If you die I'm going to f*cking kill you Idiot

During the translocation of myself and my sister from coast to coast (lake Superior is a coast) we were exposed to the harsh truths of both the American landscape and our erratic family dynamics. In particular, I learned that my go to response to any situation involving a loved one is a sort-of inarticulate blind rage. My vocabulary shrinking to various conjugations of the f-word and usually punctuated with an idiot or two.

This was brought to my attention during our trek through Oklahoma and into Texas. Route 32 (I dont fucking remember the highway, and if anyone cares to correct me they can fucking go fuck themselves idiot) was starting to wind itself around the aptly named Cascade Mountains. (I dont fucking remember if those were the right fucking mountains, go fucking research it. Idiot) It was my turn to Drive the U-haul, sister Bee-bee in the passenger seat and my mother in charge of the smaller lead car.

For 25 years I have inexplicably survived the horror that is my mom's driving. An action she reserves to supplement long phone calls and one handed coffee binge drinking. Many countless deer have beeen slaughtered because my mother would take her eyes off the road to ask me to explain what I meant by yelling "DEER!" I have been disconnected from two seperate calls when she's veered off the road causing her to drop her phone in an open mug of coffee. Startled by a french accented "faster!" when I slow at a yellow light. Pulled over when she called me a baby for at first refusing to make an illegal u-turn. So yes, I've been exposed to many of mother's terrible driving habits. But being forced to watch it in a seperate car is an entireley different blood-boiling experience.

As the road began to wind more, my mother thought it fun to stay securely in the blindspots of any semi she came across. As she slowly crept along the passing lane, she refused to turn off her left blinker just in case she made it out of the blindspot she would be able to both startle and irritate the other driver. This behavior of course being terrifying, my sister called to suggest we change drivers. But after a few rings, it went to straight to voicemail. After the second call we saw her car doing a frightening impression of a car trying to ice skate, as she began wildly switching lanes without signaling, and then jerking back into place.

Beebee and I came to the only possible conclusion. She was sleep swerving and we had to do everything in our power to wake her up. We called countless times as the road became more treacherous, and the driving worse. If you listened to the voicemails you would here a distant scream saying something like this:

"What the son of a bitch are you fucking thinking? Idiot. You're going to fucking die with your fucking idiot blinker on. There is no fucking other left fucking lane to turn, son of bitch godammit, idiot."

While Beebee softly cried in the foreground.

This may seem harsh but being right behind the swerving car in an oversized vehicle we had two front row seats to witness any of the many very possible ways our mother could involuntarily manslaughter herself.

When the calling, and screaming and crying didn't work, it was clear I would have to take action. I got directly behind the little car and honked in hopes that she would understand this as an invitation to safely pull over. This of course made her speed faster. I then repeatedly flashed the brights which made her turn off her headlights. The final step was to brave passing her slaloming vehicle, praying that if she did hit us we would all crash and die together.

It took all the nerve I had to floor the truck and keep it steady, but slowly we were able to reach the side to my mother's car. Just as we were about to demand she be responsible, pull over and answer our calls, the brightly lit interior lights exposed our Mother's large doe eyes, staring innocently at us over her cortotioned left shoulder as she reached to the passenger side floor searching for her fallen cell-phone.

When we reached the next exit my mom excitedly asked if we wanted to eat at Ruby Thursdays, or TGI Tuesday's, and then exclaimed how proud she was that I finally learned to stop driving so slow.

Rent A Dog

So I sadly admit I've made the coast to coast move from NY to LA. Amongst a vast city where smiles abound, I've been fighting bouts of loneliness.  After a few over ASSumptions, it's becoming clear that behind those pearly veneer's lies a quiet emptiness. I've been meeted and greeted left and right, but remain a friendless, sad clown. Turns out in LA, if the parking attendant tells you that you look nice today, he won't go any further than make out. (tease)

BUT luckily I am a woman of ACTion. People don't yet have the honor of knowing me here so I need to advertise my cool. I drafted some friendship posters (with the usual info, height, snack preference, social security number, grandmother's lock box code and address to fortune) , and posted them in the lobby. After a few days I came to my senses and felt sooo stupid. It was clear the lobby was not getting any traffic since nobody called me. So I moved the flyer to a much safer spot. A busy street corner with a broken pay-phone. (Cuz that place is off the hook!) I also made sure to tell that awesome joke any time I checked the flyer. It would have been really lame to write it on the poster, and I couldn't draw a hand in the shape of a phone without looking too Cow-a-bunga.

My tactics worked like a charm, and soon my phone was like my ears after leaving my neighbors party after telling them to be quiet, it's Friday and some people are trying to watch TV alone. (Ringing!)

Though I did receive an influx of phone calls this resulted in a few less than desirable candidates. First there was the street pots salesman Jackson who was very unappreciative of my excellent marketing work. I directed the entire LAPD work force to his business, and he never called me again!!  Then there was Mr. Peets, a method actor who kept asking me to wash his feet and never told me what homeless man role he was playing. His only answers were "again", or "the stars are corrupt, death to stars!" After three foot baths I had to give up.

The last was, Angela. She started out great remarking I had brave skin tone, but she turned out to be a bit self-centered. She could not stop going on about how after a life of government servitude as a CIA operative she was summarily dismissed and stripped of everything when a new agent and former Rumsfeld croquet buddy used his fraternity connections to have her wrongfully terminated when she voiced her objection to his "haze to solve the maze" civilian inquisition tactics. Apparently now the only place she is safe is an unmarked cardboard box under the over pass because her identity was exposed to every terrorist cell she spent her life trying to destroy. (Drama Queen!) When she began crying I knew I had to help so I told her the inspiring story of how my perfume company stopped making my perfume, so I had to switch to a less pink perfume. She was so moved she couldn't even speak.

But I guess I should feel bad for Angela. She's now so embarrassed that I pointed out her petty complaining that every time I go to see her she hides.

Disappointed in Skid Row's finest, I went for a lonely walk. My shoes began to hurt, so I took them off. Holding them became uncomfortable for my delicate forearms, so I dragged them by their laces. The dragging noise sounded like a howl, and when they saw other shoes they got excited and peed. And then it hit me! I don't need a person friend, I need a dog. But just like shoes you drag on the ground, I wanted to be able to change my dog when it annoyed me. I looked up Rent a dog, and too my absolute surprise there is a company that offers that service.

At the top of the FlexPetz web site there was a flashing notice. Apparently elected officials in Boston took extraordinary measures to pass a law making pet-renting illegal. At first I have to admit, the concept seems bizarre. But a dog renting service is actually the humane alternative. For those who love animals but understand they are not at the point to give the necessary time and attention FlexPetz offers a varitable halfway home for pups in need. All potential renters are required to pay a steep sign on and monthly fee, on top of the daily rental fee, weeding out canine abusers. Once fees are paid, renters must also go through a mandatory training to insure proper treatment of the animal.

If only this service was offered to Humans. Then maybe Genevieve would still be alive.

Who?

It's always strange to meet a person whose last name is McGhee, but first name is not Tits.

Just Cutting Grapes

It's Lunch time in the Press Household. I've been banished from New York, the details of such will be explained in later posts or never explained at all. I don't have time to catch you up, so I will instead leave you wondering why I am home in Michigan. If contemporary human nature holds true to what I have learned, most of you will turn to your friend and say "you didn't know Prudence was back in Michigan?" with this single question you will have convinced yourself that you know why and make up some probable cause, relieving me from any due explanations.

Now, back to Lunch...

A family meal in the Press household tends to be an event. Drinks are contemplated, meat is defrosted, pastries are on standby and onions are invariably chopped. Though my family does not treat themselves to a a three course meal every day, there is no middle ground.  The breakfast, lunch or dinner in question is either unneccessarily extravagant, or chips and squeeze cheeze.

Apart from impressive culinary pairings (foie gras served next to mini pizzas) meal time entertainment is also an elaborate affair. Mostly this consists of sisterly competition for my mother's attention. Attention from Mother Press is like basquing in complimentary sun shine. In every way my mother resembles a bright ray of light. (I'm not saying I'm a a direct descendent of the Sun. But I'm not denying it either.) Luckily my father gave up both competing for my Mom's attention and wanting the similar treatment from his daughters. He now spends most meals pretending to save said mother from non-existent kitchen disaster. This has caused some irreparable damage. I've developed an irrational fear of wooden spoons bursting into flame and garbage disposals crushing your hands no matter where you are in the kitchen.

As the meal progresses, so do the stakes. (And not the ones cooking beside the roast pig) Small accomplishments are set aside for talk of bigger life goals. (dessert conversation gets very theoretically philanthropic) One has to pace herself like a marathon runner. Don't start with your plans on balancing congressional budget deficit by investing in recyclable sporks. Start with cute anecdote including the use of the multi-purpose utensil. (And don't try to string news buzzwords together to look smart) Placing small nuggets of information to slowly guide the conversation towards yourself, is the key to winning.

I had developed the perfect plan involving the turning on and off of the TV. This would in turn begin a complaining session of the downfall of network television programs, and my hopes to awaken the under-valued intellectual American audience, giving them a break form their beloved books. Bringing to light the importance of our nations last great export, entertainment.

As soon as I entered the kitchen, my plans were crushed. Third sister Beebee's boyfriend was sitting at the bar. I had not calculated for a foreigner. It would take a little more sidetracking, so I decided instead to bring up youngest sister's Coquette's Jersey Shore party comparing it to/ a Fellini festival I attended. This would bump her down two points, and me up 3. But I couldn't find a time to slip it into conversation as boyfriend was too busy explaining his food allergies. This was a critical blow. Mother Press is a food time mother Theresa. There is no allergy she won't try to cook around. Boyfriend has hundreds, so it took her utmost concentration to create a diverse and tasty allergen free menu.

