I know, if your an internet person you’ve probably known about this thing for months, bust since I’ve been the worst blog reader in the history of blog readers (and that’s like 13 years people), I’m only just finding out about it.

At first I thought it was interesting, but since I typically prefer not to participate in MEMEs, I decided against doing it.I figured that I would never really be able to write truthfully about myself. Hell, I’m not sure if I even know the truth about myself.

Whenever I have tried to figure myself out in the past, all I’ve ever been able to come up with are conundrums.

I love potatoes… a lot. French fries, baked potaters, sweet potaters, mashed tators, tots, hash browns… you name it. I love potatoes, but you couldn’t pay me to eat any of those items if I didn’t smother them in ketchup.

I love John Cusack. I mean hell, I pretend he’s my boyfriend in my head sometimes. But I wouldn’t want to meet him. I would find out that he’s not really Lloyd Dobler and then I’d be really sad.

I believe in God and I believe that I am ultimately a Christian, but I don’t necessarily believe that Jesus was literally God’s son, or that the  Bible is much more than a book on moral guidance.

I am a huge fan of Michael Jackson, and I have so much respect for that man and what he did for music- but listening to him sometimes hurts my earballs.

I could go on with these for days, but basically what I’m trying to say is that I’m one, bit, fat, conundrum. I have a hard time nailing down what I truly believe to be fact about myself.

Which is exactly why I’ve decided to participate in this MEME, that started- who knows where. I’ve been on a bit of a mission of self-discovery lately, and I figure this is as good as a way as any to make some progress on me.

So. I’m not sure how I plan to go about this, whether or not I’ll go in order, or if  I’ll stick to the MEME daily for the rest of NaBloPoMo, but I’m going to attempt to finish all thirty in a timely matter.  I’m not sure how interesting any of it’s going to be, so even if you’ve stuck around this long – I won’t blame you if you bow out now.

In case you have been under the same rock as me, here is the list:

Day 01 → Something you hate about yourself.
Day 02 → Something you love about yourself.
Day 03 → Something you have to forgive yourself for.
Day 04 → Something you have to forgive someone for.
Day 05 → Something you hope to do in your life.
Day 06 → Something you hope you never have to do.
Day 07 → Someone who has made your life worth living for.
Day 08 → Someone who made your life hell, or treated you like shit.
Day 09 → Someone you didn’t want to let go, but just drifted.
Day 10 → Someone you need to let go, or wish you didn’t know.
Day 11 → Something people seem to compliment you the most on.
Day 12 → Something you never get compliments on.
Day 13 → A band or artist that has gotten you through some tough ass days. (write a letter.)
Day 14 → A hero that has let you down. (letter)
Day 15 → Something or someone you couldn’t live without, because you’ve tried living without it.
Day 16 → Someone or something you definitely could live without.
Day 17 → A book you’ve read that changed your views on something.
Day 18 → Your views on gay marriage.
Day 19 → What do you think of religion? Or what do you think of politics?
Day 20 → Your views on drugs and alcohol.
Day 21 → (scenario) Your best friend is in a car accident and you two got into a fight an hour before. What do you do?
Day 22 → Something you wish you hadn’t done in your life.
Day 23 → Something you wish you had done in your life.
Day 24 → Make a playlist to someone, and explain why you chose all the songs. (Just post the titles and artists and letter)
Day 25 → The reason you believe you’re still alive today.
Day 26 → Have you ever thought about giving up on life? If so, when and why?
Day 27 → What’s the best thing going for you right now?
Day 28 → What if you were pregnant or got someone pregnant, what would you do?
Day 29 → Something you hope to change about yourself. And why.
Day 30 → A letter to yourself, tell yourself EVERYTHING you love about yourself

Feel free to join in, and please let me know if you do. Happy Truthing!

Over the past 9 days I’ve gone through so many emotions. I’ve felt irritated, empowered, angry,  depressed, and weak. There have been a few days when I haven’t been bothered at all, then others when it was all I could do not to flip out. I’m not gonna lie… I even broke down on Saturday and had a few puffs (after a few drinks) but I don’t think it set me back much. More than anything, I want to be healthier. Eventually I want to be disgusted by cigarettes- but for now, if I can cut myself down to a few puffs a week, then I think I can be ok with that. In fact, more than anything, I’m just proud of myself for not going postal on everyone who smiled at me and told me with their clean teeth and untainted fingernails that they were not addicted to smoking… that, and for not gouging my own eyeballs out with a number two pencil. I’ve also upped my pen chewing 123%, but I think I can deal with that.

I don’t know whether it’s the quitting smoking or the turning into a  28 year old woman, (and I use that term loosely) but lately I’ve been feeling like doing a little more soul searching than usual. For an example, last Thursday night I HAD to go see the meteor shower. At about 10:30 pm I dragged my roommate LA and Moops out of bed and made them drive me 45 minutes out into the country so that we could have a clear view of the sky. We drove forever, and finally found a patch of grass on the side of the highway to spread our blanket on. The three of us lay there  side by side in peace, trying to understand the vast arch above us. This lasted about 7 minutes when we begin to get bitten my gigantic Mothra-esque creatures, which made me remember the podcast I had listened to earlier that evening about ticks and the diseases that they carried. Just as we were gathering up the blanket, I saw 3 shooting stars which sent the three of us back into a trance for about 30 seconds until a cop pulled up.

This cop wasn’t your run of the mill city cop, no siree. This man was old, walked with a limp, and even wore an old fashioned badge. We didn’t freak out as we ususally would in cop sitchyeeatshuns, because for once, we weren’t actually doing anything wrong. He explained that he “had got a tele that some der folks were layin out on der road.” I kind of wanted to hug him because he was the first person I’d seen in at least a few days that could have walked straight out of a movie. Regardless we left, and I was forced to continue my soul searching elsewhere.

