Anylies, the first day’s topic is:

“Something you hate about yourself.”

For the entire list, check this.

Alright, do you have all day?

I hate that I have a flair for the dramatic, when all I want is for a situation to calm down. I hate my really tiny pinky toenails. I hate that I have an abundance of body hair. I hate that I cannot say no. I hate that I can’t sing. I hate that no matter how hard I try, my stomach will never get flat. I hate that I deal with things through food and alcohol. I hate that I don’t have a good relationship with food. I hate that my hair turns brassy 3 weeks after I dye it. I hate that I have too round of a face. I hate that I suck at math. I hate that I fall in love so easily. I hate that I love being the center of attention, but talking in front of crowds scares me. I hate that I have taken advantage of my parents. I hate that I am not brave enough to really chase after my dreams. I hate that while I am great at friendships, I don’t seem to be very good at relationships. I hate that I don’t have the self confidence that I often pretend that I have. I hate that after 20 years of trying, I still can’t do an Italian accent. I hate that I’m forgetful. I hate that I really don’t love working out. I hate that I am sometimes too lazy to keep up friendships. I hate that I’m lazy. I hate that I get depressed. I hate that I get jealous. I hate that I don’t know who I am.

ahhhhhhhhh…..

That was easy.

If I had to pick one thing though, I’d say that I hate my lack of self control.

There isn’t one aspect of my life that I think has gone to an extreme, but overall- I just don’t have enough.

I’m not an alcoholic, but I drink too much. I like to drink, but I have realized over the last few years that I really need to slow down. I’m fine with that until I go out with my friends… and then, you know… once it hits your lips it just feels so good and… stuff.

I’m the same way with food. No matter how healthy I’ve gotten in my life it’s always been one extreme or the other. I either eat the whole buffet or I obsess about what goes through my body. I’ve overcome a lot when it comes to this, but I’m sure it is something that I’ll always struggle with.

Self control issues have really buried themselves into all parts of my life and my personality. I say things I know I shouldn’t say, I think things I shouldn’t think, and I have an extremely difficult time sticking to a structured plan. I think part of it has to do with ADD, but part of the problem lies deeper than that. It’s something I’ve always struggled with, even as a child.

I had this thing when I was little, where I my hands had to feel moist at all times. I would carry a “wet napkin” around with me and constantly squish it around in my hands. I washed my hands whenever I had the chance; and I would spend hours upon hours in the tub. My doctor said I had the worst case o OCD he had ever seen in a 4 year old. Some might say that I had an over achiever’s amount of self control, seeing the meticulous way that I kept myself clean, but even then I knew that I should have been able to refrain. I didn’t though.

Sometimes I think that my lack of self control is the root of most of my problems. My inability to say no; the fact that I fall in love easily; the fact that I can easily spend $100 bucks in an hour on itunes.

I’m hoping that it’s something that I’ll be able to solve like a mathematical equation. Now that I know the root of the problem I’ll be able to figure out what I need to do to fix it. It might take a lot of trial and error, but eventually, I’ll get there.

Last week, I asked you, my dear readers, to give some requests for dares that I said I would complete on this blog. While I have to admit, the one I want to complete the most (dressing up as Cookie Monster and scaring girl scouts) is still at the top of the list, but I have not yet been able to find a costume that would make me look anything remotely like Cookie Monster.  If you have any ideas please let me know.

For this reason,  I have decided to stick with the first dare that was given to me for my first attempt. This particular dare was submitted by my good friend KT (you crazy, hateful, woman.) When I first told her about my truth or dare idea over g-chat, she asked me to eat an entire box of altoids in one sitting. Her reason? Because I love mints and am constantly trying to push them on everyone. My reply? Only if your breath be stankin!

I’m really scared about this one, but I’m not one to turn down a dare. Wait. Do altoids hurt your stomach? They kinda look like tums, so I’m just going to pretend that is what they are…

Here. We. Go.

**The video/audio/lighting/AND MY HAIR is extremely poor quality. Please excuse all of these.  ESPECIALLY THE HAIR! IT LOOKS LIKE ALPHA ALPHA!!! I DON”T KNOW WHY LA DIDN”T STOP ME!

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

The outcome? I did it! My nose is running and my wine doesn’t taste very good, but all in all it wasn’t as difficult as I had imagined. I also think I should get a pass for brushing my teeth for a week. Just kidding… kinda.

Also, while these curiously strong  mints are only 10 calories per 25 of those suckas, the whole box comes out to a whole 250 calories. So it looks like I’m gonna have to do a few extra laps this week.

I think my boyfriend John Cusack would be proud.