As they discussed ingredients and swelling rates, I sat in the background defeated. I couldn't even try to cook anything to look industrious. I needed the ok'd food list. I heard the word grape and thought maybe I could peel a few to at least look compassionate. Because I was feeling emasculated, I took out the Largest sharpest knife I could find.

The grape peeling process is as expected, painstakingly slow. After spending 2 minutes on one grape I only became more upset. I had everything in the palm of my hand this lunch. All the preparation completely foiled. As I reached for the second grape I heard Beebee using boyfriend's allergy as a platform to describe the necessity of her food education work with at risk populations... Bitch

Grape in hand I stared angrily at Beebee's stupid mouth talking. My temper boiled inside me until my warrior instincts took over. (I was an avid Ninja Turtles follower as a kid.) I waited till I caught her eye, then threw the grape in the air wielding my knife toward it like an expert samurai. Unable to stop herself, Beebee screamed. She has an irrational fear of knives flying through the air. The room went silent and all eyes turned to me as I picked up the two halves of the grape.

"You know, reality TV has gotten completely out of control, using cheap shock tactics to get the viewer's attention."

And with that, the spotlight was mine.

My Blind Side

Early on a Thursday morning I decided to donate my eyes to medicine. I made an appointment with an optometrist for a routine/complimentary eye exam. Blazing through a kaleidoscope of tests my doctor struggled to find something I would fail. We opted for a Glaucoma check and subsequent pupil dilation. As predicted I was burning through this task ahead of schedule and began to lose eyesight very quickly. I couldn't partake in any of my kill times so I let my mind wander back to earlier that morning.

In line at Dunkin Donuts to pick up breakfast for roommate ordinaire (there is a toilet paper issue we have to settle before she can get back that extra) Brown S. Frank, I noticed an old woman with a cart looking for juice. The well-trained DD employees were already onto their next customer as the woman continued to ask for juice which was kept in a tight corner to the side of the line. The woman looked down at her cumbersome cart and jiggly knees.

       "I get it myself?" She said directed mostly to her shaky bones.

The woman attempted to backtrack the line, and like an old salmon headed up a stream of fast-food breakfast efficiency, she came very close to natural selection. But then something miraculous happened. And that some was actually a one. And that one was naturally me.

      "I can get that for you." I said, my voice echoing, reminiscent of a statue with speech abilities
      "Oh yes please!" the woman obliged thankfully

Like a muscular cat with good hair I slid effortlessly through the line over to the juice refrigerator, where I managed to maintain my sensitive nature.
    
      "Would you like the plastic bottle, or carton?"

She chose carton and thanked me over and over for my heroics. I accepted with a modest bow. When I lifted my head up to address my adoring crowd I was shocked to see the back of a familiar body ordering a chocolate sprinkled (donut lingo). Not only was I denied the residual audience thank you's I deserved but the jerk behind me cut in line while I was helping the old woman. I couldn't believe it.

I finally got to the front and proceeded to order three doughnuts. Upon deciding the third the woman grabbed a medium-sized box and told me to pick out three more. I told her I only wanted three to which she barked back

       "Its the same price for 6. Pick out three more."

I asked her if she just saw me get the orange juice. She swiftly said no. I answered precisely. She said excuse me? I told her three more doughnuts would have slown me down to the level of human sight. She then asked what happened to the orange juice. I told her she was missing the point.

A half an hour later I was able to convince the manager that I was not stealing and successfully brought home 3 doughnuts for the price of six plus the cost of one orange juice.

Remembering this delightful anecdote took up half the time it takes to fully dilate my pupils. I spent a few seconds playing with the jar of candy in the waiting room, dipping my hand in and trying to identify the hard candy. The receptionist asked me not to do that so I took a handful to play with in my pocket to play pocket pool. (you pretend a bunch of candies in your pocket are swimming.)

During this time I reflected on the sad realism that is my physical superiority. I passed every eye test with flying colors. (and was able to identify those colors for extra credit) Unfortunately this meant that glasses would be nothing but obsolete windows to my eyes. You may be thinking "That's wonderful Prudence. Not only will you not have to shell out extra money towards the upkeep of frames and lenses, but we as your viewer will not have to suffer any facial obstructions to your beauty." If this thought has crossed your mind, you've obviously not seen me in glasses. Imagine Renoir going through a tastefully-sexy librarian phase.

My near sight fading away I was forced to look to the distance. I couldn't look outside because the sunlight was too harsh on my new eye crevices. The only place left was the impressive 4 tiered case of designer eyewear. A cruel punishment for such a prize specimen.

The final touch to my glasses free coffin was the glaucoma test. There was absolutely no sign of eye degradation. We sighed and looked at the photos of my naked eyeball. The only consolation was that it looked like a pretty boob. The doctor and I both stared for a suspiciously long period. I chalked my stare time to conceit. I think the doctor just likes big round boobs.

My thoughts were on the void of glasses. But when I left the office I realized there was a much more pressing issue at hand. I was blind. The sun was harsh so I had to look down directly in front of my feet. But my near sighted vision was completely blurry. I walked at snail speed and entered the wrong subway platform twice. Crossing the street proved to be quite a challenge. I only made it half way when the light apparently turned. I was stuck in the middle not sure whether to turn back or go straight. Luckily a knight came to my rescue. Noticing his arm skin felt the rough texture of middle age but trying to wear cargo shorts, I decided he probably needed some reassurance. "Thank you young man" I exclaimed and then gave him a peppermint for his trouble.

To celebrate my perfect vision, I thought what better treat then homemade steak and french fries! When I got to the cash register I had an overwhelming urge to pay in exact change but couldn't see what the coins were. I had to ask the counter lady to count the change for me. She helped and I gave her a werther's original caramel for her trouble.

As I left the grocery store I hit my broken toe, causing a very painful limp. I decided to use my umbrella as a cane for my last errand, dessert. The umbrella was a compact so I had to bend over quite far, scoliosifying myself. When I entered Dunkin Doughnuts and asked for 3 doughnuts they handed them to me. Without even bothering to give me the discount for 6! I waited to see if they would mention it, but they didn't. And it hit me. The old lady, the lack of thanks and accusation when I helped her. The new senile shorter me not being offered discounts.

Dunkin Doughnuts, you are AGEISTS!!!

Thank god I am usually young.

Pinky Swear

I was on the phone with collegiate friend Angria Benders. I had just won a rousing game of phone tag (psychological warfare to determine who is socially superior) I was gloating when I realized it was probably time to stir my bowling pot of deluxe Mac and Cheese. (another sign of social superiority based on whether your cheese is powdery or squeezey) In my rush to stir the pot, I broke my smallest of toes on a vintage chair I now regret buying. I told my friend who answered with a laugh. I looked down to see my pinky toe pointing due west while the others were still pointing north. I consulted the other foot to find that all toes were also facing north. With this new information I told my still giggling friend that the situation was "really bad" and I had to go. To this she continued to laugh and mockingly said "OK". I felt her answer to be a bit insensitive but just figured she was still sore from realizing she was inferior.

For the next 10 minutes I sat on the ground wiping the sweat falling from my eyes. (stress of the situation must have caused the ocular perspiration) I was then strangely compelled to call the woman who so kindly gave birth to me. I told her of my situation and she became unexpectedly angry, threatening to send me to anger management. (A statement I am now noticing is a bit hypocritical.) I took a second to remember she is foreign and explained that I didn't intentionally break my toe as a form of self mutilation, it was an accident. Unable to put any pressure on my foot and unwilling to change into a sports bra to bounce to the hospital I discussed my options.

During my contemplation period I was receiving non-stop calls and txts from a group of friends I was supposed to meet with. They had just reached their drunk-dial trigger finger point and were exchanging each others phones to confuse me when I answered.

"Hello Jose?"
"No this is Laura"
"Hello Jenny?"
"No this is Daniela"
"Hello Rossana?"
"No, this is Rossana."

I explained that I had broken my toe and would not be able to meet up. Every member responded differently but the consensus was one of disbelief. (however it should be noted that one extraneous member did not hold a position either way. His attention diverted by the fact that he farted for the first time in his life. It should also be noted that this member is very adorably gay.)

Through a series of exhausting and unheard explanations I realized I was going need hard proof. I got back to my mother who was busy researching the best toe facilities in New York city. I explained there was a medical center two blocks away and I would just go there. She then pleaded that I call an ambulance. I told her it was much too dramatic for such a small extremity but she then told me my insurance would cover everything. Insurance that I never actually use (duct tape and shoe lace have served from cast to bandaid and everything in between) and will be expiring in less than a year. With this new information I was reminded of a conversation I had with my bar therapist. He told me I needed to try new things... I had never been an in ambulance before.

Three minutes later I got a knock on the door and three strapping EMTs were there to greet me. Feeling embarrassed about the state of the apartment I made a joke about not expecting company. They found me both brave and charming.technician overeager technician decided to follow my lead and started his own line of "fake hostess" jokes when he saw a box of cookies. He was not blessed with comedic timing and his one liners did little more than make me feel rude for not preparing a snack.

The small break for small talk made me forget the sheer embarrassment of the situation. I didn't have time to explain to my neighbors that this gratuitous ambulance ride was a political statement for my backing of comprehensive medical coverage. They didn't know that I had broken toes and arms and legs before, only to grit my teeth and walk myself to the hospital. Thrown off my bike (sexily) only to ride again (hotly). Broken my hand overseas and waited until I was back on US soil to keep Medicare costs domestic. To these spectators I was a just another princess with a glass toe. My only hope to save face was to clutch my purse and stare at the ground, praying that everyone would think I was being taken to a mental institution.