 (I took an ambien this evening and the majority of that previous paragraph was written in southern-cop accent, in case you couldn’t tell.)

Later that night, I decided to try to meditate. I put on a guided medidtation cd that I bought a few years ago when I decided I wanted to be a Buddhist, but all I could think about was how hairy my toes were and how much I wanted to go downstairs and eat some tuna salad and maybe even some popcorn… so after about 5 minutes of feigned calm breathing, I went downstairs, shaved my toes and ate a bunch of food. FAIL.

Some friends came in town this weekend and we spent the majority of our time playing Mario Party, which in a way a meditation of escaping reality, but for the most part I forgot about my quest to become a better person. Sunday night we went to see Eat Pray Love, which got me thinking all over again. Not necessarily about the movie… it was ok and all and I kind of want to lick Javier Bardem from head to toe, but all in all the whole thing seemed a bit contrived. I didn’t read the book and I don’t know much about the author, but it irritated me a bit that this whole story was based upon a woman who was most likely paid a book deal to go on the “quest” to find herself. But still, it made me want to do so even more. But what can I do?

I don’t really believe in bullshit self help books (no offense to anyone who uses them) but I was feeling like I didn’t have any other options, so this morning I broke down and downloaded “The Secret.” Yeah, that book that everyone and their great grandmother has read and apparantely became millionaires after reading it. I’m about half way through, and I have very mixed feelings. One the one hand,I agree that positive thinking is a.. well positive way to live your life. The more positive you think, the more active you are going to be in trying to reach your goals (though the book claims that all you have to do is “believe” that you will  become the person you want to be, and that you are that person already, and then acracadabra boom hiss your wish will be granted. )the better chance you have of actually obtaining them. But on the other hand, I have always believed that once you picture a scenario in detail- then there is a 99% chance that that exact scenario will never play out in that exact manner. If it did, wouldn’t that be some sort of deja vu space/time continuim fuck up?

I don’t know, but I think I’m thinking about this too hard. I don’t think these books are meant for cynical, questioning people like myself. I will try to apply more positive thinking to my life, and I do think that I could benefit from meditating more often, but I also think I need begin to work things out on a more rational level. My own way. I don’t have it all planned out. I have goals (see my last post) but I don’t have a clue about where I want to be in 20 years. I would like to be financially stable, but I don’t spend my nights dreaming about being a millionaire. I don’t have a dream job, I don’t have an innate desire to have a family at this point in my life… so maybe I just need to start with my small goals.I’m going to devise my own self-help stragedy. Like quitting smoking. I can do this. I will kick this. (Check out my positive thinking, yo). I’ve quit other things before. So perhaps I shall start with something small to help my cause. Maybe I should list out all the things I’ve quit before.

Here we go.

*I quit chewing on my knuckles at the age of four. Granted my doctor told me if I didn’t he’d cut them off. Also take note.. this was the first clue I had an intense oral fixation.

*I quit going to algebra my sophomore year of college because it stressed me out and cause a 3am breakdown when I ran out of lead of my mechanical pencil.

.*I quit watching Lost after the second season because it was stressing me out that nothing. ever. happened.

*I quit my job at the costume shop because my boss was a misogynistic blow hole, who made me pick up sequins while down on my knees in a mini-skirt and wouldn’t let me go home to get some sanitary help for my lady problem. He also told me I was stupid because I couldn’t work the cash register.

*I quit eating most dairy products because they make me feel like there is an angry, drunken, bowling team in my belly.

*I quit my job at the sandwich shop because I lost a nail in the vegetables and I was  probably going to get fired when they found out.

*I quit caring and talking about politics when I realized both sides are liars, but mostly because I wasn’t sure that I even cared.

*I’ve quit reading the Twilight series, Harry Potter, and every biography I’ve ever started. Mostly because of commitment issues.

*I quit going to my trainer because I had a crush on him and I found out he was like 6 years younger than me and I didn’t want to be a cougar at the age of twenty seven. Also I needed an extra $125 a month. Also because I don’t like people telling me what to do.

Hmmm… I’m sure there’s more but I’m tired and so I think I’ll quit writing now. I think we’ve established that I’m pretty good at quitting things. Especially things that suck. So now I just have to apply that to smoking, I suck on cigarettes, right? So technically they kind of suck (or blow)… Either way, I think this helped. If for nothing else, it’s helped me see that I don’t deal with stress very well, which is precisely why I smoked for so long,

Oye vey this ambien is making this confusing and I’m getting stressed again. More on this later, maybe. I’m off to suck on a lozenge, which is a word I still haven’t figered out how to pronounce.

Tootles.

I feel like I have so much to update your faces with, but I really feel much more comfortable when I at least have a few complaints to mix in with this rare “life is good” post, and I really don’t have much to complain about besides the fact that my face is covered by gigantasaurus Everest-sized pimples.  I didn’t even have a major freak out  when my car decided to be a little bitch and  have a blow out earlier this week. Which is a major feat, this I promise you… especially when you know my history with cars.

So yeah, I’ll complain after all.

I’ve always had an extreme love/hate relationship with automobiles and the act of driving. And by love/hate relationship of course I mean:

I love: 1). That they get me from point A to B. (sometimes)

and 2). When other people are driving them and I get to be in charge of the music.

I hate: Everything else loosely related to driving or cars. I don’t know or care to know the difference between a toyota and an escalade, and I won’t even apologize if by chance those are one and the same. I hate driving, especially at night. I despise traffic. I hate the way my mom drives. I don’t like sitting in back seats.  I hate the fact that I’ve locked my keys in my car like 14 times in the last year. I hate that at least once every three months I end up stranded on the side of the road, which leads me to call my dad crying who is 2 hours away… which in turn causes him to get upset and yell “WHAT DO YOU WANT ME TO DO ABOUT IT!?” Which leads to huge fight. And mostly I despise that I have horrible luck with them.