If you would like to suggest another DARE or TRUTH for that matter, do it, do it, do it in the comments!

Make sure you check out Lilu’s site, and check out her TMI Thursday archives for all sorts of hilarity!

As I sit here writing, I am actually extremely close to having a TMI experience. My stomach is churning. I’m not sure if it’s because of the antibiotics I’m currently on, or because of the nearly 2 cups of peanut butter I spread over celery sticks last night in an effort to wain my sweet/carb tooth. Or it could be the gigantic bowl of beans I just ate. It’s most likely a combination of all of the above.

Refraining from eating carbs and drinking wine this week has resulted in my overindulging in protein in a not so healthy way. I’m not sure if this lifestyle is any better.

But that’s not my story. I’m gonna try to keep this short, because I may have an episode of emergencias de frijoles one way or the other in the near future. EEEEEK.

This particular tale occurred once again back in my days o’ college, or back when I was a still drinking. Which if you’re paying attention, was anytime before this Monday.

My friends and I were out in our college town, having our typical college night full of chugging nickle-natties and blasters. (Blaster= Fry St. code for Jager Bomb.)

I started out the night in typical “Hurricane Carissa” fashion- by dinging my best friend LA’s brand new (I mean within the first week brand new) car door against another car. She was a little peeved, but after the first few drinks and a few rants, she let it go.

On this particular night, we (read: I) were particularly boozed up. We made our way around all the bars and shortly before they closed at 2am, we decided it was time to call it a night. LA was playing designated driver for the night, mostly because she wanted a chance to drive us around in her new ride, but also because after the first bar it was apparent that neither I, or our other friend KT would be able to do the job.

Before we had even gotten to the parking lot, I made a loud announcement… “I have to pee.”

KT and I lived only a few blocks away, so they both quickly waved away my announcement and continued towards the parked car. Just as we were arriving at LA’s new car, KT’s ex-boyfriend spotted her in the parking lot. The details are blurry, but I do know that a heated argument started up between my friends and her ex’s group of friends. I stood a little behind the group, trying not to fall over as I looked longingly over my shoulder at the bars across the street, where I knew I could find a toilet street to squat over.

At some point during their argument, a couple of cops approached our group and started asking questions. Knowing I was not in a particularly good state of mind, and also that I didn’t have the best luck with the fuzz, LA sternly told me to go and get in the back seat of the car and to stay put.

“But I really have to go to the bathroom! Can’t I just run into one of the bars real quick,” I slurred. Or something to that effect.

“Absolutely not. Go and get into the car,” LA told me again as she pushed the clicker thing to unlock the door. “And do not get out of the car, no matter what.”

It all seemed a little dramatic, but at that point, I knew that my friend probably had better judgment than I, so I decided to follow her orders.

I got into the back seat of LA’s new car and settled in. I kept myself low in the seat as to not call attention to myself. The last thing I needed was to be interrogated. After about 5 minutes of waiting, I started to get a little restless… and my level of having to pee reallllly started escalating. I remember looking  out the back window and saw that the cops were now making my friends do the standard drunk tests. Walking the line and what not. Or at least that is how I remember it.

I contemplated getting out of the car and running to the nearest bar to relieve myself, but I knew that probably wouldn’t end well, so I ultimately decided to stay put for the time being. At this point I was going between squirming unrelentingly, and literally holding my crotchal area, trying to keep it in.

After about 5 more minutes I just couldn’t take it anymore. I had no choice. It was either pee now, or pee now. There was no longer the option of forever holding my pee.

My options were limited. I couldn’t run for a bar, I would surely be stopped en-route. I couldn’t get out and pop a squat, that would surely end with a public urination ticket, though at this point I hardly cared.

I crawled up into the front seat and started rummaging around.

AHHHH AHHHH AHHHH (heaven sound effect)

There it was, sitting in the cup holder… glowing in the dim light of the parking lot.

A 32oz wide-lip bottle of Lemon-Lime Gatorade.

I could do this.

I carefully unzipped my pants and pulled them off where they settled on the floorboard of LA’s new car. I put both feet up on the back seat, and shuffled then out until I was in frog squat position. I positioned myself so that my face was away from my group of friends, who were still talking to the cops.

And then I positioned the bottle.

Just as I was relaxing into my squat and gearing up to make careful aim, I heard a loud bang from behind me that caused me to lose my footing. Luckily, I hadn’t yet completely relaxed my urinal muscles.

I turned to see a cop shining his light through the window, where only seconds before my bare-behind had been. I quickly pulled my pants back on and hung my head in shame as I opened the back door.