Safely in the car the two more experienced EMTs explained to the new guy that extra paper work was required when a call involved an unaccompanied female. Ambulance mileage must be recorded to insure no molestation took place. I became very sad.

Once at the hospital, unraped, I was sent through fast track. In a waiting room with all chairs facing a big screen tv flashing only advertisements for the hospital itself, I had to crane my neck to get a peak of the only other form of distraction. A tiny box tv in the corner playing the CW's series of vampire sex shows. This I believe is the definition of cruel and unusual punishment.

At registration I was given a photo ID card which felt very unnecessary. Even more unnecessary when I saw that they Included another card of one Ms. Yecenia Ocasio. I was then given a pair of crutches to go to radiology because no one was available t wheel me there. This was both a relief and a chance to showcase my crutch skills. I'm very talented, something my surprisingly attractive doctor noticed immediately. Toe vindication was beginning.

I was sitting alone in the radiology waiting room when a man came over and looked at me strangely. I glanced around nervously as he continued to stare. I then decided it best to face downward so he wouldn't notice my striking attractiveness in case this was one of those sad "funny business" situation the EMT's were talking about. That's when I noticed my hospital band had a M next to my birthdate. I first assumed it meant "mature for age" but realized it probably stood for Male, explaining the man's confusion.

Once we sorted out the fact that I was female I was off to x-ray. A place I was once again able to showcase my skills. After only 5 minutes the doctor told me it was broken and gave me one pain pill and I was wrapped up and discharged, advised to come back for podiatry work. I thought it better to lie and say I'd come back, instead of give my it's not you its me speech.

I crutched back home, which turned out to be quite a workout. Many kind neighbors offered to carry me, help me, and "fix that foot for you girl". I declined their offers. I got home in record hospital time to offer solid proof to my many friends and family who didn't believe me. They finally gave me their sympathies. Especially my phone tag loser friend who I learned had thought I said "dropped a coke" instead of "broke my toe". I see now how my frantic reaction would be funny, though I will still hold her unsympathetic reaction against her for at least two compliments and a favor.

Word of Advice

Buy ugly pants. When you need them the most, they will always be your traveling napkin.

Taxi-Cab Confessions

As you probably assumed by my Renaissancian tendencies, I am a bit of a foreign language enthusiast. I studied Spanish at the institute of some of high school, and also French at the school of I can say one phrase very well. So it will be no surprise to any of you that I feel very comfortable in situations that don't require my native English.

Last night I finished work a little late and decided to grab a cab to cut the long commute short. It was just me and my unrelentingly sweet El Salvadorean colleague. (who I should add is by far the favorite employee at the restaurant) He called his friend, equally as sweet Washington Heights cab driver Rafael (Yes he is Dominican you racist) to pick us up. We closed the gates and within minutes Rafael was on the curb waiting to take us to our respective homes. (This isn't going where you think it is horny guy who is following a misguided lead.)

In an effort to get some tipsy customers to leave early, I had been stealing sips of their cocktails when they weren't looking. (It's not a health code violation if the customer is an ass hole) This had provided me with an extra boost of linguistic bravado. Late night conversation with my colleague is usually in labored English, but last night I jumped right in with my very own Spanish Inquisition.

"Como esta tu vida?"

For 15 minutes my colleague and chauffeur answered in rapid fire Spanish. From my translation, I learned there are many problems with girlfriends, and received a warning not to have my baby on the street. I agreed but tried to explain I was not pregnant, forgetting the word for pregnant because I had never actually learned it. To this my colleague exited the car at his stop, smiling and waving happier than ever.

We drove off and now it was Rafael's turn to offer bits of wisdom in rapid fire Spanish. I learned great tips like if you break a bone make sure to use plenty of eggs to slow down the swelling. Avocado's are ass holes but its always good to have one as a friend. Don't let your life turn into a burrito, always look for excitement. As I was about to open the door and leave the cab Rafael stopped me exclaiming:

"Un momento, la puerta esta cerrada"

I turned to him and said "Yes, Rafeal the conditions at the port are serious but let's save that discussion for another night. Could you please unlock the door."

I exited the car breathing in a deep breath, as I exhaled I proclaimed

"World, I am your citizen!"

Then I got a piece of pizza and went home.

Family Conference Call

On a quiet Sunday afternoon I called my parents to say "What up Mother-Father!?" My mom in her endless attention to insignificant detail told me she was putting lemon wedges in ice water. After a very dull though time consuming inquisition I learned my family was holding a business brunch to plan this summer's agenda. Realizing I was a necessary asset to the board of trustees, I decided to skype into the conference. I felt very professional, and was proud of my family for taking its job so seriously.

Below are the minutes.

1:05 P.M. - Prudence Press Calls family
1:05:30 P.M. - Prudence Press Calls family
1:05:35 P.M. - Prudence Press vows this is the last time she lets herself be a pawn to her families web of let downs. Vows she is better than her family and will not let them do this to h..
1:05:36  P.M. Prudence Press connects with Family
1:06 P.M. - Prudence masks her pain by lashing out at younger sister.
1:07 P.M. - Apologizes
1:08 P.M. - Talking to father's right shoulder, asks family to reposition computer camera.
1:09 P.M. - Now facing mother's left shoulder, Prudence once again asks family to reposition computer.
1:10-1:30 P.M. - Repositioning of computer, followed by arguments over computer's position.
1:31 P.M. - Computer placed in front of lemon wedge water pitcher. Prudence Press claims to be able to see entire family. Preferring to deal with the non-argumentative water pitcher.
1:32 P.M. - First order of Business cross country move. Mother discusses dates and u-haul options. Father walks away.
1:35 P.M. - Mother concludes cross-country move details. Father returns eating banana. Questions "What were you talking about?" Mother explains.
1:38 P.M. - Mother concludes re-explanation. Youngest sister asks to go to the bathroom, entire family declines in unison. Mother Father and Prudence share in proud moment. Sister scowls. Eats cheese.
1:39 P.M. - Father leaves room.
1:45 P.M. Discuss Grandmother's Birthday and 3 Sisters' graduations. Begin the long process of coordinating dates. Father returns with vacuum and begins to clean. Mother stops and looks at father inquisitively. Father continues oblivious. Discussion momentarily halted.
1:48 P.M. - Father turns off vacuum. Mother begins discussion again.
1:49 P.M. - Connection lost.

Share a tear Florist

A very emo Spaniard I have come to know and love was the center of a surprise fairwell soirree. I would not usually make the hour long commute uptown, but I was willing to expose myself to subway boredom for my very dear friend. I was waiting for my third train when an odd sight caught my eye. A young woman sat next to a bucket of pitiful flowers. They were decorated in both valentines and springtime attire with hearts and butterflies competing for surface area. I suppose the colorful wrapping paper made sense for a snowy day in march, an attempt to cover any trailing or impending hallmark holiday. But still I feel she was overcompensating.

I surveyed the area, and saw that no one on the packed subway platform was interested in this poor woman's flowers. Its true they were not particularly fresh, and the packaging a bit bi-curious. But the florist had no competition and many potential customers. All she needed was a marketing ploy. It's no secret that strangers tend to follow me like a leader they've lost years before. (Once I slipped on a patch of ice, and three people behind me did the exact same thing.) It was obvious she needed my help.

I will single handedly save this woman small business. And also impress all the party-goers with my thrifty and romantic street-flower purchasing skills. They will picture me writing poetry by an open fire signing checks to save endangered sparrows. Avid picnic goers and organic piccolo enthusiasts will be green with envy.

I shuffled around my pocket, playing a little pocket pool (when you pretend your hand is swimming because your pocket is so big) and found the 3 dollars change I had from breaking a 5 to buy a pack of combos. (Incidentally after I bought that bag of combos someone else behind me totally copied and bought a newspaper.) I strolled up to the woman, teeth in full gleam and asked for three of her beautiful roses. She was delighted and rushed to grab the best 3 of the bunch.

The flowers were bound in packs of two, she rushed to separate a third flower having a bit of trouble getting the two apart. I heard the train arriving behind me and leaned in to tell her two would be just fine, when she finally seperated the flower, but simultaneously connected its scratchy stem to my genetically expensive 20/20 eye.

I was stunned and stepped back. My eyes began to water, the pain was sharp and irritating. I took solace only in knowing I was due for some sympathy. I blinked a few times and when sight became available once more I directed my injured eye toward the woman. But to my horror she had not noticed she hit me.   She was quite happily and obliviously trying to shove the now free third flower into the pack of two I was prepared to settle for. I looked around for witnesses, hoping to get a passing "I don't know you but feel your pain" glance from a stranger. But all I got was a nasty look from some displaced Frat Boy, shaking his head at the girl that has to buy herself flowers. I tried to give the "it's not for me, its for a friend look" but my pink tear swollen eye was screaming "I'm on my period and this is how I reward myself."

The florist finally managed to stick the third flower in between half of a distressed rubber band and handed me the sad tri-pod bouquet. Still she had not noticed my misfortune.

A strange desire washed over me. I needed her sympathy more than ever. I craved even a half concerned "what happend to your eye". I squeezed my injured eye shut, conjuring as many painful tears I could to stream down my face. I stood desperately in front of the florist and her flower bucket, missing my train so she could share in my pain.

But all this was to no avail. The clumsy florist was distracted by a new customer.

Damn my popularity.

A Lesson in Irony?

Another late night trying to make my way home from work. I was feeling ravenous from a hard night of not eating. A few people had noticed I'd lost weight and I wanted to continue to impress.