I’m not sure if you’re aware, but I have had more flat tires than any other person in the entire whole wide universe, twice in my life I’ve had another car on top of my own (either by landing there after a wreck or by drunkenly driving on top of it,) and my vehicles have had more breakdowns than Lindsay Lohan and Britney Spears combined. My dad insists that it must have something to the way I drive, but I don’t think I can be blamed for the fact that Ford makes really shitty cars or that curbs keep getting in my way, or that drunks insist on targeting my car as their landing strip.

Luckily it didn't do much damage...

I feel like even the best case scenarios that involve vehicles, (which is of course gettin it on in one,) can only lead to 3 possible disastrous outcomes. I, ahem, of course only know one of these don’t know any of these  from personal experience but from what I’ve learned from the movies it seems to me that any time you hook up in a car – you either get caught giving head in a park by a cop, get pregnant, or if you’re in transit- then it is quite possible that you will experience death by a fiery crash.

My first car was an 89 Cutlass Supreme Oldsmobile.

Oh wait. I take that back.

Technically, my first car which I drove all of 3 days was a 95 Mitsubishi something or another,( pictured above). Shortly after the repairs were made from this particular accident, I totaled it into my house. I KNOW. And no I wasn’t drunk… I can’t even really explain what happened, except that I will tell you that I will never ever again drive a stick shift. I pretty much suck at life. My sister was sitting inside and said she thought it was an earthquake, while my dad sat on the curb and cried.

After that it took about a year and a half before I got the nerves and the vehicle that would make it possible for me to drive again. My parents certainly weren’t going to trust me with anything of value- so THIS is where the 89 Cutlass Supreme Oldsmobile (that I dubbed Cuddy) came into the picture.

It was a maroon, and it was the largest two door car you’ve ever seen in your life. And it was a pile of junk.

To sum it up: In place of air-conditioning,  my dad had installed a mini-fan that plugged into my cigarette lighter that did absolutely nothing but stir up the scent of stale cigarettes and rotting food.  It had a digital speedometer that you had to fist pummel in order to make it “work,” and when numbers finally did pop up they were backwards and up-side down. The car had no antenna, and therefore had no radio. Someone had tried to steal the cd player so it hung there by a wire, serving absolutely no purpose for the majority of the time the car worked.

The driver’s side door didn’t work, which was quite embarrassing when the cute football player from freshman history class walked me to my car and insisted on standing there until I drove off… which meant he got to watch me dive in and wiggle across the seat, ass out in a jean skirt.

The worst part about it was that Cuddy died ALL THE TIME at the most inopportune times. Especially before I got a cell phone. Like one time, it died right when my friends and I were trying to make a get away after toilet papering this incredibly rude older girl’s house. We had to go to her next door neighbor’s house and call for a ride. But then again, the fact that it died all the time was the precise reason I finally was allowed to get a cell phone. My parent’s started getting nervous after about my 3rd hitchhiking adventure and finally gave in.

Anyshitmobile batman, I could go on forever about my vehicle history, but I’ll save that for another day. If you’re a curious to read more you can always read about how talented I am at removing a tampon whilst driving. That was one for the books.

My original point was, I’m actually NOT completely hating my car today despite the fact that I recently had a blow out which caused me (or…erghm…my mother) (thanks!) to shell out 200 dollars, because of COURSE they convinced me that I needed two new tires. ( This actually has a story that is worthy of it’s very own blog post so I’m going to hold off.)

Yeah usually I would be pissed. But not today. Today I totally relate to those car bangers. Only maybe I don’t want to have sex with my car… but I sure could give it a hug right now.

You see, I’ve spent the last 3 months melting away because my air conditioning was broke and I didn’t think I could afford to fix it. I found out yesterday all it needed was a little frion, so I’m back, baby! No more sweaty pits! No more sweaty underboobs! No more sweaty fupa! I kid…

I’m gonna try to catch up on a million blogs over the next few days, and my goal next week is to get back to regularly posting, but I have learned never to make any promises.

Home. All by my lonesome. For eight entire days.

With the exception of course of the seemingly semi-friendly ghost and my roommate’s Basset Hound, I will have the entire house at my disposal, and I’m not sure that is a good thing.

I actually kind of feel like the young Kevin McAllister. My feelings of being alone lie somewhere in between being really excited about having some much needed “me” time, and being completely frightened about what might happen.

Growing up, my grandparent’s lived across the street from me so I was rarely left alone. I had a friend who’s mom frequently left us alone until our peanut butter and popcorn cooking experiment nearly left their house in ashes. She eventually trusted us to stay there alone again, but then we literally tried to reenact the Home Alone movie, so her trust was short lived. Then there was the one time in high school that my parent’s let me stay home overnight unattended. Of course that was the night I decided to watch Event Horizon and ended up sprinting across the street to my grandparent’s house at 3 in the morning, head down, pants nearly soiled, and had to ask if I could sleep in their spare room.

It’s not that I don’t like being alone, I actually quite enjoy it. It’s just been forever and a day since I’ve had more than a couple of nights without at least one roommate around, and I’m not sure what to do with myself. LA works from home so she usually takes care of most of the cooking, which means that I’ll be living off of a diet of beans and chips and salsa this week… which is exactly what I lived off of last week out of poordom, so it’s really nothing different.

I plan on spending my nights taking long leisurely baths, reading, watching movies, painting and writing a bit… so that’s really nothing new either. The one major difference is that I won’t have someone calling to get me to watch all the good parts of shows and I won’t have the background noise of LA crying during Grey’s Anatomy or Gossip Girl. But I do have the freedom of playing my music as loud as I want, as late as I want (and I’m totally NOT listening to the Bieb-meister)… which is pretty cool. Maybe it will drown out the sound of gunshots in my neighborhood, which I haven’t heard since last week and I’m keeping my fingers crossed that the gangsters don’t know that I’m on to them.

