have an appreciation for my own brokenness because intentionally running when you’re not being chased by roving packs of dogs is the kind of crazy they can’t even medicate.

Also, don’t yell at me for giving my sister a trucker hat and a cigar because – first of all – trucker hats ended up being huge and I put her way ahead of the trend, and secondly, this is a picture of my fantastic grandfather sharing his beer with me. BECAUSE WE ARE A FAMILY WHO SHARES.

me and papaw

Except I suspect that beer was empty, because there is a limit to our generosity and beer doesn’t grow on trees, y’all,

So happy birthday, Lisa.  Thank you for being there even when I’m crazier than normal.

me and lisa

She stayed blonde. Probably because she belongs to the mailman.

Personally I just ball ’em up and shove them in the closet.

Number 89 of things I found on my phone that made me wonder what I was thinking when I wrote it, but at the same time, I’m totally right:

People who can’t fold a fitted sheet are like people who can’t fold water.  And you might say “Wait.  But no one can fold water” and I to that I say, “FUCKING EXACTLY”.

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And now, the weekly wrap-up:

madebyroundtablecompanies 2

Shit I made in my shop (Named “EIGHT POUNDS OF UNCUT COCAINE” so that your credit card bill will be more interesting.):

Shit-you-may-or-may-not-want-to-see:

This week’s wrap-up is brought to you by Melissa Pirwani’s book No Touching Secrets!  It’s a good book to use for parents caregivers and professionals to start a conversation with children in their care to help them be equipped and empowered regarding sexual abuse.  I don’t have a joke for this because there are no jokes for this.  It’s just a good thing to talk about with your kids.  The end.  Buy the book or find out more about it right here.

Kids today, right?

Things I wrote on my phone at 2am and then later found and read and wondered if maybe I need to cut back on my sleeping pills:

It’s weird that kids will walk for miles just to see a dead body in a ravine when they could just walk into a funeral home and look at a bunch of them without all those flies and lack of air conditioning. Kids, right?

Although maybe it’s because kids always want to poke a body with a stick and funeral directors won’t let a bunch of kids come in with sticks. That’s why I always bring a cane. A cane is a fancy stick and people assume you’re too sickly to be a threat, so when you get in trouble for poking all the dead bodies in the funeral home you can run away and funeral home people would be like “Whoa. Look at her go. That’s gotta be some kind of miracle. Maybe she was on to something with all this poking.” If I was a kid I’d bring a cane to poke bodies, but I guess the problem is that you have to share it with your friends because whose gonna believe an entire roving pack of kids who all have canes? That’s just unsettling. Although people might avoid looking at you out of pity. So maybe canes-for-everyone is a good idea if you’re poking bodies, or doing some light shoplifting. I haven’t really thought it through but this is exactly the kind of stuff I should bring up if they ever invite me to speak at an elementary school because those speakers almost never give good real-world advice.

PS. I’m leaving tomorrow to be part of the faculty (JESUS THAT’S SUCH A GROWN UP WORD) for the University of Dayton Erma Bombeck Writer’s Workshop and I’m speaking at the same time as a bunch of award winning famous people who probably don’t giggle when they refer to themselves as “faculty” so if you come to see me and it’s less than three of you I say we just go to the bar and get stupid.  Drinks are on me.  Unless there are 4 of you.  Then we go halfsies.  I’m not made of money, people.  Maybe BYOB?  Come prepared.

PPS. Spellcheck says “halfsies” isn’t a real word.  Really, spellcheck?  Because I think a member of “the faculty” would know what words are.  Honestly, I’m not sure if I’m proving me or spellcheck wrong here.

Ow. That’s my earhole.

Conversation with Victor:

unnamed-34

me: This fortune cookie is confusing me. How would I peel my ears?  I’ve heard of keeping your eyeballs peeled but who peels ears?  And now that I think about it, why are we even peeling eyeballs?  That sounds super painful.

Victor:  It’s a figure of speech.

me:  It’s not a good one. If you peel off my eye skin I would not be able to see better. That’s not how eyes work.

Victor:  It just means to keep your eyes open. You “peel your eyes” by “opening your eyelids”.

me:  Oh.  So when you wink at someone you’re actually “unpeeling an eye seductively”?

Victor:  I guess?

me:  But still, you can’t “peel” an ear. You cock an ear.  Explain that one.

Victor:  Just stop talking.

me:  That’s what I thought.

 

Not alone.

First off, Happy Easter to me:

unnamed-32

May you too have a basket made of dead armadillo filled with your favorite, weirdo things.  Including an Easter egg glued to a dead mouse.  Or Benedict Cumberbunnies. The usual.
unnamed-33

And speaking of weirdos, if you follow me on twitter you already know that this weekend you all gave me back faith in humanity and I saw so many of you save each other in amazing ways and I realized how often people become friends through this community.  But we should make that easier.  So if you’re on twitter put a link to yourself in the comments and I’ll follow you.  And others will to.  If you’re looking for a special connection to someone who shares the same issues then just leave it in the comments.  Like if you’re looking for someone to share taxidermy pictures with or if you want to bond with someone else who struggles with being bipolar or someone you can binge watch horror movies with when you have insomnia.  Whatever.

I’ll start.  I’m at https://twitter.com/TheBloggess and I like sloth videos and talking to people when I’m fighting off panic attacks.  Your turn.