'Something to eat? No thank you. I'm nothing but a waif, food is just an after thought.' - thought to myself

I'd made a little extra cash since I of course rewarded the compliment givers with the free drink they had asked for. A late night snack was deserved, almost warranted at that point. I was about to hop into my usual Pizza place when a glowing yellow sign caught my eye. A man was talking to the wall and then the wall handed him a bag of food. This seemed much more efficient then dealing with the tiresome opening and closing of doors.

I got in line for the McDonald's walk-through and the same glorious thing happened to me. Bag of food from wall. Going with my theme of efficiency I decided to skip the drink. I can walk and eat if I have one hand to hold the bag, and the other free to dig around. I got onto the subway platform and a delightful robotic woman was kind enough to inform me that the train would be arriving in 6 minutes. Just enough time for dinner.

'As a busy successful waif food is something you do on the way to point B. It's not that we don't have time to sit down and enjoy a meal, its that we choose not to.' - inner monologue

I decided to fit in some reading while I was eating and make for super efficiency and post-situational rhyme scheme. My hands were tied at the moment so I began perusing the varied selection of 1st Ave Subway wall decor. I became very well informed that current American Cinema has managed to keep a consistent level of shit. I'm also happy to know that Adam Sandler is still able to trick himself into thinking he is attractive.

After a few movie posters of what I'm surprised to find were actually different films and not different posters for the same movie, I found a gold mine. A full length Doctor's ad. Lots of words, and before and after pics. I looked at these women with unscrupulous judgement. How could they let themselves get to that level of obesity?

I became thirsty and learned that the greasiest fries could serve as a thirst quencher.

Karen D. from Hoboken, New Jersey, you irresponsible cow. You probably stuffed your face constantly without thinking. Making excuses like "I don't understand what happened", and then Oprah will pat you on the back with idiotic recognition. What an embarrassing mark of overindulgent American culture. I shook my head and reached into the McDonald's bag, but to my surprise it was empty.

"The next Rockaway Parkway Bound L train will arrive in... 4 Minutes"

I finished a burger and fries in 2 minutes? Wow I am getting more efficient every day!

5 Doughnuts

Finally hearing that special answer to that special question, I headed out the door with a spring in my step. Apartment Associate (Apt. Ass. for short) Brown S. Frank finally agreed to join me for a doughnut breakfast. I was a bit excited and bought a few too many, but hey, what's a few too many amongst friends? Jumping through slush puddles, and weaving through single lane snowwalks, I finally got home to hear Brown S. in the shower. She must have wanted to look her best for our big breakfast. I began to brew a pot of coffee and then decided one doughnut while waiting wouldn't spoil my appetite.

By the time the coffee was ready Brown S. still was not. I couldn't let the coffee go cold and in my own personalized dictionary I have drinking coffee without doughnut under blasphemous, so I decided one more might fill me up, but I'm sure the excitement of roommate bonding will give me ample hunger to enjoy a social doughnut when Brown S. joins me. 

As I was eating the third I began to suspect the doughnut breakfast would be another sad solo. I had a fourth to help my mind digest the depression. I glanced at my stomach and understood the weight of the situation. 

Something was wrong. 

Why was Brown S. showering for so long? And didn't she shower yesterday? No self-respecting Brooklynite-Pratt-Art-Grad-student would waste that much water. I knocked on the door, no answer. So I punched through it doing an aerial summersault into the bathroom. 

There it was. 

A burglar was holding Brown S. hostage, turning on the shower to turn me off the trail. She was tied up to the toilet, fully clothed to avoid an embarrassing situation. I jack-knifed the robber in the chin, breaking his nose spilling blood on his black and white striped robbing shirt. I started to take off his eye bandana to reveal his true identity, but then I realized that I'd rather not know a dirty stinkin rat like that. I picked him up with one hand and raised him over my head saying "I'd rather not know a dirty stinkin rat like you" Then tossed him out the window. 

I quickly untied Brown S. who gave me a well-deserved high five, and apologized for missing doughnut breakfast. We shared the last two together and Brown S. complimented my sophisticated French Press coffee making skills...

HONK HONK HONK HONK HONK 

A car alarm woke me. My face was half in half out of the Dunkin Doughnuts box. I shook the dream out of my head to notice one of the two remaining doughnuts was missing, probably snagged by Brown S. on her way out. There was one last doughnut, sitting all alone, just like me. I looked at him and smiled, a twinkle in his glaze seemed to kindly say 

"Prudence, this has to stop" 

"I know" I softly whispered through tears. And with that I slowly ate my final Doughnut. 

Para Mis Amigos que hablan espanol

Hola, me llamo Prudence Press Diez. Soy una amiga de tu amiga, Idioto, pero no soy Idioto. Soy muy awesome. Mis comidas favoritas son doritos, doughnuts, y mayonesa. Pero, mayonesa no es solo una comida, es una philosophia.  Me gusta beber cerveza en un vaso pequeno, por que soy una muchacha. Pienso que los gatos son los leones que no han dado cuenta de su verdadero potencial. Bebi un cafe y una botella de agua, necessito ir al bano! Lo siento, no tengo enyay en mi keyboard.

Hasta Luego Amigos Nuevos!

Poppin' Buttons

I was putting the final touches on my casual outfit, when disaster struck. The top button of my fly took flight and rocketed across my living room. I was standing in front of the mirror at the time to make sure I didn't catch my testicles in the zipper, but my genital insurance method provided me with an unwanted dose of reality. I've made sure to tilt my mirror to the funhouse angle of dangerously thin, preferring the dream state idea of my body over the... other. But the last button on my eight dollar jeans seems to be testing my resolve for conscious delusion. My lifestyle along with my pants, might need some changing.

I decided to get a coffee before I made any drastic changes. I put on a long coat, and carefully zipped it making sure not to catch my breasts in the zipper. It was a bit warm, but I would have to suffer the heat if I took off the coat my open fly could give me a bad reputation in an already bad neighborhood. I ordered a coffee and opened my moleskin notebook, luckily I had filled it with clippings of handwriting from various magazines so it would look like I was a very talented calligraphist. (Calligraphy scouts are everywhere.) As I was tracing the script of an ad for watches designed specifically for pop-musician's tattoo artists, I realized something. I have little to no marketable skills. On most days breakfast and lunch consists of coffee with soy milk. As a young brooklynite, I'm simply too poor to attain the necessary materials to gain weight.

I delved back into my delusion and decided to celebrate with New York's greatest attraction, Happy Hour. When the real prices resurfaced, I went to a friends bar and volunteered to taste-test cocktails. I looked around to notice the products of my generation. Men in women with unwashed hair, Tattered clothes, gloves with fingers cut out, sipping 12 dollar martinis.

Shit. I'm not poor, just fashionable.

I went home to my funhouse friend. The only mirror I knew kind enough to lie. I turned her upright, and began to question:

Will I have to diet?
Do I need to buy new pants?
Would I have received better compliments if I changed my pants before I did my free-lance table dance? Or were the compliments a direct result of my care-free pants lifestyle?

The questions were overwhelming. I felt asphyxiated. I ripped off my pants and exhaled. Suddenly I was able to think more clearly and realized I was thirsty. I got a glass of water and then put the glass directly into the dishwasher, instead of on a book or electronic device to gather dust for a week. It was late but suddenly I felt wide awake. I walked over to my dry erase board and started planning the next day using algebraic equations. I began to feel a bit hungry and was about to make my usual peanut butter and pickle sandwich, when something compelled me to go to the stove instead. Half an hour later I was eating steak au poivre listening to chopin and drinking a 7-year old bordeaux I found hidden in a small space I had discovered when cleaning behind the fridge.

A small commotion disturbed my meal. Using only my hearing I was able to decipher that my neighbor was choking. I broke the door down and gave her the heimlich expertly detaching the hard candy lodged in her esophagus. I delicately explained to her the dangers of candy after midnight. She thanked me when her roommate surfaced and began to berate her for making noise. I noticed a strange pattern in her infliction and sat the two down for conflict mediation. I both uncovered and resolved jealousy issues between the two and now they are marrying in New Hampshire this Spring.

I realize now that my rouge button was not telling me to cut back, but to cut free. Pants were restricting my true potential, and without them I am much better Person. I can expand my horizons. I can help people. I am exponentially more productive and responsible. Say hello to a a new Pants-less Prudence who will, for the first time ever, finish what she sta

As Promised Dude

This didn't happen to me, it happened to a friend.

Last night I saw a friend bar-tending at a place where she seems to be an extremely talented and popular bartender. People stayed late and I saw that after her shift she had a bourbon or two, that she paid for and by no means stole. She seemed to be getting a little tipsy so I followed her to a late night cantina where she had a few more drinks with a coworker. She then got into a cab. I was afraid for her safety and curious to see where this story was going, so I hopped on my razor scouter and followed them down to the 1st avenue L-stop.

When on the platform a sign read 1 minute until the train came, but a robotic bitch announced it would take 9 minutes. My friend grew impatient, and though she was not hungry at all, she went above ground to grab a slice of pizza.

On her way back down, she heard the train arriving. (Everyone knows it takes less than 9 minutes to get a piece of pizza, otherwise we wouldn't eat pizza.) I swipe my, er, she swipes her card and it doesn't work. She jumps the turnstile, it takes her a couple times because she is not used to crime, but finally all of her is on the other side. All except for the pizza. She looks at the slice lying injured on the ground, angry at what its done to her. A man walks by and doesn't help. She grabs the slice and heads down to the platform towards the garbage. It's now 4 am, the train won't come for another half hour. She has very dangerous time to think.

"You missed the train to get a slice of old pepperoni pizza" her eyes seem to say.
"You aren't even hungry" - I imagine she was thinking.
She sits examining the slice. No sign of dirt, or mutant rat saliva. All pepperoni pieces still in place. They have been through a lot tonight, and the pizza has proven resilient.