I actually lived alone for an entire year before I moved in to my last house with my four roommates, a house which I now affectionately refer to as the “rainbow house.” Aside from being the most miserable and lonely year of my life, living alone wasn’t so bad. I typically stumbled home from happy hour, ate a huge bowl of ramen noodles, and drank wine whilst mowing my way through the entire Netflix library.

Oh and I almost burned down the apartment complex, twice.

The first time could have happened to anyone. Anyone with a gigantic gray cloud following them around, that is. Ever since the time I caught fire to the Thanksgiving table by half hazardly throwing a table napkin down on a candle, my grandmother has warned me that I’m not the sort of person who should keep candles around in the house. Of course candles are pretty much my favorite thing in the universe besides John Cusack movies and ketchup, so I never thought to heed her advice. The night in question was a particularly stormy night, so I naturally wanted to light every single one of my one-hundred candles to set the mood. I then opened the porch door so that I could hear the storm, and settled into a bubble bath with a glass of wine. I had no idea the storm was such a windy one, but luckily my head was above water to hear a ginormous gust knock over about ten of the candles. Luckily I was able to grab a towel and nakedly whip the fire out before they caused too much damage.

The second fire I almost caused also happened when I was in the bathtub. I cooked something that I can’t remember but I’m sure was of the pasta variety, and once again got into the bathtub, only to be rudely interrupted about ten minutes later when the building’s fire alarm started sounding. I knew the fire was coming from my kitchen before I even grabbed a towel. There was smoke everywhere and I went into full panic attack mode. When I got into the kitchen I found that I had left a stove burner on, and had accidentally thrown a dishtowel on top of it, which had caught on fire. Luckily, I’m a quick thinker and threw a pitcher of iced tea over it, and batted out the rest of the flames with my towel. I’ve occasionally wondered why I don’t have any towels, but I’m now realizing that I’ve used the majority of them to put out fires. After putting out the fire, I grabbed a blanket from my futon to cover myself with and ran into the hallway shouting that the fire was out and not to panic, which I was clearly still doing.

I also wondered why none of the neighbors wanted to be my friend, but thinking back it was probably because they knew me as the type of person who started fires ran around in nothing but a leopard print blanket.

And there was also the time I woke up in a fever with no power and knocked on every door on my hallway claiming the world had come to an end, but that’s an entirely different story.

Tonight I will be lighting no candles, and I’ve already checked 8 times to make sure the burners are off so I should be OK. But send me some good juju just in case.

Oh and also, I’d like to go ahead and let you know that I wrote this entire post while naked. Because I can.

(LA if you’re reading this… I am in your chair, but don’t worry…I’m sitting on a towel.)

2-The number of times that I’ve washed my sheets since I moved in, or any of my clothes for that matter.  (We don’t have a washer or dryer)

2-The number of times I thought my roommate LA used her secret powers to dissapear since I’ve moved in. (We have really weird accoustics in this house so I can never tell where her voice is coming from. It’s really scary when you think you have known someone for 9 years and you’re just now discovering she has the ability to dissapear.)

9-The number of times that our ghost has scared the living daylights out of me since I’ve moved in.

148-The number of pimples that I have on my face due to stress and poor diet.

2-The number of bottles of face wash that I’ve owned in my lifetime.

8- The number of boxes I have yet to unpack. Most of them have books in them, and it’s only when they are all packed up and available that I actually want to read them.

45- The number of times that I’ve cheated on my diet since moving in.

45- The number of times that I’ve said “Tomorrow I’m starting my diet again, for real.” psssha

123,433,123- The approximate number of Jelly Bellies that I’ve consumed in the last 2 months.

3- The number of times that I thought that our new coffee maker was broken and was spilling water. Turns out that I was just ambien-preparing the coffee late at night, then woke up and made it again in the morning not realizing I had already prepared it the night before. For those of you who are unaware, when you put double the water in the coffee tank, the water spills out a little hole in the back, causing crazy people to believe that the coffee maker is broken.

9- The number of days since I’ve been on Match.com.

3-The number of times that I’ve signed on to Match. That shit takes up a lot of time, that frankly I don’t want to spend answering emails from strangers. I have gone out with one guy a few times which has been really fun… I just don’t understand how people have the mental energy and time to put into dating multiple people…

48-The number of times that I’ve gotten out of my current shower and had morbid thoughts that I was probably going to slip and crack my head open because I don’t have a bath mat.

135- The number of times in my life that I’ve wondered if Paul Rudd is actually a vampire. (That guy never ages, seriously)

4-The number of times in the last month that I’ve had weird dreams that somehow involved the Mac guy from the “I’m a Mac” commercials. I have no explanation for this one.

50- (At Least) The number of wine bottles that have been consumed since moving into this house.

3-The number of weeks since I have last gotten paid. I’m going on no monies at this point.

4- The number of times I’ve said that giving out massages with happy-endings might not actually be that bad of a moonlighting gig.

3- The number of big gigantic ketchup bottles that I have finished in 2 months.

2- The number of boys that I was not actually dating that have broken up with me in the last week. One was documented here, which I still feel a little guilty posting about since I’m a really really nice person. The other happened shortly after. It was actually the first comment posted on that particular post…

I have copied and pasted it below for you lazy bones who don’t want to go and see it for yourself:

___________

Jake 1 week ago

_______

For those of you who don’t remember, Jake is my gay best friend/ex-roomie. He’s the one who used to blow dry my hair and make the “whheeee whheeee” sound when I wanted to overeat. He used to break in my high heels and would  cook me dinner every night. I miss him. We weren’t so much peas and carrots, but we were definitely something like ketchup and baked potatoes.

I miss the way he used to sing “la la la la, la la la la la, la la la la la la la la .. ooooooooeeeeeeooooooooooooo,ooooooo ahhhhhhahhhhhhahhhhh (Lovin You, as performed in National Lampoons Vegas Vacation) No one, I mean nobody can hit that high note like he can.