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And now, the weekly wrap-up:

bloggess sid

Shit I made in my shop (Named “EIGHT POUNDS OF UNCUT COCAINE” so that your credit card bill will be more interesting.):

Shit-you-may-or-may-not-want-to-see:

This week’s wrap-up is brought to you by, uh…me?  I had someone but they turned out to be weird in a not-good way and so instead I’m sponsoring it myself.  Check out thebloggess.com because it’s awesome.  Except if you’re reading this you’re already here.  But technically that means that this ad was so effective that every single person who read it is now reading this blog.  THAT IS 100% TURNAROUND, Y’ALL.  You should totally advertise here because this shit is bonkers. Plus, ads start at $100 a month.  That’s crazy cheap.  First come, first served.

Every Friday night. And Saturday night. And every night basically.

Every Friday night starts the pictures of friends who are out at parties and dinners and with more friends and strangers.  I love to see them dressed up and happy but a tiny bit of myself looks at those pictures and feels like a loser because my anxiety disorder makes me run from crowds and there’s no way I could ever do what they’re doing.

It was worse when they still asked me to come with them and I’d beat myself up all week while telling myself that I should and could totally go and then I’d feel that lurch in my stomach and back out at the last hour.  And I’d feel relief and regret in equal measure.  Nowadays I’ve said no so often that I don’t usually get asked.  Which is a great comfort and also a strangely bitter sadness.  Some friends still tell me when they’re having a get-together, or invite me with a kind side-note of “I know you won’t come but remember you’re always welcome”.  Some have given up on me ever coming to their parties but never give up on me personally and still make time for me in quiet moments, or house-calls when I can’t leave the house.  Some text because they know that my fear of the phone will keep me from answering even when I want to talk.  Some come to my room at conferences because they know it’s too hard for me to leave the suffocating but safe quiet even though I desperately want to go to see old and new friends just outside my window.  And some are gone.  They’ve given up on me and I can’t blame them because being my friend is not easy.  It takes work and patience and sometimes people come to the realization that I’m not worth it and they disappear.  It’s hard, especially when it’s someone you love.  But as they drift away, others come into your life.  Others like you.  Others that aren’t like you but who appreciate having a friend who asks for so little time or effort.  Others who will get on google chat with you so you’ll be less alone while you’re quietly playing solitaire.  Others who live on twitter because it’s safer than real life…who will be there with you at 2am when you can’t stop the voices in your head.  And that is a wondrous thing.

And then it’s Friday again.  And the pictures start coming in of your friends out at clubs and concerts and restaurants, and I sit home and feel a perfect mix of glad and sad that I’m not there.  And I play music that reminds me that I’ve chosen this life…or it’s chosen me.  And that it’s okay.  Better than okay.  It’s good.  Even when it stings a little.  The sting reminds you you’re still alive.

I’m still alive.  So are you.  Find the life you want and make it yours without apologies.  Whether it’s loud or quiet or filled with dancing or books, or a combination of each.  And I will be happy for you when those beautiful pictures come into my feed of the amazing places you are.  And I will try harder to be happy for me that I’m where I am too.

PS. This is one of the songs that I listen to when I start to feel bad that I’m never going to be comfortable in crowded spaces.  It might help you if you’re the same:

I am a goddam fashionista.

You know those bloggers who write about jackets and foot clothes and hair things?  The fashiony people?  I never entirely got their deal until I discovered the joy of collecting purses.  I mean, technically, they’re just coin purses and I didn’t really “collect” them so much as I just bought the set because they were cheaper that way, but still?  BEST PURSES EVER.  Because they have cat faces on them and when I hold them up to my face when I ask Victor to make me a milkshake I suddenly have a face than no one can say no to.  Look:

"Call me 'Mittens'."

“Call me ‘Mittens’.”

But then Victor did say no because he doesn’t love kittens and he’s maybe not even human or something.  But I’ve been walking around the house taking pictures of the cats wearing cat masks and it is the best thing ever.  Even Dorothy Barker looks adorable:

"Woof."

“Woof.”

And Hunter S. Thomcat:

It's like my cat is dressed up as my cat.

It’s like my cat is dressed up as my cat.

Ferris Mewler actually grabbed one and tried to groom it but I took it away from him because it looked like he’d ripped off another cat’s head and was showing off his gross trophy.  Then I took this video of Ferris giving me a go-to-hell look and if you look closely enough at it you can lip-read him saying, “Bitch?  Fuck you.”  It’s impressive and terrifying.

And then Victor yelled at me for freaking the cats out and for buying coin purses when I don’t even have any coins to put in them.  And I thought that maybe he had a point, but then I realized that, no, he was way wrong:

Honestly, it's like it was made for him. He disagrees. Whatever.

Honestly, it’s like it was made for him. He disagrees. Whatever.

PS. You can buy them here.

 

 

I AM STILL ALIVE.

Hey.

I’m still alive but I’m super busy doing something I want to tell you about but I can’t say it out loud because I’m afraid I’ll jinx it so just rest assured that it’s something that 10% of you will say “OMG THAT IS THE BEST NEWS EVER!” and 50% will be like, “Okay.  Sounds cool” and “20% will be like,’How did I get here?  I was looking for sloth p0rn‘” and 30% will be like, “This post is too long.  I’ve already stopped reading” and 5% will be like, “You’re already at 115%  This is not how math works.”  But I promise to write soon.  Like maybe even today.  But until then just watch this video of a cat being bathed.  Because it is awesome and you probably need it.

You are welcome.

More soon.

Hugs.