The next half-hour was a test of wills. Underground and alone, my friend who I was spying on and not helping because I practice documentarianism, had to make the tough decisions other people aren't prepared to make.

I don't know what happened because I got on the next train she missed while stuck making those decisions. I just hope she has found piece.

Bourne Davinci Code Sense

An overwhelming sense of dread burns the veil of my blind optimism. Things to come are only dark. 

I found this note scribbled on a post-it stuck to my hand. The path to my bed hazy, if known at all. The message even more so. The handwriting with familiar strokes seems like a wilted version of my own. One clearly weakened by newly uncovered intelligence. I shake my head and read it once more, searching for meaning in each word. Blinking with hopes that realization will appear like Waldo in the CIA character profile training books. But the note remains a mystery.

My stomach growls, interrupting my concentration. Food will help me solve this anomaly. Luckily I've spent the last of my paycheck restocking groceries. I run to the fridge, more delighted with each step. I swing the door open with ferocity. Slowly my jaw drops. The note, the warning finally clear.

I don't know how my refrigerator was unplugged. But I must find out.

To the Dude: Response to your comment

Dear Jeff Bridges, first off I am so happy you take the time to read my blog. I know you've been busy lately. (can't wait to see you in Tron!) Second I would like to sincerely apologize. Offering only 3 episodes for a web series with cliff hangers, and Latin celebrity appearances is criminal to say the least. There were a few issues facing the Dramatic waitress series. Below I have offered a behind the scenes list of excuses:

1.) DW's costume was posing a few problems. Despite tireless work in the editing room, entire episodes had to be scrapped due to the revealing quality of a cheap bubble skirt.

2.) The untimely death of a stage pigeon and consequent cover up kept our producers wrapped up in court.

3.) I found a website with a comprehensive list of all fast food delivery services near my apartment. (grubhub.com)

4.) 8 seasons of family guy free on netflix streaming.

5.) In an act of defiance, quit job. Had no money. Temporarily lost camera in street card battle royal. But I got it back... I got it back...

6.) Found out Auntie Anne's pretzels are ridiculously good.

7.) Rewatched Daniel Craig's Bond in Casino Royale. Tried to recreate opening crane parkour sequence. Lost an actor... not at liberty to say who.

8.) Rewatched House of flying daggers. Cried at how beautiful it was. Forgot that I was living in an ugly reality. Mourned the loss of a dream.

I would continue, but Jeff I have some good news. Lawsuits were taken care of. Traumas, both human and existential, were dealt with. And all fast food delivery restaurants have banned together to refuse services to my apartment stating "We are business men and women, not animals. Please except these vegetables and bottles of water as a parting gift and more importantly a plea to stop the atrocities you have subjected to your digestive tract."


New low budget shorts coming soon!

I act to survive

Mr. Conedison has sent Brown S. Frank and I one last love letter. He's taking the heat out of our relationship in a harshly literal manner. Apparently our trusted landlord, who has changed names twice since we moved in, has been outstanding when paying bills. (not the good kind like how people describe my cooking and/or breasts)

There is one condition however. If we can prove that our bodies are too sickly to survive a New York winter then Mr. Conedison will allow us a sustainable amount of heat. I imagine it in the form of one extra coal at Christmas similar to what Scrooge McDuck awarded Bob Cratchit (expertly portrayed by Mr. Mickey Mouse) in the beginning of Disney's A Christmas Carroll.

So now I am channeling years of practice in elementary school. When fashion ignorants made fun of my stirrup leggings with holes in the butt. (I'd made the daring choice of forgetting to wear underwear that day.) I'll have to be sicker than the day after I was pushed down a hill and my pants came off. Even more ill than the week following the exposure of my free-spirited way of wearing blue jeans. (Unbuttoned after lunch)

So ready your tear ducts ConEd, its gonna be a warm winter.

Retraction

I feel bad. Not for killing my neighbor, but for saying I hate my friend. Hate is a strong word. Ok phew, now God can forgive me.

I hate Vibha Gupta

On a high from a great weekend, I received a phone call from a friend who opted out of driving the hour to see me in Michigan to drive 5 hours away and do things I don't care to know of. I got over my teenage abandonment issues when said friend set me up with a stand in who turned out to be better in  every way, so I picked up. She spoke in a strange voice and language and after 5 minutes of "whats" she told me she wanted me to speak in the voice of a man with a severe overbite we met while traveling. It always cheers her up.

This particular voice is hard to recreate, so in order to get the right tone and inflection I have to yell as loud as I can. I catered to my friend's whims for the entirety of the phone call. And then she asked how I was. I was excited to tell her how great I was, dying for social contact since I have forced myself to leave people behind and work on impending grad school applications. But the second I began to talk in a normal voice she announced she was at work and swiftly hung up. I was about to call her back when I got a knock on the door from my neighbor asking if I was ok. She looked inside suspiciously, noticing I lacked an overbite. I told her everything was fine but she gave me that familiar look of "I know you are a toothist and killed an Englishmen in your bedroom. I will be calling the cops as soon as you close the door."

So now instead of finishing my applications and enjoying a quiet lunch before work, I am stuffing neighbor parts into recycling bags and re-routing my trip uptown to squeeze in a stop at the Hudson River body dump. So friend, you know who you are. You are responsible for the blood on my hands and new shag carpet. I'm sending you both the dry cleaning and jail cell rental bill. 

Iphone 4 is conniving ex-girlfriend.

I was happy to accidentally break my phone. Sure I was a little embarrassed that I had crushed it by sleeping on it, but this meant it was time for a new model. I clicked all the necessary keys and buttons on the computer interface (sorry about the techno lingo, I'm just very smart) and boom the latest Iphone was on it's way to my heart.

But like any relationship you kill someone to rush into, things didn't go so well. I spent the first day on the phone (via skype) with technical support. Apparently I-4 was feeling a bit sluggish and jet-lagged from the trip and didn't feel like performing. I didn't let it hurt myself esteem, she was just tired... Right? Once we got a good couple of meals inside of me, she started to perk up. We were making phone calls with crystal clear clarity. It was great.

But it seemed whenever we were out with friends (alone inside my apartment calling them) I-4 always wanted to cut the night short. At first I let her rest, but soon it got a bit ridiculous and I stood my ground. Calling friends and family back when she "accidentally" dropped the call.

I tried not to be paranoid, but one phone call I could not deny her jealousy. I was talking to a friend, and when things turned even mildly flirtatious (you should flirt with whoever you can, great practice for when you are a mom and stuck at a PTA meeting) I-4 turned both mine and my friend's voices into devil's tongue. Even though I found it hilarious and stood on the phone laughing for 20 minutes, my friend was terrified and ended the conversation. I-4 denied anything, blaming it on the way I was holding the phone. We got into a bit of a fight, and I left the house using an apple shuffle to listen to music.

This was a low blow, I know. But she ruined a perfectly good conversation. I had time to think and came back home to apologize. We made up and I dealt with her terrible service. She made me apps, and we enjoyed a romantic digital fire display on her screen.

The next day on a donut walk, I decided to call my mother. I went outside to avoid any service mishaps. I-4 and I had just made up and I didn't want to ruin things. But my cheek accidentally put my mom on hold and started calling another number. I was pretty upset, trying to explain technical difficulties to your mother is always a bit straining. I lashed out at I-4, and that's when she showed me her true colors.

Dropped 3 calls in open air.
Put call on "mute" 4 times, even after I hid the keepad.
Never allowed my mother to call me back.

I finally got contact with my mom again and we decided it was time to return the phone, stop dreaming and join the blackberry real world. Then she told me she had to go, she saw two beautiful office scarecrows and would call me back once she had introduced herself to both.

I started looking online at different options feeling a bit sad. I didn't want this relationship to end. I had to give it one more try. So from skype I called I-4. She was sitting right next to me and never lit up, never got the missed call, never even vibrated.

Well I-4, I got the message loud and clear. Goodbye you crazy bitch.

Pocketbook Watch 2010

Old residents nostalgic and newcomers naive, everyone has been calling for a return of the New York of earlier times. But wishes like asian carpe are sons of bitches.  We should all know this. (if you haven't learned this lesson please watch the film Aladdin... I will wait.)

A recent spike in crimes, the result of a smaller police force and higher unemployment, has residents worried the city will replace it's cupcake shops and co-op farms with strip clubs and murder. Expert roommate Brown S. Frank had a taste of the crime wave when her phone was stolen from her very own bar. And just last night Expert Restauranteur Jay Jay Leaves nearly had his phone stolen directly from his ear. The attempted thief tried to grab the phone mid-call, completely disrupting the flow of conversation. Mr. Leaves a word enthusiast, held on to his phone, but chased the criminal to punish him for  being so rude.

Mr. Leaves has 200 pounds of strength and anger on his side. Brown S. Has wirey limbs and a Vegan's temper. Me? I have the doughy physique of an infant, and also the hair and soft skull bones. My only hope is  pity or trickery. If the soul-less criminal does feel like robbing a tall baby, I will be armed with my fake out phone. One I use only in emergencies when I break my phone when I'm drunk.  I will say to him or her (equal opportunity blog) "Please don't take my phone, oh no. OK here you go. Life is more important" But little will they know that I have my real phone tucked away safely in my Nalgene water-bottle. A place no one will ever look for a phone. And also an annoying piece of plastic nobody would ever want to steal.

Theif, I have outsmarted thee.

Why publish this on my blog you ask? Well if a thief is so inclined to read my blog, they deserve a phone and we will probably become friends and he or she (equal opportunity) will share his or her (equal) bounty and we will probably get married.