On the same subject, if we break up, who will sing “I will Always Love You” at my wedding???? That is assuming someone will marry me of course.

I admit it has been hard to keep up a long distance (30 miles apart) relationship going, but I’ve had a lot going on… plus this thing goes both ways. I don’t see Jake coming to see me every weekend, or calling me every night. Isn’t the boy supposed to call the girl? Ok, Ok.. maybe the same rules don’t apply in a gaylationship. But still… I’m hurt.

Against All Odds

I thought it was a joke at first, but in the last week I have been getting numerous texts and Facebook posts that have lead me to believe that he is serious about breaking up. It upset me a lot, but it wasn’t until what went down on Facebook last night that I realized I needed to take action.

I have no idea how to do that thing where you screen shot facebook, but this is  how the status updates went down…

Jake ____ would like to officially announce to the world that I’m ignoring Carissa____. It’s been a long time coming…ooooooover “it”…whatever “it” is, or was!

Although this isn’t the first time that Jake and I have argued, it IS the first time that I have realized just how much of a serious problem us breaking up could mean.  Not only am I missing out on good times with my favorite goy on the planet. (Goy is my word for gay boy, duh.) But I am also potentially setting myself up for a scandal. It hit me like a thousand cactus pricks in my ass (no pun intended) that not only does Jake own the domain name for “CarissaJaded,” but he also has the sole ability to keep me from ever becoming president. Let’s be honest, I may not be the most obvious gal for the job, but I’d like to keep my options open.

So my response?

I have a few “dare” videos in the works, and I  can’t wait to get them up. However, I wasn’t able to get the one I’m working on editing ready  just yet, so instead I’ve decided to give you a video post, for reasons that will become obvious to you. Keep them dares coming though!!! I DARE YOU BYATCH!

So I have decided to share, what some of you may view to be highly offensive story about a dating experience that I had. Please understand that I am in no way intentionally dissing anyone. This tale is more about my specific experience with a man, and things just didn’t happen to work out even though I really liked the guy. We just had a few… issues. I am struggling as to whether or not to even post this, but I have decided that each 100th post should now be slightly non-pc. So hate me if you want, but I really mean no harm by this. I hope you enjoy! I had to make a few editing adjustments, just because the subject matter may be reading this blog. That might make the whole ordeal even more offensive, but… oh well…

[There is a video that cannot be displayed in this feed. Visit the blog entry to see the video.]

Also, since I just remembered this was my 200th post, please go enter my latest giveaway in honor of my 200th post. It’s only open until April 4th so you better get a move on. Seriously. You could win a really awesome rockin cd, or at least get introduced to a really cool dude.

Lilu is out of town for a while, but she has provided us with a series of very special TMI Thursday post secret posts. Make sure to check them out…. And for more TMI than you could ever imagine, check out her TMI archives!

I’m doing TMI a little different this week. I have a friend “Moops” who has asked several times for me to talk about him on my blog.

Well sir, I’ll do better than that. You have officially been email roasted. TMI Thursday style.

The following are emails that I copied straight from an email  conversation that happened yesterday afternoon.

I wrote the first email to a group of my friends when I realized I was having a difficult time coming up with a post for today. Moops spent the better part of the afternoon traveling all over the country for work, so didn’t get to check his email until the damage had been done.

Luckily, he’s a good sport. (I hope.)

Hey friends,

Moops has been wanting me to talk about him in my blog for a while… As I am completely brain dead today,I was thinking that you guys could help me out with thinking of a good story.

I know there must be many stories out there that I could tell that would be considered TMI about our friend in question.

The first one that first comes to mind…

Remember when we were calmly talking in the living room, and out of nowhere Moops reached down his pants, into his butt hole and then proceeded to stick his fingers in my mouth???! Just because ” he had an urge!!!”

I almost had to kill myself by ingesting bleach.

I got him back on the river trip though. heeeheehehee

You got anything better?

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RE: TMI

FROM: SCUBA

This happened,

Outside the Coventry Apts. Justin met our across the hall neighbors in his tighty whitees.  He then helped the girl carry groceries from her car up flight of stairs in his undees.  He then slipped on the very top concrete stair and all of the groceries went flying out of the sack.  He was bleeding and scrounging for groceries in front of our new girl neighbor in his undees.  Her boyfriend then shows up as this is going on.

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RE:TMI

FROM: CARISSA JADE

Orrrr……….Maybe I should switch gears and tell about the time Scuba pooed his pants. I was such a nice friend and told him I would do his laundry for him. I almost died when I saw the skid lake underwear in the laundry basket.

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RE: TMI

FROM: LA

How about the time Moops puked on my couch then had to be taken to bed? Fast forward three hours and he comes storming down the stairs yelling at me me. Upon his return back up the stairs he proceeds to trip and stumble back down to the bottom. To top it off, he jumps up, glares and points his finger at me and says, “Yoooooooouuuuuuu”!

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RE: TMI

FROM: KT

I have a quick couple…

How about the time Moops decided to tell us about his love for couches. He loves them so much that he use to have sex with them, sad but true. Moops use to masturbate by inserting his junk between couch cushions and go to town!

Or how bout the time we went to we walked into an apt. party of people we didn’t even know and Moops drank too much and as usual stripped down to his tightee whitees and the people were so put off they asked us to leave. We do and Moops begins to laugh. Of course we ask “what are you laughing at?” He then pulls out the tube of toothpaste he was so proud to have stolen. His grand revenge for getting kicked out was stealing toothpaste…

Then there is the time that Moops really impressed me. I had just moved in below him and had spoken with him a few times. My roommates were out so I went to go say hi. Moops opens the door and is unquestionably shit faced. We are watching T.V. and I’m telling him a story when he stops me and says “hold on.” He then leans over and pukes the smelliest blach puke onto his carpet, nearly getting it on his boy dog “Jager.” When done he looks at me and says “ok, go on.” Without blinking an eye! Bless his heart!