The cop grabbed me by my arm and asked if I had managed to “do anything.” I told him that I hadn’t, and that I still really had to go. I think he must have felt bad for me, because at that point he swiftly drug me over to my friends, looked at LA and said “I’m not even gonna tell you what she almost just did in your car, but yall need to get her to a restroom.”

Everyone was so relieved that they were finally able to leave that no one even mentioned what the cop had said about me. We quickly left, and LA drove us home where I was finally able to pee.

We all lived happily ever after.

Until a few months later when LA was telling the story about the cops in the parking lot to another one of our friends. It was all fun and laughs until she got to the end. She stopped abruptly and looked at me with fire in her eyes.

“What DID you almost do in my brand new car????”

Oopsie. But you know what? It was not as bad as it coulda been.

-John Cusack’s girlfriend.

If you missed my vlog a few weeks ago where a tell a story in which I wasn’t so lucky, check it out here.

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I posted this yesterday, but not many people responded so I’m posting it again.  I’m stubborn like that!!!

I’ve been thinking a little bit about the future of my blog. I’m  close to 200 posts and will hit my 6 month bloggaversary in a few weeks, and I want to try something a little different. I have often been told that I have a story for pretty much every subject (that’s just my life) so I think in order to get me writing about things other than John Cusack, I would like to ask you to do a little blog assignment.  I give you dear readers, the task of asking me any questions you want to know about little ole me (and I will answer with complete honesty unless you’re a dick) , stories you would like to hear extended versions of (My 100 things post might give you some ideas,) or any other subject matter that you would like to know my opinion on (or a poem about)…. and if I don’t have an opinion on the matter, I’ll get one!!! Just send an email to me at carissajade@gmail.com, tweet me, or pop it off my comments. Thanks and I love you guys!

I also plan on doing a giveaway in the next few weeks, so keep your eyes open. I promise I won’t be giving away one of my decoupage art pieces. Unless you want one I could decoupage something of your request.

Today I’m doing my first guest TMI post ever over at one of my favorite bloggers and new-found friend Tricia’s page, One Step to Recovery; One giant Step to OMG. Please head over there and show both of us some love, and make sure you read some of Tricia’s past posts and follow her blog! You won’t regret it, she is entertaining, honest, and completely made of awesome!

And speaking of guest posts… I have no idea how, but my best friend LA has yet again talked me into letting her post another TMI post ABOUT ME. I thought that she had already shared the most embarrassing “shit” she had in her vault (about the time I shit all in her car) but it turns out- I don’t remember my own embarrassing stories very well. So without further adoodoo, I hand the mic over to LA, and I’m gonna go cry and eat a bag of oreos.

As Lilu always says: ***Alright, folks, you know the rules. Join us all in humiliating the crap out of yourself every Thursday by sharing some completely tasteless, wholly unclassy, “how many readers can I estrange THIS week??” TMI story about your life. Or hell, about someone else’s!

Make sure you check out Lilu’s site today for her special post secret TMI edition, and check out her TMI Thursday archives for all sorts of hilarity!

Hola friends of Carissajaded,

This is now my second attempt at a guest blog for Carissajaded, and let’s hope this one reads a little better than the last. My previous entry may have been written on the eve of my birthday after a bit of celebrating.

I think that it has been said before that CJ and I have a bit of an “unhealthy” relationship. I may even have a broken engagement to show for it… my bad. Regardless, I wouldn’t trade it for the world. That being said, there have been a few instances when that line between being mere friends, and the things that you only tell/do/keep to yourself has been crossed. This is definitely an example of that.

It was long time ago in college when this incident took place. In those days we were busy drinking, eating, smoking, staying up late and doing countless other things to our bodies that don’t exactly bode well for a healthy digestive system. It was one Sunday in particular where it seemed that the deadly combination of the aforementioned vices had finally taken their toll on a certain somebody’s already delicate digestive track. Here’s a snippet of the things anyone could have heard throughout our apartment on that afternoon:

“Uuuuughhh, my stomach”.

“I feel soooo bloated”.

“Why can’t I poop”?

“Stop farting in my room and running away”!

You know, the usual things that you’re thinking in your head when a case of constipation comes your way, but that you choose not to say out loud – because it’s disgusting and generally bad manners. The scene was really that of a bad Pepto Bismol commercial…Or in this instance, Fleet.

After an entire day of the groaning, I couldn’t take it anymore. You see, in our relationship, my role is that of the doctor. CJ complains about an ailment, and I decisively give her my diagnosis (nothing is wrong) and my suggested treatment (drink a glass of wine). Most of the time Half the time I have no idea what I am talking about, but when your bff is a ridiculously paranoid hypochondriac, you learn to fake it. In this case however, I was right. I knew what needed to be done and I said it.