Future Husband-wife, I'll be waiting!

Call it a New Year

Every year of my life I become more and more popular, this year being no exception. Needless to say I am more frequently invited to smoke tobacco cigarettes by the most popular kids from  the alcohol bars at various hotspots around New York. (Not to name drop but I am always on the Chicken wings guest list at T.G.I. Tuesday's. If you're there just drop my name and $13.95 to say hello to an all you can eat plate of 5 piece buffalo wings and one domestic beer coupon)

But all this smokescreen hobnobbing has caused a bit of tooth tinting on my glorious set of pizza knives.  I want to keep all my attractive person perks (like privacy on the street when people can't look at you because they are drowning in a jealous sea) so I invested in an advanced tooth whitening system. I picked a tray guaranteed to whiten 3 shades in only one hour. This perfectly combines my two loves. Efficiency and mouth guards.

I got home excited to marginally increase my attractiveness and began to choose an hour on my clock calendar in which to whiten. But all of a sudden I ran into an unstoppable problem. I couldn't find a single free hour when I wasn't scheduled to either eat or speak. I freaked out.

My insides cried like a banshee stepping on a tack. I began to rip off all my upper lip hair. I threw a chair across the parking lot I had walked to when I was angrily dragging my chair by her hair. I found a knife and a kitten and was about to perform the obvious when luckily I realized this was an absolutely ridiculous problem... of national importance.

All I need is a country-wide holiday in order to allow myself the free hour it takes to use the tray. I consulted my consultants to find a day of no importance. After a comprehensive search it has now been decided that on the strike of midnight on December 31st/January 1st I am calling for a me-moratorium of silence in the honor of my teeth. Let's all join in for a celebratory 60 minutes of no food or conversation. Can't wait to SEE you there! But not hear you.

Apply Yourself

For the past couple of days I have been bogged down with life moving on responsibilities. I've taken on a few mysterious projects, and also begun the Graduate school application process. I do these things in hopes of making money but more importantly to be able to pick up high class caterer's at cocktail parties I sneak into. (My degree in Muzzy French has stopped getting me tail since middle school, and Hooked on Phonics turns out is a non-accredited school for dumb kids. Forty grand down the drain) 

I am now at the horrible stage where you have to asses your life and pick the most important events and characteristics. But how do you choose between "fell out of tree and survived" or "proficient in Doggy paddle"? My problem with the application process is not that I look back on the past 5 years and wonder what the hell I did and remember it was watch TV, but rather that I am sooo talented there is no application long enough to to fully pay tribute to the wondrous accomplishment that is my life. 

I sat impatiently at my think desk, then wandered back to my work desk, then finally found piece at my pizza desk when I looked in the reflection of the oil. If I'm going to chop my life into bits and pieces, I really need to simplify.

School of my dreams, yes we are a perfect match. You knew it the day you opened the mail and saw the self portrait I drew half in colored pencil and half in pink highlighter in place of the required though uninspired school transcript and resume. I knew it when you picked me up in the limousine pulled by a Segway driven by high school Fabio because no one knows what he would look like but they wonder every night before they fall asleep. We are forever each other's eternally and beyond.

Can't wait for spring break!! 

Testify

Can we all agree that white people rapping badly for comedic affect hit it's peak and stopped being funny after the Grandma in the Wedding Singer? It's now crossed into the world of pharmaceutical advertisements. Please let this joke rest, or at least wait until its controversial in 50 years when white people are finally eradicated due to Indian out-breeding.

Crack-Head McGee

It was my turn to pick up my Apartment Associate Brown S. Frank. As always on the car ride home we exchanged witty comments and laughed jovially as we silently repeated the phrase "Oh wonderful youth" inside our heads. But when we crossed the bridge and got deeper into Brooklyn, I was remembering my timely distaste for the usual subjects trouncing the late night streets.

I am a simple midwestern girl, used to what we refer to as "Normal" people. I miss the plain of the plains, the mundane outfits and short sensible haircuts of my home. I'm over seeing emaciated, vintage, apathetics. Although it goes without saying that everyone hates a hipster (mostly its hipsters themselves) And even though they are mostly delightful, I also need a break from New York's finest. The crazy people.

I was commenting on this fact to Brown. S, when a beacon of point illustration rode up beside the car. A crazy-faced man with on an old fashioned road bike. He fully embodied my two hatreds in one terrifying package. But before I could say anything Brown S. Erupted.

"Oh god, don't let him see me."

I stopped a bit confused. Here is a man, riding in the middle of the street with a face that could probably be sued by wal-mart for copyright infringement, screaming "nahhhhhh" if anyone comes near him and then laughing uncontrollably all while perched on a suspiciously nice ten-speed. And my roommate had a relationship with him?

She went into a story explaining the situation, but I didn't have time to listen. I had to find a way to upstage her. Who does she think she is? I'm the strange idiot in this relationship. I'm the one who obliviously gives dangerous people printed google map directions to my house to make Kwanzaa. I'm the girl who writes her own phone number on strip club bathrooms. I'm the girl who gives legal advice to overweight pigeons. (McDonald's should be held responsible to print nutritional information on discarded trash fries. I'm expecting a large settlement pending a meeting with Mr. Clown and Mr. Burglar. If you don't know who I'm referring to then you are too young to read this blog. There is probably a youtube of Justin Timberlake doing something to be sexy again. If you don't find Mr. Lake attractive, then you are probably gay. If you think that reference is outdated, I was trying to keep the joke in line with McDonald's advertisement celebrities. If you think I know too much about this corporation you probably work for the government and find me suspicious. But I only grow stronger off your fear, rendering you useless and probably gay. Gay of course meaning you will find better use of your time.)

Knowing this fact I had to upstage her. Racking my mind for erratic behavior I came across a highly embarrassing anecdote from the night before. I was afraid to mention it due to its mortifying nature, but Frank was asking for it flaunting her disgusting ex-boyfriend in front of me.

I was wrong on so many levels.

It turns out Brown S. and the bike man weren't the ex-lovers I had imagined.  She was hiding due to a few life-threatening encounters. Crack-head McGee was not his real name, and not even a cute pet name, but rather a mental code word she developed to remind herself to avoid him since he likes to play high speed bicycle chicken.

To make things worse the story was, as suspected, one which you could lose a person's total respect over.

I looked over at Crack-head M circling the block to find his next victim, but this time with a new found respect. We are no longer strangers, but now partners in a highly exclusive club of misunderstanding. Ride on Mcgee, I'm right behind you.

Sans Politique

If you have the innumerable fortune of being like me, you will find that your well of political knowledge is a bit dryer than most. Whether this is an old characteristic you've had years to deal with, or a crippling realization you came to during a recent embarrassing news conference. (The higher ups on this blog have commissioned me to conduct outside reports, but they failed to tell me that a hair brush was not a popular form of microphone outside of the home video realm. Ahmadinejad actually walked out on me during our interview.)

To increase my nerd status I've recently downloaded a Roku News Channel. The past couple of days I've been studying via podcast and will publicly admit I am up to speed on current affairs. But now that I've filled my brain-well, I realize that everything has come full circle in terms of American political ideology. It seems having the smallest grasp of political theory is more damning than helpful.

Case #1.) Turn right towards the Palindrone

The Alaskan Queen bee is churning up clones almost as quickly as wildly upsetting twitter posts. And just as her comments, these clones seem increasingly successful despite their complete ignorance of common sense.  These self-proclaimed idiots (if you disagree with self-proclaimed, please refer to any tea-party representatives proclamations) launched themselves into rock-stardom on a platform made of female-masgonist-fear-babies.

I watch their followers and become very sad to myself. Why can't I be that ignorantly happy? In my pre-podcasts days I might have been able to join this party and feel needed, helpful, like I was changing the world. Now I have to listen to this dribble AND understand that it is completely baseless. It is a harsh reality, the truth. (it was a redundant sentence, that last sentence)

Case #2.)  Left Alone

Maybe it's exasperation or an extreme case of pussiness but the opposing tea-partiers of the liberal persuasion have not been able to convince the majority of a nation of the ridiculousness of their claims. With ammo consistently and boisterously provided, the Left still cannot capitalize on conservative idiocracy. The democratic party has now become the kid on the playground you've always felt bad for. But when you tried to help him off the ground he had simultaneously peed his pants and was crying, you couldn't help but throw him back down. Can you really blame anyone for hating a Democrat?

With only a slightly larger understanding of the political process I've learned I don't really want to know anything at all. But don't confuse this with a claim that I'm compelled to do nothing. I believe with the new space our elected representatives have cleared in their heads, we now have room for action.

My First Order of business is small 

Casting aside any party views, I independently feel that our current economic situation is due largely in part to business on a grand scale. Sleeping through two semesters of economics I will not attempt to spout theory but simply state that its an issue of common sense. The larger a business is the more faceless their employees and customers become. You buy a computer from a company based in Thailand, then complain when it doesn't work and their helpline is based in Antarctica. This is mostly your fault as a consumer for perpetuating the big business model, and foregoing the computer I so delicately handcrafted for you... Mom. As with fresh produce, meat and weed the golden rule remains. Buy locally.

Don't work for free college grads. 