And then of course there is the time that he asked my somewhat crazy ex-bff to trim his pubes. She then convinces him that he should be blind folded for the event. She did this so pictures could be taken without him knowing. Blindfolded, naked, and holding a beer, Moops let this crazy woman near his manhood with a pair of scissors in her hand! Don’t worry she didn’t hurt him, she just trimmed, but it did make for interesting pics….

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RE:TMI

FROM: CARISSA JADE

HAHAHA I forgot about some of these! Speaking of the puking (not that there aren’t already enough puking stories) I just remembered about the time that I woke up to find a pile of puke at the foot of my bed. That fool woke up in the middle of the night, stuck his head over the foot of the bed, and then straight up went back to sleep.

The funny thing about that night that he stole the toothpaste, is that I’m pretty sure that was the same night we may or may not have dipped someone’s toothbrush and razors into the toilet. Oops.

Oh. And my favorite… (which really needs it’s own post) The night he peed my bed, thank goodness I was on the futon that night (poor shae) That wasn’t really even the bad part. He took the down comforter home and promised to wash it. Three weeks later I go to his loft and that thing was was in his closet with all the other “clean” blankets… and sure nufff …it had never been washed.

And KT. When you get a chance, you must send me those pube cutting pics. I have no idea what happened to my copy. I know it was in my glove compartment for a while- though I have absolutely no idea as to why…

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RE:TMI

FROM: MOOPS

Wow, all of this makes me sound like a really great guy!  I’ll get abnoxiously drunk, puke, piss your bed, might fuck your couch and I might ask you to get some of those hard to reach pubes.  I want to hang out with me!!

Scuba,  speaking of fucking things this one is for you…

I believe this story epitomizes TMI.  This came out of one of those story telling sessions where everyone was boozed up enough to share stories from their sexual past, the story didn’t necessarily have to involve another person, solo acts were admissible.  I’m on a plane and I don’t want the guy next to me to see what I’m writing so I have to make it quick.

So it begins, Scuba, the horny young thing that he was went about the house looking for objects he could have intercourse with, nothing too disturbing or out of the ordinary yet, right?  On his quest for pleasure a furry young thing catches his eye, why of course, what better sexual companion than your favorite over stuffed teddy bear (it might have been a panda).  But hmmm, how to make this lustful encounter logistically possible?  Cut a hole in it!  With near surgical precision (I’m sure) Scuba proceeds to cut a hole ample enough to receive his penis.  Then,  he fucked the teddy bear.

The funniest part is that his mom found the stuffing from the procedure; he told her that a kid down the street went into a rage and stabbed his bear.  So to this day if that neighbor kid is ever mentioned his mom says something to the effect of “ oh that so and so , he’s the one who stabbed your poor teddy.”

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RE: TMI

FROM: KT

It was a cow and he shared that story the same night you shared you love for couch cushions

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RE: TMI

FROM: CARISSA JADE

hahaha ok, thanks guys. I’m gonna have to use all of this…

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Oh yes, in case you were wondering… my friends definitely put the ass in class. Have a wonderful day!

Personally, I have a love/hate relationship with horror flicks. I really like to watch them. Really, I wouldn’t turn one down no matter how “B-rated” it may be. Zombie movies are my favorite, but I will watch ANYTHING. In fact, I got started on “horror movies” way earlier than the average pup. I’m not sure whether my mom just didn’t see anything wrong with showing them to me, or if she really didn’t think they would affect me- but I can honestly say I remember watching Poltergeist at 5 years old.

As much as I like them  and I appreciate that my mother didn’t censor them from me, I have a feeling that movies of the horror genre had a greater influence on me than anyone would have guessed. You might even say I have been scarred for life. So in light of it being “National Scary Movie Week” or at least “My House Scary Movie Week ,” I share with you the 5 movies that had the most profound affect on me as a child.

Arachnophobia: I recently re-watched this movie and I have come to the conclusion that I must have been thinking of a different movie. When I watched it way back when, it was definitely, in no way shape or form- a comedy. This movie absolutely terrified me. I remember making my sister come and sit in the bathroom with me while I showered because I was thoroughly convinced that a spider was going to come up the drain and instantly kill me with it’s poisonous venom. I was scared to eat popcorn because of the scene where a spider is in the bottom of the bowl.  And to this day, if I see a spider, no matter what breed- chances are you will see me pull a cartoon and run straight through the door.

Child’s Play: I have to preface this with the fact that my parents were of the belief that I really liked playing with dolls. Every year they would drag me to the local doll show and buy weird creepy used dolls that I had to pretend to enjoy. Truth was, the only “dolls” I ever really loved was a Teddy Bear named Teddy, and my Teddy Ruxpin.  Even before I saw this movie I was convinced that my dolls would come alive when no one was around. I blame this on my viewing of Jim Henson’s “A Christmas Toy” about a kajillion times. (If you haven’t seen this, it was basically an earlier, more primitive version of “The Toy Story.”) I was already very sensitive about my doll’s feelings, and didn’t want any of them to feel more important than the others. So after I caught a viewing of Child’s Play at the ripe old age of 7, I was more scared than ever to piss any of my dolls off. Every night before I snuggled up to Teddy, (the regular stuffed animal not Ruxpin because he was hard) I would walk around my room and kiss each and every doll goodnight and tell them that I loved them.

There was one doll in particular that frightened me the most. It was nearly life sized and had red unruly hair, very a la’ Chucky. I grew convinced that this particular doll in a one piece swimsuit would be my demise. I paid it extra special attention, even though it really frightened the bejeezus out of me. I started noticing that it was never in the same place that I left it. I finally told my mother and she swore that she would get rid of it for good. She said she burned it. Years later, when I was a Junior in High School I came home to find that swimsuit doll on my day bead. You might say I went a little ballistic. I thought it had come back for the sequel. My family thought it was hilarious.