An enema.

Yes friends, that is a 5 letter word that no one wants to hear, but it had to be said. After a little convincing about how they are actually a very useful tool that doctors recommend for good colon health, she decided it was her only option. Off to CVS we went.

About an hour later – because for some reason neither of us can step foot in a CVS without spending AT LEAST that amount of time looking at all the “As seen on TV” merchandise and fake eyelashes – we were home. We chose my bathroom as the best option for the deed because I had the master which could be closed off to the rest of the apartment, and also I could shut the inner bathroom door between us. My role was, once again, that of the doctor. I stood on the other side of the door yelling out the instructions of how to assume the proper position (looks very similar to another position that is dirty in a completely more pleasurable kind of way) and administer the “medication.”

She was there. She was in the home stretch. All necessary components were, for lack of a better term, in place. But she froze.

I could hear crying from the other side of the door…  All I could hear in-between the mostly inaudible sobs was, “I can’t do it”. *sobbbbbbb “Please, help me”.

All I could think was, why God, why? Why hast thou forsaken me?

For those of you who don’t know CJ, she would have stayed in that position in my bathroom all night. It’s a rare combination of stubbornness and fear, but when she gets in that state, she’s liable to stay there… forever.

I knew this. I also knew I had to pee. So what did I do? I took a deep breath and I entered the bathroom.

The least she could have done was shift positions so I didn’t walk right into it, but no. There she was in all her glory – assuming the position that I had, just minutes before described to her from the other side of that door. What I would have given to have been back on the other side of that door. The “applicator” was facing me and I knew what had to be done.

I calmly stepped towards her, all the while soothing her with my voice. I described what I was about to do, and with my head half turned and only one eye open…I squeezed. The worst part about it is that you have to do it slowly, and you have to ensure that the bottle’s entire contents are used. After what seemed like the longest 10 seconds of my life, I ran screaming from the bathroom. I left the applicator right where I’d found it.

And that was it. My job was over. My duty – no pun intended – complete.

I can’t say I am proud of what I did, but I am a friend. However, CJ, if you ever need help with something like that again, please call someone else.

Make sure you check back to Lilu’s Archives… they are the best things you’ll read all week!

I’m not usually the type of girl who likes to kiss and tell. O.K., that’s a lie. But I’m not the type of girl who likes to talk about sexual experiences all over internets, especially on a site that my parents frequent. So today I’m going to tell you a story that happened to a, ahem, friend of mine.

Once upon a time there was a girl named… lets call her “Cari.”

She was young and naive and only a Sophomore in college.  Although she was not quite twenty-one, Cari had just began to get the full extent of how crazy night life in college could really be.

One night, Cari went to a bar with some friends. She had been kind of talking to a guy (lets call him Dave) who worked at a local bar, which was kind of awesome because he could sneak her drinks. By kind of talking, I mean that they had made out once or twice, but had yet to take it beyond first base.

At the time, Cari was still pretty naive when it came to sexual experiences. She had kissed her share of boys, but was not the kind of girl to go home with almost strangers.

This night, because of the ridiculous amount of drinks that she sneakily inhaled, she decided to make an exception.

Dave was quite a bit older and willing to take the drunken Cari back to his house to take care of her. He was quite the gentleman and even stopped to get Cari lemon lime Gatorade on the way to his house.

Once they got there, things got a little hot and heavy. Not to the point of actual intercourse, but to the point where clothes were taken off.

It was around this point that Cari passed out into a dark and dreamless sleep.

She woke up very early in the morning with a horrible cramp in her stomach. It was not the type of cramp that could be mistaken. She really had to take a shit.

At this point, Cari was still laying on her side under the covers. She wanted to try to sneak out of bed and into the bathroom so that Dave wouldn’t wake up to the sound of her using the restroom. She could feel his presence right behind her, and hear the sounds of his heavy snoring behind her head. She shifted to try to move without disturbing the hairy man next to her.

As she did, she noticed something very strange.

“What in the hell is that!?” she thought as she started to panic. It seemed to Cari, that there was something lightly resting upon her butt cheek.

“Nononononononono! This cannot be happening!” Cari thought as she tried to figure out a game plan.

You see, the pain in Cari’s stomach was so intense, that she had come to the conclusion that she must have laid a turd in this strange harry man’s bed. What else would be resting gently against her butt cheek?

She thought maybe she should just run out of the door, hitchhike back to her apartment, then convince her parents to let her transfer schools.

Tears came to poor Cari’s eyes as she realized that she had really done it. Her life was over. She was about to leave all of her new friends, and all because she decided to get drunk and poop in a well known bartender’s bed.