How many of you have 3 prized internships under your belt? Ones you had to claw and scratch your way into, but left with nothing more than college credit. (or the more popular hottest intern coffee mug. Note to you: all interns are by definition sexy, forbidden fruit of the office world. Get over yourself David)

STOP IT! Demand pay or start up something yourself. As a population of overeducated, restless twenty-somethings we are an unstoppable force. The world is in shambles, its time for a new strategy. We need to look at each other for help. If you don't have your dream job, or even something in your field, gather your friends and start working together. If you have a project, pay them. It doesn't matter how much you can afford, its a practice you cannot afford to lose. Mr. Lincoln made some really nice speeches to abolish free labor, we shouldn't let those go to waste. (No I am not comparing unpaid internships to Slavery, if you read this blog at all you should understand that over dramatics is the only way I can  fool someone into accidentally reading a post)

So to combine the last two headings, small business is not an irresponsible endeavor for those of us with nothing else to do. It's our duty as products of overspending and low responsibility. It's a throwback to the merchant class when you used to be able to walk up to the man who sold you the faulty sword and demand he fix it. If we are going to complain, let's at least do it to each other's faces.

I hope to end on a very elusive serious note. As a 24 year old anchor baby in a nation I do believe to be inherently good, I am not giving up.

Miracle Discover

In a miraculous discovery I've uncovered the world's best midnight snack. Waffle-dog.

I was riding home with my Roommate Brown S. Frank. She had a full day of art which of course includes fasting and drinking. (drinking very fast, and fasting very drunk) She sobered up when the time came to pick me up and this also reminded her that she was hungry. On the ride home we passed many late night food establishments. I was not hungry because today I was not an artist, but I have a connection with my roommate that spans further than the hallway that connects us so I felt compelled to point out each open spot to which BSF would reply with "ahhhh im so hungry ahhhh" and then take the next left away from the restaurant.  

It was a strange pattern, one which perplexed me but didn't shake my unyielding trust in my little brown roommate. (don't worry I'm brown too, its PC) So after each exclamation I too began to feel hunger pangs and made a mental note of the contents of my fridge. I realized I hadn't been grocery shopping in a while and the only combination that made sense was old waffle and last hotdog. 

I know what you're thinking, hot dog is the perfect compliment to every meal. But I have to say I was skeptical. Brown S. Frank's hunger yells had really affected me and I truly believed I was very hungry. When we got home I ran to the fridge and threw the hot dog in the broiler and waffle in the toaster with a cat-like haste seen only in two object juggling shows. (very fast, but very boring) While these were cooking I had time to physically survey my food and realized I had an army supply of 15 minute gourmet soups. All of which I very much enjoy. I then went to the freezer to see that I had boneless vegan chicken wings, something I offered to Brown S., but she turned her nose up to for reasons I cannot explain. (she instead opted for ketchup on rye bread)

Through my search I realized I had much healthier and normal food options. Even further when Brown S. had finally shutup, I realized that I wasn't actually hungry at all. But my food fate was sealed when the toaster popped out my Eggo, and the oven burned my Ball Park Frank.

I put the two on a plate and decided to get it over with quick in the darkness of my room. I wanted to be alone while I ate the meal that actually looked grosser than it sounded. But when the first taste hit my tongue fireworks shot through my blood vessels. The waffle folded perfectly around the dog, cradling it in a way a hot dog bun just won't do. The sweetness of the waffle complimented the niacin in the artificial meat. But the best part was, there was no excess  bread. No last bite of nothing but ketchup and mustard. The sizing was perfect.

So I leave you tonight a changed woman. The next time you see me be prepared to be impressed, I will probably be more philosophical. 

Tag Team Back Again

A month or so ago I recall the girlish screams of my roommate, Brown S. Frank, when she saw a tiny mouse in her room. She blockaded the hole with a stack of books, and the mouse disappeared. Brown S. is no longer scared at night, and I take the credit at cocktail parties. (for networking purposes)

Well it seems our Mouse is a reader, and one of the books was a Harriet Tubman biography, because she has burrowed her way across the entire apartment to the free territory that is my bedroom. I don't blame any mouse for choosing my room over Brown S. Frank's. I've made it a haven for small creatures in hopes that my summer diet would have been more successful. (You'd think Ex-lax, Lemongrass and Ether would be a very effective weight-loss smoothie. The only problem is every time you go to the hospital they force you to eat green jell-o.)

Before I was aware of our mouse's liberation prowess I was watching theatrical previews to inspire myself to go to sleep. Also the couple next door was at the Climactic point in their movie called "Keep Prudence Awake by Having Overly Confident Loud Sex". I had gone through all the films I actually wanted to see and was now looking through movies I thought looked weird but hoped to pleasantly surprise.

Step up 2, yes I would see you if someone asked. I would say something like "Why not, it would be Ironic!" and purposefully misuse the word as a test to the askee's sincerity. If they correct me, I would tell them my parents were dancers in the war and never to bring it up again, they've gravely insulted me. They would look at my skin and feel ashamed to be unaware of my ethnicity and apologize to mask their own ignorance of something that doesn't actually exist. On the other hand, if the askee agrees that yes it would be "funny" to see this movie, this is the person I would like to savor a scriptless masterpiece with.

I thought I was done when I got to Step up 2, but my neighbors were on to their own act 2, so I quickly put it on a preview with no prospect of sex. "Legend of the Guaradian: the Owls of Ga Hoole" I'd seen ads on the subway and thought one thing. "I really don't think people can connect with owls". I was hoping to see how CGI would prove me wrong, but it didn't happen. I don't believe a world where an owl can be a hero. The owl can only be the annoying nerd. He either eats your Tootsie pop when you are stupid enough to ask a bird a question that doesn't matter, or is a secondary character in Winnie the Pooh. He's never supposed to kick ass.

Two Minutes of aerial impressiveness, uplifting voice-overs, and flying through fire and I was still not convinced. These are fucking owls. I cut the preview short, and luckily 2L has moved on to post-coital conversation. I can finally go to sleep. Then I hear it, a rhythmic scratching. My God what are these two into? It happens again faster, and seemingly closer and I realize it's our four-legged Harriet Tubman. I start to bang the wall. But that doesn't help. I open the closet door and she scampers away to another corner and at 4am I'm unable to do anything about it. Mice rarely listen to reason.

I fall into bed, defeated but clearly unable to sleep because Mouse Tubman is on a mission of de-carpentry. I think of all the ways I can kill a mouse with it being gross. In a perfect world I would like to use my feet, because they are furthest from my face. But how? I click back to my memory bank, but all I can remember is the Legends of Gahoole. I don't know why I can't shake this damn preview from my head, until I realize owls kill mice. Finally I have a reason to see this movie.

The pleasant surprise trumps my desire for mouseblood and I sleep soundly inspired by the fact that any arbitrary animal can be a hero. In the morning I start my screenplay "Llamma-bunny, a tale of inter-species rape"

Who's the boss anyway, A back to basics approach

On a business trip to my parent's house I set up shop in the kitchen. It was looking like a busy morning. I had been commissioned by the family board of trustees to bake and prepare a celebratory cake honoring the third descendant's 21st year. I was then commissioned by an undisclosed party of one to bake and consume a pizza while preparing the cake.

Waiting for these foods to cook I turned on our family's state of the art 11 inch entertainment system and flipped through the channels. I was compelled to stop on the Hallmark channel when I saw Tony Danza fighting a tall woman with very high shoulder pads. (This was as amusing as it sounds) Although the popular 80's sitcom Who's the Boss gained it's popularity by depicting the common bickerings most American's have with their ex-pro baseball player Manny, I personally was swept away by Danza's everyman parenting skills.

In one episode Danza teaches his daughter Sam a valuable lesson about materialism. The role of Samantha  expertly portrayed by my celebrity counterpart Alyssa Milano. (Yes its embarrassing but most people say we look alike. Especially when I hand out photos of my face with the name Alyssa Milano attached. People always exclaim "That's not Alyssa Milano!" I just quietly blush and change the subject. It's good to stay humble.)

Speaking of subject change, back to the original subject. Sam has just passed her driver's test with flying colors. Her father, proud but concerned buys her a boat of a car equipped with many safety bells and whistles. In the 80's this particular vehicle is the subject of much teen foolery, and Milano's character is ridiculed mercilessly. (Especially by her mullet-coiffed dreamboat. Something that for some reason in the 80's was not made fun of.) To avoid the embarrassment she parks in a dangerous part of town which inevitably leads to the kidnapping of the car. Danza is beside himself and Milano has to pretend she cares, but she is secretly relieved. She almost got away with her sinister plan if it had not been for a celebrity guest appearance by a Police Officer who received the audience's standing ovation. (another fact of the 80s that is lost on me)

He spilled the beans and the trail was led to one blameworthy Milano. Danza was crushed and used guilt to teach the young Milano that safety is the number one priority and kids will always find a way to make fun of you even if you are extremely attractive. The episode ended in a group smile and proudly sympathetic applause by the audience.

Although everyone in the show had a happy ending, I was left in the present with the stench of materialism beginning to  fill my nostrils. Where is this young generation's who's the boss? Today's youth are watching reality garbage like "I'm fifteen with two kids", "Do what I say my parents are rich" or "I Have a Fake Tan and a TV Career". Today I am sad because there is no Charles to take Charge. No friendly "uncles" to fill our houses, and Defintely no former Cardinal Baseman to take care of America's broken homes. The only cure for our children's recklessness and lack of morals is to get back to our roots of unconventional upbringing.

So those of you in nuclear families take charge. Divorce that husband, kill that wife, and hire a good looking manny to clean up your life.

An Adult Education

It has come to my attention that being on the right side of 21 I have officially entered the realm of the grown up. This occurred to me at 4 pm on a thursday afternoon. I realized I needed to celebrate and did everything I could imagine an adult doing during times of celebratory realizations.

After I'd picked up a 12 pack of Bud Light Lime from the Duane Reade down the street, I began celebrationally drinking. I thought to myself alone in my apartment "this is great and not at all terrifyingly lonely." It was strange that my inner monologue echoed, heightening the impending sense of crippling solitude. But I didn't think much of it any of the 5 times I heard the sentence repeated in my head.