Image by Echo9er via Flickr

Pet Cemetery: My dad grew up in the house where my grandparent’s still live. He had 3 other siblings, and came from a family that really loved animals. I loved my grandparent’s house because they had woods in their backyard where my cousins and I would frolic and build forts and such. I loved it all, except for one little area, just barely visible from the back room where I had to sleep. Their pet cemetery. Ah hells no. This shit even has gravestones and everything. I never really thought much about it until I saw the movie. Then I would think of practically any excuse not to have to stay over at their house (even though it was my favorite place on earth) and if I did have to stay the night I would ask to sleep with my sister. On the occasions where I had no choice but to sleep in the back room, I would stay up all night, one eye steadily focused  the white grave stone in the distance. I imagined seeing dogs and cats and raccoons rise from the graves to attack me. Those gravestones still scare me to this day.

Image via Wikipedia

Jaws: My mom had an obsession with pretty much everything that could hurt me (vampires, zombies, spiders, boogie men) and sharks were no exception. Jaws was one of her favorite movies, and consequently one of the movies that I watched as a very young child. As if that movie didn’t scar me enough, every summer my family would make a six hour drive to the coast. My mother would spend the entire six hours reading true stories of shark attacks out loud. As a result, I spent the better half of every summer vacation scouting the ocean for sharks. While my cousins would all take their floats out as far as they could go, I would stay knee deep-eyes out.  I am finally to the point where I’m not afraid to go in the water, but you can bet I would be VERY aware of any dorsal-like fins that may appear in my near vicinity (3 square miles, to be exact.)

The Return to Oz: I haven’t seen this in a very long time (because damnit it was scary) but I do remember it quite clearly. I think. Am I even thinking of the right movie? All of Dorothy’s old friends were stoned (in the turned to rock sense, not doing drugs…)

She meets up with a talking reindeer, a weird robot thingy called Tick-Tock, and a man with an empty pumpkin head. If that is not creepy, then I don’t know what is. I was mostly scared of the lady that changed her heads like they were wigs. Even Dorothy played by that scary girl from the Craft, and she is creepy enough by herself. I don’t have much else to say about this movie, but I know it terrified me.  The trailer is below, just in case you are curious.

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As always, stay classy on this wonderfully beautiful Tuesday.

I have either gone out of town or had really big plans the last few weekends- and I’m not sure my body can take any more. I haven’t been able to afford the time or money to get a vaccination to void off the aporkalypse  and I’m a little afraid I’m getting ill, but even more afraid that this lack of sleep is sending me on the fast track to my own personal zombie apocalypse.

I don’t even think that made sense.

But dude, if I really was in the zombie apocalypse, I would frickin love to mow down some zombies! Ever since I saw Zombieland I have imagined that every person on the side of the road is a zombie, and it is my personal duty to smash them into jelly!

I wonder if it is really true that cows and llamas can mate and make hybrid “cammas” that are so stupid that they have to be put out of their misery…

Ooooh! I should see if my roommates want to make a fort in the  living room tonight and eat cheese and crackers for dinner.

Yes…  this is what my brain has been doing to me all week. I’m just going to quit thinking now. But I won’t leave you with just a mumble jumble of a post, because if you are here and still reading, then you deserve to see something of worth… so I’ll do my best.

In light of my new tradition of FML Fridays,  I now present to you with a few images of the hurricane that is my life, that I feel that you should see if we are going to be friends.

If you don’t want to waste your time seeing boring ass pictures that depict how disgusting I am, I suggest you skip to the bottom of this post, where I will truly mortify myself with a video or two.

First, I introduce you to the way that I live… my room.

I mmeannn… the way it just happens to look right now.

My room has been hit. By hurricane me. Sooo sad.

I swear it’s not usually this bad, and honestly it is driving me crazy. I’m going to have to spend a good amount of lovin with my room this weekend.

It doesn’t stop there, welcome to my closet.

My closet also has the swine and is throwing up all over the place!

But wait, at least I make really awesome art! (sarcasm, my friend.)

My wall o' "attempt at creativity"

What’s that you say? You want a close up? I’m not very good at taking pictures either, but I’ll do my best!

And by art, I mean a collage tree.

More, you ask?

Yeah, those were just postcards that I cut and pasted (and then painted a coat of glitter over, of course.)

And yet more “art…”

Yeah. I made a collage of butterflies. What of it?

Oh and don’t worry, I have been destroying furniture since 1996.

Oh yeah, you know you want one!

And now,  I introduce you to my car.

If you can spot my glasses you win a prize. Really, I need them and they're missing.

It’s not always like this (yes it is) but I basically live out of my car and I haven’t had the time nor the energy to clean it out in these hard times. To make matters worse, there is a dead animal of sorts rotting beneath all this nastiness, and it smells of the high heavens. It has rained for the last two days, and I’m fairly sure the moisture in the air has increased the stench ten-fold. I’m also pretty sure that if I got pulled over, I would be arrested for murder. My “there must be rotten food in my trunk” excuse would quickly be dismissed.

But before you completely go off judging my car, and myself for that matter,  I feel  I should re-introduce you to this:

Dashboard Jesus!!

Dashboard Jesus puts a smile on my face every day. However, my car has recently taken on the act of bouncing violently whenever I’m in idle, and it makes Jesus do inappropriate things that make me feel a little bit uncomfortable.

I should also probably tell you that I come from a long line of nerds.

I look like I wasn't happy about posing for this, but that was just a pose.

Have I told you that when I was young, my mother loved to wake me up by blaring the Star Trek theme song, and that I actually kind of liked it? Her most recent act of nerd-dom, is her new found love of Second Life. (Don’t kill me mom!)  I didn’t know much about it until recently, but you can apparently make an avatar that is anything from human to Giant mummy squid. Your options are unlimited. My mother has chosen to make her avatar be an elf, which I actually think is really cool. Well, that may seem irrelevant, but she has recently taken an obsession to all things elven. As I was walking out to leave my parent’s house a few weeks ago, my mom stopped and asked me to put on elf ears for a few pictures. I feigned annoyance for about 5 minutes before I agreed. I(I was really excited inside to get to wear these ears.)