“There has to be another way,” Cari thought…. “AHA! Maybe I can just scoop it up and throw it in the trash without him noticing!”

Cari knew that this would be very difficult. From what she could tell, it was still in it’s solid form. She had been very careful not to lean back and damage it in anyway.

She finally gathered up the courage to very carefully reach behind her back and scoop it up.

Very slowly and carefully, Cari scooted her hand underneath the poop, hoping with all of her heart that she would not leave any remains  behind.

It was in that moment that Cari made the best discovery of her life.

What she held in her hand was not in fact a turd… it was in fact, just Dave’s penis.

Cari quickly woke Dave up and made him drive her home, where she was able to use the restroom in the privacy of her own bathroom.

And they all lived happily ever after.

The end.

(Make sure you check out Lilu’s  TMI Thursday archives, to read some of the funniest stories you never wanted to hear.)

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Well, since last week I managed to mortify my recent self with a period story, I decided this week to take a stab at a much younger, much more naive version of myself.

The summer after fourth grade, my parents decided to let me go visit some family in New Mexico for a couple of weeks to celebrate my tenth birthday. When we arrived at the airport, I remember telling my parents that my stomach hurt. My mom assured me that I was just having “first flight jitters,” and that as soon as I got there I would feel just fine.

Was she ever wrong! I remember feeling like complete butt (the 9 yr old me wouldn’t have said “I feel like shit or ass”) for the first few days. All I wanted to do was curl up on the bed in pain, and I had no idea why I was dying inside. Why had I thought it was a good idea to go on vacation without my parents?

I tried really hard to act as if everything was ok. I forced myself to go on bike rides and to join in games of football, even though it felt like someone  was jabbing a pogo-stick  up my hoo-ha. I was with my boy cousins and was going through a bit of a tom-boy stage, I didn’t want them to think I was a prissy girl.

About two days after I got there, I was crouched over on the toilet in pain. After I managed to squeeze a little pee out, and I wiped (front to back, just as I was taught.) Then, just as any other normal human does, I took a looksy at the toilet paper before I dropped it in the pot. I remember a feeling of dread passing through my body, even when I first saw it.

Fuck me sideways! (I would have actually said something more along the lines of Holy uh-oh Batman! )

There was totally poop coming out of my pee pee hole!!

I checked several times to make sure I hadn’t mistakenly number two-ed a little bit. Nope, the back end was clean as a whistle.

I may have been young, but I knew something wasn’t right. I also knew there was some sort of connection between the feeling that my uterus was trying to jump out of my vagina, and the fact that my vajayjay was having a horrible case of diarrhea.

Over the next few days, it only got worse. Every time I went to the restroom, I would see the dreaded brown poop spots in my panties. I was in a state of panic. I didn’t want anyone to find out that I was plagued with something that made poop come out the wrong hole, so I denied my strange behavior, stating that I was just home-sick.

Every time I went to the restroom, I would remove my soiled panties, crumple them up into a tight wad, and tuck them into the large pocket on the front of my suitcase.

At the ripe age of  (nearly) ten years old, I began spending a  good portion of my day excavating my private areas, searching for a reason why in God’s name this could be happening to me.  This may have been the beginning of my current recently conquered state of hypochondria, but I began to obsess over what kind of disease would cause my vagina to doo doo.

After a few days, things returned back to normal and I was able to actually enjoy my birthday.

A month later I was back at school, having a grand ole time- when it came back. Once again, I was in fear of  dying, but mostly I was scared that someone would discover  that I was a freak of nature.

For the next few months every time  my symptoms would return, I would carefully tuck my dirty underwear away into my suitcase to ensure no one would accidentally come across them. I took to folding up toilet paper and and putting it in the crotch of my underwear to yield some of the damage. I never let on to my friends or family that I was probably dying from a poopie vagina. It wasn’t until around Thanksgiving when my family was getting to ready to go out of town again,  that the truth finally came out.

When my mother approached me carrying my suitcase in one hand, and an armload of panties in the other- I immediately burst into tears.

“MOMMMMMYY !!! I’m so sorrry!!! I’m so sorry!!!! I’m dyyy-sob-ing!!!”

She hugged me and tried to calm me down. When I was finally composed enough to talk, she asked me why I thought I was dying.

“I poop out my peepee hole…. not all the time… I didn’t want to tell you…”

My mother smiled and gave me a huge hug while I stood there confused.

mom:“Honey, you’re not dying, and that’s not poop. You’ve just become a woman! You’ve started your period!”

And this, my friends, is why I am a huge advocate of sex-education in Elementary School. Do your kids a favor, tell them about the birds and the bees before they convince themselves that they crap out their pee-holes.