I bragged to my downtown friend who had now moved uptown. (well more turned up town because I moved further downtown) She too has passed the fun side of 21 and asked to join me. I was surprised, the entire year I'd known the girl she had only come to visit once. A self invitation was new territory for me and I didn't quite know how to act. I gave directions and took a shower.

An hour later I awoke to my phone buzzing. I had passed out, a strange side effect of a tangy beer with fruit chemically imbedded into its formula. I went down the street to fetch my lost friend and then introduced her to my new apartment. She was impressed with the exposed brick, and then we both tilted our heads smiled and said brooklyn in a singy voice while slapping a high five. (Later I will find out I was the only one to have done this, but this is a minuscule detail unimportant to the plot. Even later still I will find out that "slapping a high five" is neither the correct terminology nor is it as cool as I expected it to make me look. But let's continue on past these points of despair)

We talked semi-young girl nerd talk, which turned into post-collegiate philosophy and then immediately turned into a direct hatred of all other people excluding present company. The conversation inevitably turned into two separate self centered rants we realized we could be having in an email to myself or in her bedazzled unicorn journal. Reading each other's thoughts, or perhaps our own, we bid each other farewell and went our separate ways.

I went to lie down and call it a night when I looked at my clothes and I saw it. I was wearing a jumper, the single most versatile piece of clothing in the women's arsenal. The thing about the jumper is that it has the comfortability of pajamas, but the floral pattern of a hipster night club. I couldn't let this happy coincidence (drunk and in appropriate clothing) go to waste so I texted an older friend of mine, planning to continue my adult-themed night. (A term I will later find out on bootlegged showtime has a completely different meaning after 2 a.m.) He was at a friend's drinking wine and eating vine-ripened tomatoes just exactly the amount of class and casualty my outfit required. Two bud light limes later, I was on my way.

The subway ride through Williamsburg to Carroll Park was a glorious display of superficial artistic competition. Each passenger armed with portfolios, cameras, fashion rags and moleskins. In my adult haste I had remembered my notebook but misplaced my pen. I couldn't sit in a floral jumper unarmed, so I turned my music up and looked painfully behind me through the subway car window. Angst was my weapon. A long haired girl with a ukelele watched in envy. Peace is so last season.

I finally arrived to my friend's tomato party and was greeted by a very tall Dane. He gave me a tour of the apartment and prophetically showed me the bathroom. I thought this a kind but unnecessary gesture since I am a lady and also in a unitard piece of clothing, not conducive to frequent toilet trips. I will grin and bear it, I am an adult tonight.

The tall Dane gave me an equally tall chair, and then sat himself down on a child's stool. It was once again polite but a bit unnecessary. I thanked him for his chivalry and then immediately fell backwards on the tall chair. It was very fun, but I wasn't quite sure how to react afterwards. My friend seeing my confusion fell on his chair as well and then the Dane followed suit making the party a hit for water cooler conversation. If only any of us had a job that was rich enough to afford a water cooler.

The night continued on as one would imagine any perfect backyard garden party would. Good conversation and wine turned to dirty conversation and whiskey. Because we were outdoors we all decided it romantic to smoke cigarettes. None of us avid smokers, but what the hell, we are all adults.

After I chain-smoked an entire pack of Marlboro Lights in about an hour, I felt a strange feeling. I excused myself and went to the bathroom that was so fortuitously pointed out to me earlier. This is where I spent a large portion of the night that I will spare the rest of you from experiencing.

It seems like the combination of cigarettes, bud light lime, catnip (don't ask), wine, whiskey and friendship makes me deathly ill. I plopped down on what I hoped was a couch and decided that was where I was staying for the next week.

The polite Dane came inside, gave me a bottle of water and reassured me that I could stay for the night. I then reassured him that I already decided that, politely dropped the bottle and passed out.

Boarding a subway the next day at 8 am headed home while everyone else was heading to work solidified one cheerful fact. I am nowhere near adulthood.

The lack of an expiration date should have been my first clue.

Reese's puffs cereal is arguably the best cereal of modern times. In other times it would probably be something like Abraham's Wheat Logs, Cleopatra's fruity niles, or Napolean's sweet love for Josephine (the french, what can you say?) It is a travesty to waste even one single bowl.

Well call it travesty.

I sit here tonight, sans good night bowl. My mouth still tastes bitter from a devastatingly sour encounter. When I bought the milk, it took 3 days for it to actually get cold. I feel like I should have taken that as some sort of signal. But the Lack of expiration date seemed more like an "as you like it" type of sign rather than the "don't drink this, it will kill you and your dreams" variety.

As Napoleon can relate, I'm lost without my true love. So raise a spoon to our wounded puff soldiers. Drowned in a sea of yogurty terror. You will be avenged.

Was it something I said God?*

*For those of you who read my blog on a googlereader, sorry about the teaser.

Nothing has threatened my accurately scheduled mid-twenties Nihilism so much as the events of the past two weeks. It all started with a car door.

I was on my way to a friend's film shoot in Southern Brooklyn. Cars in Flatbush apparently don't notice charming young females on lime green bicycles. A less-than-charming young male swung his car door open at the precise moment I was effortlessly gliding by. (yes effortless women sweat occasionally. And it is not uncommon for effortless women to wear a t-shirt thrice the size of their torso. And yes effortless women are confused for small boys, and no they don't care anymore and stopped crying at night.) The door made contact with my handle bar and my body made contact with the car, the street and the bitter taste of public humiliation.

For my first car/bike collision I was relatively unscathed. My bike however was not and needed fixing. I brought it to the local hipster shop and they agreed to have it ready in a week. In that week's time my mind was allowed to develop an unfamiliar emotion... fear. For those of you who've had the pleasure of seeing me live via eyeball, you'll know that I share the rippling body structure of one Mr. Harnold Shwartzmenhagger (I had to changethe name due our sordid relationship past. I dated his dog, there was a custody battle, you know how it goes.) Anyway not much can scare this 5 foot 6, 7 inch bicepped girl. But given the time to literally slow down (walking takes much longer than anything with wheels. Besides wheel chair..?) I was plagued by flashbacks of my near death experience. I was lucky. This time.

In the middle of one of my flashbacks I received a phone call about my bike. I pressed reject, whipped my head meaningfully to the side, clasped the phone to my bosom, gasped for one desperate breath. Then finally whispered "I'm not ready" while I looked longingly out the window, a single tear grazing my cheek hairs.

I put on clothes and brushed my teeth. Now I was ready.

I was about to leave when I noticed a knife sitting on countertop. As a safety precaution I put it in the dishwasher. When I took my hand it out, it was stained. WITH BLOOD! A different knife had stabbed my thumb. I jumped into medical drama action and wrapped my thumb in toilet paper, securing it with a hair tie.

Now I was ready.

I got to the bike shop, backpack on one shoulder, overwhelming sense of foreboding on the other. I looked around for helmets. After the knife incident it was official and safety is my new motto, replacing the highly controversial Frankie Say Relax. But this place was apparently too dangerous to sell helmets so I'd have to buy one later.

As I left the store, I did the bike-riders unthinkable and wheeled my green dream on the sidewalk. Although I tried not to look, I could sense the judging glances. "She's not even with another pedestrian, or on her iphone" they all seemed to say. I looked like a poser. A girl who buys a new bike specially manufactured to look like its 60 years old and rides it simply to fluff her skirt out in an innocently seductive manner.

But I am not that girl. Nowhere near that girl.

I'm the messenger biker too important to carry messages. I'm the delivery boy with skinnier tires and a less imposing bike lock. I'm the ass hole that yells at people walking in the bike lane.

"I'm a biker dammit" - I said assertively to myself as I got on with no helmet and rode the 5 blocks to my apartment. It took a little longer than usual but I made it safely. I vowed to buy a helmet the next day.

When it became that next day I decided to ride all the way uptown and visit my old stomping grounds. I'd pick up a helmet on the way. Infused with optimism I began my journey. But industrial Brooklyn is as imposing as it looks and soon I was once again bogged down by fear. I tried to stay on the road with the cars, knowing I was only 1 mile to the bike lane. I got as far as one block away from the bike lane, but knew that I'd have to turn left. An aggressive female driver was taking up more than her share so I decided to avoid any chance of an accident and get on the nerdier but safer sidewalk. For a split second I was proud of my decision for safety. For the rest of the second I was laid out on the ground, as far from proud as one could be.

It seems some construction workers decided to sprinkle cement dust on the sidewalk entryway slope (does that thing have a name?) My over-inflated tires (thanks bikeshop) slipped on the dust, turning my front wheel and slamming me onto the concrete, Cheek first. In an effort to avoid an accident I had the worst one yet. In reality, nobody actually likes irony.

I got up instantly, terribly embarrassed. I dusted myself off and noticed a large amount of blood on my knee surrounded by cement dust. I'd also hurt my arm and was unable to put weight on it. I was a mile away from home and forced to shamefully walk my bike.

Each step made me angrier and angrier. I attributed the accident to my weak bike who was wrecked again and chained her up outside, neglecting to secure the front tire. A calculated act.

Two days later and I am still examining my wounds which have now turned a peculiar color. Years of disbelief thwarted by the events of two bike rides. I am now open to the presence of a higher power. One who is kind of a dick.

Stand Off

A Modern Psychotic Female's take on the classic Duel.

Please double click on video to get full screen, blogger cuts it off.

Please double kick your hairdresser to get full scream, Mother hates her Coiffe.

Hit And Run

This morning I was mauled by a car door. I must have been in shock because it didn't bother me until later tonight. I made this video to express my feelings.