And then she took the liberty to photo-shop me into a piece that she calls, “The Whispering Elf”

(I liked it so much it' is my current facebook profile pic)

Have you met my mom’s tattoo?

NOT as big in person. (pleasssse don't kill me mom!)

I don’t know if you’ve realized it, but I have a very close relationship with vodka…

That is enough to bring on depression.

And in case you haven’t seen enough, I really cannot sing, which is sad- because I realllly love to do so.

I promised you, way back  during my first month of blogging- that I would post these.

Just for a little background…. This was a weekend back in July, when I was going through a break up and not feeling very good about myself, hence probably why I started this blog. On that particular Saturday night, I went to my roommate Jake’s  mother’s birthday party. They rented out a bar and even went so far as to hire a singer to perform. It was awesome! At some point in the night, someone had the bright idea that if they could get me up on stage, it would cheer me up. Well boy did it ever.

This first video is when I first went up and sang with the hired singer, Archie, who had (I am guessing) never sang “Don’t Go Breaking My Heart.” By the sounds of it, I haven’t either.

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And if you haven’t had enough, eventually after exhausting the hired singer, I started inviting other people to come and sing with me. Here is one of my roommate Jake and my rendition of  Queen’s “Bohemian Rhapsody.” It’s bad, but if you can stick around to the head banging, it’s kind of funny. (at least to me)

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Just for shiz, if you’re still interested and insane, (I literally took over the microphone for the remainder of the evening) here is a final video of my roommate Denny and I singing “You’ve Lost that Lovin Feeling.

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That is all folks. Now excuse me while I go hide in a closet and cry.

Actually I should rephrase that- I was reminded, once again why I hate drinking and then having to use the restroom at public events.

Port o potties are the devil.

No really.

Can you think of a more disgusting  area to experience a few seconds worth of having nothing between your special parts and bacteria-filled air?

In case it has been a while for you, or you live in a part of the world where port o potties garner enough respect for people not to take advantage- I’ll go into a little more detail about what the state of the port o potties looked like outside of the football game.

To begin with, people seem to lose all inhibitions when they are in line for a port o potty. I think as a rule people lose about 4 levels of class when they are waiting in line for a bathroom after drinking- but for a port o potty they automatically drop to  about a level 8…1 being the classiest, 10 being a contestant on Jerry Springer.

For  example, there was a very drunk girl behind us who was continuously yelling at people to hurry up.

“I’m 34 years old people! 34!! I can’t hold it like the rest of you.. Hurry UP! Respect your elders!!”

At one point, after vehemently criticizing my friend for smoking menthol cigarettes, she grabbed the cigarette from my friend’s hand and started smoking it. And she had a very large something gross on her lip. Ewww.

The line was never shorter than a twenty minute wait. After my fourth beer or so, I was pretty much just drinking one beer, then going to wait in line so I wouldn’t have to do the “pee dance,” or worse- do the “peed in my pants dance.” The port o potties were on a slant so that the corners of the stall were at least 5 empty beer cans deep. Of course you cannot flush a port o potty (unless there is a secret button that I don’t know about??) so the stench was just awful. After only a few hours, there wasn’t any toilet paper to speak of, so the smarter people were taking paper towels in with them, and presumably just tossing them onto the floor. There was also no sink, so I couldn’t look at a person without imaging a layer of gunk on their hands.

As bad as this sounds, the worst part of the situation was the layer of people’s business that was all over the floor… and on the seat.

Even early in the day, it was apparent that people were unaware of where their pee was going, but once it got dark, it became a bajillion times worse.

This is a particularly sensitive subject for me, as I will admit that I have had my own problems in this particular aspect of using a port o potty.

I’m not  proud of this moment, but I have shared way worse information about myself, so what the hell.

It was a few years ago at the local St. Patrick Days parade. I was in a very long line, and had been waiting for close to twenty minutes. The urge was really starting to get to me and I was getting into that crazy state of mind where I was no longer thinking about what I was saying or doing. The only thing that was going on in my brain were visions of waterfalls and swimming pools, and toilets. Shiny clean white toilets with candles lining the sink nearby.

As I got closer to the front of the line, I noticed that one port o potty had a slight river flowing out from the small opening at the bottom. After a few seconds of watching it flow, I started tapping nearby strangers shoulders and goofily pointing to the port o potty that was leaking. I was quite tipsy at this point and probably started yelling phrases like “That girl is peeing the Amazon and missing toilet!!” I was partially jealous at the amount of liquid that this girl was emitting from her body when I wanted nothing more than to have my turn, but the more abrasive part of myself was content with laughing loudly at the fact that she had so obviously miscalculated her squat.

As she exited the bathroom, the crowd started laughing and attempted to give the girl high-fives,  but she ran away in what I can only imagine, was a drunken shame.

Well you know what they say, karma’s a bitch.

When I finally got my turn, I went into the stall and had to deal with the difficulties of being a girl in a bathroom where sitting down would be an eternal sin. By this point I had to go very very badly… Add in the logistics of squatting in a very enclosed space where there is nothing to hold on to… and the odds are against you.

I guess I must have used a little too much power and simultaneously pulled  my shirt down a little too far as I put my hands on my knees, because what happened in that little box of filth was enough to send anyone into a fit of tears.

Yes, it’s true.

I somehow peed my shirt. The entire bottom half of my shirt was wet, and I had no sink in which to play it off as water. And by making myself the center of attention by making fun of the river pee-er, there was no way I could walk away unnoticed.

So you can see why, after my port o potty pee fail, I really try to avoid them at all costs… for more reasons than one.

Excuse me while I go hang my head in shame.